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It was approximately 8:30 PM on a Thursday when I headed back home in Gaza City. Gusts of wind blew, forcing me inside any longer, leaving me to walk. At first, it was just a gentle sprinkle, but after about 200 metres the rain intensified abruptly. It came as no shock. I paused beside a tent, trying to warm my hands to fight off the chill. A young boy had positioned himself selling sweet treats. We shared brief remarks as I waited, though he didn’t seem interested. I observed the cookies were loosely wrapped in plastic, dampened from the drizzle, and I pondered 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

As I walked along al-Wehda Street in Gaza City, tents lined both sides of the road. No sounds of conversation came from inside them, only the sound of falling water and the roar of the wind. As I hurried on, attempting to avoid the rain, I switched on my mobile phone's torch to see the road ahead. My mind continually drifted to those sheltering inside: How are they passing the time now? What thoughts fill their minds? What emotions do they hold? A severe chill gripped the air. I pictured children huddled under damp covers, parents moving restlessly to keep them warm.

When I opened the door to my apartment, the icy doorknob served as a quiet but powerful reminder of the struggles borne across Gaza in these severe cold season. I entered my apartment and felt consumed by the guilt of possessing shelter when a multitude remained unprotected to the storm.

The Darkness Worsens

During the darkest hours, the storm intensified. Outside, makeshift covers on shattered windows billowed and tore, while corrugated metal ripped free and crashed to the ground. Above it all came the piercing, fearful cries of children, shattering the darkness. I felt utterly powerless.

During recent days, the rain has been relentless. Chilly, dense, and propelled by strong winds, it has drenched shelters, flooded makeshift camps and turned open ground into mud. In other places, this might be called “bad weather”. In Gaza, it is lived with exposure and abandonment.

Al-Arba’iniya

Locals call this time of year as al-Arba’iniya; the most bitter forty days of winter, starting from late December and persisting to the end of January. It is the real onset of winter, the moment when the season unleashes its intensity. Ordinarily, it is weathered through preparation and shelter. This year, Gaza has none of these. The chill penetrates through homes, streets are empty and people simply endure.

But the danger of winter is no longer abstract. In the early hours of Sunday before Christmas, recovery efforts recovered the bodies of two children after the roof of a bombarded structure collapsed in northern Gaza, freeing five additional individuals, including a child and two women. Two people are still unaccounted for. These structural failures are not new attacks, but the outcome of homes weakened by months of bombardment and succumbing to winter rain. In recent days, an infant in Khan Younis passed away from exposure to the cold.

Fragile Shelters

Passing by the camp nearest my home, I observed the results up close. Flimsy tarpaulins buckled beneath the weight of water, mattresses were adrift and clothes remained wet, always damp. Each step reinforced how vulnerable these tents are and how close the rain and cold came to claiming life and health for countless individuals living in tents and packed sanctuaries.

Most of these people have already been uprooted, many several times over. Homes are gone. Neighbourhoods leveled. Winter has arrived in Gaza, but protection from it has not. It has come lacking adequate housing, with no power, devoid of warmth.

A Teacher's Anguish

In my role as a professor in Gaza, this weather is a heavy burden. My students are not mere statistics; they are faces I recognize; bright, resilient, but profoundly exhausted. Most attend online classes from tents; others from packed rooms where personal space doesn't exist and connectivity sporadic. Countless learners have already suffered personal loss. Most have been rendered homeless. Yet they continue their education. Their perseverance is astounding, but it should not be required in this way.

In Gaza, what would typically constitute routine academic practices—assignments, deadlines—become moral negotiations, shaped each day by anxiety over students’ well-being, comfort and ability to find refuge.

During nights like these, I cannot help but wonder about them. Do they have dryness? Is there heat? Did the wind tear through their shelter while they were trying to sleep? For those remaining in apartments, or damaged structures, there is a lack of heat. With electricity largely unavailable and fuel rare, warmth comes mostly via wearing multiple layers and using whatever blankets are left. Even so, cold nights are excruciating. What about those living in tents?

Political Failure

Agencies state that over a million people in Gaza live in shelters. Aid supplies, including thermal blankets, have been far from enough. Amid the last tempest, relief groups reported delivering tarpaulins, tents and bedding to a multitude of people. In reality, however, this assistance was often perceived as uneven and inadequate, limited to temporary solutions that did little against prolonged exposure to cold, wind and rain. Tents collapse. Respiratory illnesses, hypothermia, and infections caused by damp conditions are on the upswing.

This is not an unforeseen disaster. Winter is an annual event. People in Gaza view this crisis not as misfortune, but as neglect. People speak of how essential materials are blocked or slowed, while attempts to repair damaged homes are frequently blocked. Local initiatives have tried to find solutions, to provide coverings, yet they remain limited by what is allowed to enter. The culpability lies in political and humanitarian. Solutions exist, but are withheld.

A Preventable Suffering

The factor that intensifies this hardship especially heartbreaking is how preventable it is. It is unconscionable to study, raise children, or fight illness standing surrounded by cold water inside a tent. It is wrong for a pupil to worry about the rain damaging their precious phone. Rain reveals just how vulnerable survival is. It tests bodies worn down by stress, exhaustion, and grief.

This year's chill occurs alongside the Christmas season that, for millions, symbolises warmth, refuge and care for the neediest. In Palestine, that {symbolism