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It was approximately 8:30 PM on a Thursday when I made my way home in Gaza City. A strong wind was blowing, and I couldn’t stay out 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. This was expected. I stopped near a tent, clapping my hands to generate a little heat. A young boy was sitting outside selling baked goods. We spoke briefly while I stood there, but his attention was elsewhere. I saw the cookies were poorly packaged in plastic, already soggy from the drizzle, and I pondered if he’d find buyers before the night ended. A deep chill permeated the air.

A Trek Through a Landscape of Tents

While traversing al-Wehda Street in Gaza City, makeshift shelters crowded both sides of the road. No sounds of conversation came from inside them, merely the din of torrential rain and the moan of the wind. Rushing forward, seeking escape from the rain, I turned on my mobile phone's torch to light my way. My mind continually drifted to those taking refuge within: What occupies them now? What thoughts fill their minds? What are they experiencing? The cold was piercing. I imagined children nestled under soaked bedding, parents adjusting repeatedly to keep them warm.

When I opened the door to my apartment, the icy doorknob served as a subtle yet haunting reminder of the suffering faced across Gaza in these harsh winter conditions. I walked into my apartment and felt consumed by the guilt of enjoying a dry home when a multitude remained unprotected to the storm.

The Night Escalates

In the middle of the night, the storm reached its peak. Outside, makeshift covers on broken panes billowed and tore, while metal sheets ripped free and crashed to the ground. Overriding the noise came the sharp, panicked screams of children, cutting through the darkness. I felt utterly powerless.

For the last fortnight, the rain has been incessant. Chilly, dense, and propelled by strong winds, it has flooded makeshift homes, swamped refugee areas and turned bare earth into mud. Elsewhere, this might be called “inclement weather”. In Gaza, it is experienced amidst exposure and abandonment.

Al-Arba’iniya

Locals call this time of year as al-Arba’iniya; the 40 coldest and harshest days of winter, beginning in late December and continuing through the end of January. It is the definite start of winter, the moment when the season unleashes its intensity. Typically, it is faced with preparation and shelter. This year, Gaza has no such defenses. The cold bites through homes, streets are empty and people merely survive.

But the peril of the season is now very real. In the early hours of Sunday before Christmas, rescue operations retrieved the remains of two children after the roof of a war-damaged building collapsed in northern Gaza, saving five more people, including a child and two women. Two people are still unaccounted for. These structural failures are not the result of fresh strikes, but the outcome of homes weakened by months of bombardment and succumbing to winter rain. Not long ago, a young child in Khan Younis passed away from exposure to the cold.

A Life in Tents

Observing the camp nearest my home, I witnessed the impact up close. Inadequate coverings sagged under the weight of water, mattresses floated and clothes remained wet, incapable of drying. Each step reminded me how fragile these shelters were 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 displaced, many several times over. Homes are destroyed. Neighbourhoods razed. Winter has come to Gaza, but defense against it has not. It has come without proper shelter, without electricity, without heating.

A Teacher's Anguish

In my role as a professor in Gaza, this weather causes deep concern. My students are not mere statistics; they are faces I recognize; bright, resilient, but profoundly exhausted. Most join virtual lessons from tents; others from packed rooms where privacy is impossible and connectivity intermittent. Many of my students have already suffered personal loss. Most have seen their houses destroyed. Yet they persist in learning. Their perseverance is astounding, but it must not be demanded in this way.

In Gaza, what would normally count as routine academic practices—tasks, schedules—become moral negotiations, dictated every moment by concern for students’ security, heat and proximity to protection.

On evenings such as this, I cannot help but wonder about them. Is their shelter holding? Is there heat? Did the wind tear through their shelter during the night? For those still living in apartments, or what remains of them, there is an absence of warmth. With electricity largely unavailable and fuel rare, warmth comes mostly via bundling up and using any remaining covers. Even so, cold nights are excruciating. What, then those living in tents?

Aid and Abandonment

Reports indicate that more than a million people in Gaza reside in temporary housing. Humanitarian assistance, including weatherproof shelters, have been insufficient. During the recent storm, humanitarian partners reported delivering plastic sheets, tents and mattresses to thousands of families. In reality, however, this assistance was often perceived as inconsistent and lacking, limited to short-term fixes that did little against prolonged exposure to cold, wind and rain. Shelters fail. Chest infections, hypothermia, and infections caused by damp conditions are increasing.

This cannot be described as an unforeseen disaster. Winter comes every year. People in Gaza view this crisis not as bad luck, but as abandonment. People speak of how critical supplies are restricted or delayed, while attempts to repair damaged homes are consistently hampered. Grassroots projects have tried to make do, to provide coverings, yet they are still constrained by what is allowed to enter. The failure is political and humanitarian. Solutions exist, but are withheld.

A Symbolic Season

What makes this suffering especially agonizing is how unnecessary it should be. No individual ought to study, raise children, or fight illness standing knee-high in cold water inside a tent. No student should fear the rain ruining their last notebook. Rain reveals just how fragile life has become. It challenges health worn down by pressure, weariness, and sorrow.

This winter coincides with the Christmas season that, for millions, symbolises warmth, refuge and care for the most vulnerable. In Palestine, that {symbolism