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The clock read about 8:30 PM on a weekday evening when I headed back home in Gaza City. The wind howled, making it impossible to remain any longer, so walking was my only option. In the beginning, it was merely a soft rain, but after about 200 metres the rain suddenly grew heavier. That wasn’t surprising. I paused beside a tent, clapping my hands to generate a little heat. A young boy sat nearby selling baked goods. We spoke briefly as I waited, but his attention was elsewhere. I saw the cookies were hastily covered in plastic, dampened from the drizzle, and I questioned if he’d manage to sell them all before the night ended. A deep chill permeated the air.

A Trek Through a Place of Tents

While traversing al-Wehda Street in Gaza City, makeshift shelters crowded both sides of the road. An eerie silence replaced voices from inside them, just the noise of torrential rain and the moan of the wind. Rushing forward, trying to dodge the rain, I switched on my mobile phone's torch to illuminate the path. My mind continually drifted to those taking refuge within: How are they passing the time now? What are they thinking? What are they experiencing? A severe chill gripped the air. I imagined children nestled under wet blankets, parents moving restlessly to keep them warm.

As I unlocked the door to my apartment, the freezing handle served as a subtle yet haunting reminder of the struggles borne across Gaza in these severe cold season. I walked into my apartment and couldn't shake the guilt of possessing shelter when so many were exposed to the storm.

The Night Intensifies

During the darkest hours, the storm reached its peak. Outside, tarps on damaged glass sagged and flapped violently, while corrugated metal broke away and slammed down. Above it all came the sharp, panicked screams of children, cutting through the darkness. I felt utterly powerless.

During recent days, the rain has been unending. Freezing, pouring, and carried by strong winds, it has soaked tents, flooded makeshift camps and turned the soil into mud. In different contexts, this might be called “inclement weather”. In Gaza, it is experienced amidst exposure and abandonment.

Al-Arba’iniya

Residents refer to this time of year as al-Arba’iniya; the 40 coldest and harshest days of winter, commencing in late December and persisting to the end of January. It is the real onset of winter, the moment when the season reveals its full force. Ordinarily, it is endured with preparation and shelter. This year, Gaza has no such defenses. The cold bites through homes, streets are vacant and people just persevere.

But the danger of winter is now very real. Early on the Sunday before Christmas, recovery efforts recovered the bodies of two children after the roof of a war-damaged building collapsed in northern Gaza, freeing five additional individuals, including a child and two women. Two people have not been found. These structural failures are not caused by ongoing hostilities, but the consequence of homes weakened by months of bombardment and succumbing to winter rain. Not long ago, an eight-month-old baby girl in Khan Younis died of exposure to the cold.

Precarious Existence

Passing by the camp nearest my home, I witnessed the impact up close. Flimsy tarpaulins buckled beneath the weight of water, mattresses were adrift and clothes hung damply, incapable of drying. Each step highlighted how fragile these shelters were and how close the rain and cold came to claiming life and health for a vast population living in tents and packed sanctuaries.

A great number of these residents have already been displaced, many repeatedly. Homes are lost. Neighbourhoods leveled. Winter has come to Gaza, but protection from it has not. It has come devoid of safe refuge, in darkness, without heating.

The Weight on Education

As a university lecturer in Gaza, this weather causes deep concern. My students are not figures in a report; they are individuals I know; intelligent, determined, but extremely fatigued. Most join virtual lessons from tents; others from overcrowded shelters where personal space doesn't exist and connectivity sporadic. A significant number of pupils have already lost family members. Most have lost their homes. Yet they continue their education. Their fortitude is remarkable, but it ought not be necessary in this way.

In Gaza, what would usually be routine academic practices—tasks, schedules—transform into questions of conscience, shaped each day by concern for students’ well-being, comfort and proximity to protection.

During nights like these, I find myself thinking about them. Is their shelter holding? Is there heat? Could the storm have shredded through their shelter during the night? For those still living in apartments, or the shells that are left, there is a lack of heat. With electricity scarce and fuel rare, warmth comes primarily through bundling up and using the few bedding items available. Despite this, cold nights are excruciating. What about those living in tents?

Political Failure

Agencies state that over a million people in Gaza reside in temporary housing. Humanitarian assistance, including weatherproof shelters, have been far from enough. During the recent storm, aid organizations reported delivering coverings, shelters and sleeping materials to a multitude of people. For those affected, however, this assistance was widely experienced as patchy and insufficient, limited to temporary solutions that did little against extended hardship to cold, wind and rain. Shelters fail. Chest infections, hypothermia, and infections associated with damp conditions are on the upswing.

This is not an surprise calamity. Winter comes every year. People in Gaza view this crisis not as misfortune, but as being forsaken. People speak of how essential materials are hindered or postponed, while attempts to reinforce weakened structures are repeatedly obstructed. Local initiatives have tried to find solutions, to provide coverings, yet they remain limited by restrictions on imports. The culpability lies in political and humanitarian. Answers are available, but are withheld.

A Preventable Suffering

The factor that intensifies this hardship especially painful is how preventable it is. It is unconscionable to study, raise children, or fight illness standing knee-high in cold water inside a tent. No student should fear the rain destroying their final textbook. Rain lays bare just how precarious existence is. It tests bodies worn down by anxiety, fatigue, and loss.

The current cold season coincides with the Christmas season that, for millions, epitomizes warmth, refuge and care for the disadvantaged. In Palestine, that {symbolism