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It was about 8:30 PM on a Thursday when I made my way home in Gaza City. Gusts of wind blew, and I couldn’t stay out any longer, leaving me to walk. At first, it was only a light drizzle, but a short distance later the rain became a downpour. This was expected. I took shelter by a tent, rubbing my palms together to generate a little heat. A young boy was sitting outside selling homemade cookies. We spoke briefly while I stood there, though he didn’t seem interested. I saw the cookies were poorly packaged in plastic, moist 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 Journey Through a Place of Tents

Walking down al-Wehda Street in Gaza City, tents lined both sides of the road. There were no voices from inside them, only the sound of falling water and the roar of the wind. Rushing forward, attempting to avoid the rain, I activated my mobile phone's torch to illuminate the path. I couldn't stop thinking to those taking refuge within: What are they doing now? What thoughts fill their minds? What are they experiencing? It was bitterly cold. I imagined children huddled under damp covers, parents adjusting repeatedly to keep them warm.

As I unlocked the door to my apartment, the icy doorknob served as a understated yet stark reminder of the struggles borne across Gaza in these harsh winter conditions. I entered my apartment and was overwhelmed by the guilt of having a roof when countless others faced exposure to the storm.

The Darkness Escalates

In the middle of the night, the storm grew stronger. Outside, makeshift covers on shattered windows sagged and flapped violently, while corrugated metal ripped free and slammed down. Cutting through the chaos came the desperate, terrified shouts of children, piercing the darkness. I felt totally incapable.

Over the past two weeks, the rain has been incessant. Chilly, dense, and propelled by strong winds, it has flooded makeshift homes, inundated temporary settlements and turned open ground into mud. In other places, this might be called “bad weather”. In Gaza, it is experienced amidst exposure and abandonment.

Al-Arba’iniya

Palestinians know this time of year as al-Arba’iniya; the fourty most severe days of winter, beginning in late December and lasting until the end of January. It is the real onset of winter, the moment when the season unleashes its intensity. Normally, it is endured with preparation and shelter. This year, Gaza has neither. The chill penetrates through homes, streets are vacant and people just persevere.

But the threat posed by the cold is far from theoretical. On the Sunday morning before Christmas, rescue operations found the victims of two children after the roof of a bombarded structure collapsed in northern Gaza, saving five more people, 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 finally undone by winter rain. In recent days, a young child in Khan Younis died of exposure to the cold.

Fragile Shelters

Observing the camp nearest my home, I observed the results up close. Thin plastic sheets buckled beneath the weight of water, mattresses were adrift and clothes were perpetually moist, never fully drying. Each step reminded me how vulnerable these tents are and how close the rain and cold came to claiming life and health for a vast population living in tents and packed sanctuaries.

The majority of these individuals have already been forced from their homes, many repeatedly. Homes are gone. Neighbourhoods leveled. Winter has descended upon Gaza, but protection from it has not. It has come lacking adequate housing, in darkness, without heating.

The Weight on Education

As a university lecturer in Gaza, this weather weighs heavily on me. My students are not distant names; they are individuals I know; bright, resilient, but deeply weary. Most attend online classes from tents; others from overcrowded shelters where personal space doesn't exist and connectivity intermittent. Countless learners have already lost family members. Most have seen their houses destroyed. Yet they continue their education. Their fortitude is remarkable, but it should not be required in this way.

In Gaza, what would normally count as routine academic practices—assignments, deadlines—turn into moral negotiations, influenced daily by concern for students’ security, heat and proximity to protection.

During nights like these, I cannot help but wonder about them. Is their shelter holding? Is there heat? Has the gale ripped through their shelter during the night? For those residing in apartments, or the shells that are left, there is an absence of warmth. With electricity mostly absent and fuel rare, warmth comes primarily through donning extra clothing and using whatever blankets are left. Even so, cold nights are intolerable. How then those living in tents?

Political Failure

Figures show that more than a million people in Gaza reside in temporary housing. Humanitarian assistance, including weatherproof shelters, have been insufficient. Amid the last tempest, aid organizations reported distributing plastic sheets, tents and mattresses to a multitude of people. In reality, however, this assistance was frequently felt to be uneven and inadequate, limited to short-term fixes that did little against ongoing suffering to cold, wind and rain. Shelters fail. Sicknesses, hypothermia, and infections caused by damp conditions are increasing.

This goes beyond an unexpected catastrophe. Winter comes every year. People in Gaza view this crisis not as fate, but as neglect. People speak of how necessary items are blocked or slowed, while attempts to repair damaged homes are consistently hampered. Community efforts have tried to make do, to provide coverings, yet they continue to be hampered by what is allowed to enter. The culpability lies in political and humanitarian. Remedies are known, but are prevented from arriving.

A Symbolic Season

The factor that intensifies this hardship especially heartbreaking is how avoidable it could have been. No one should have to study, raise children, or combat disease standing knee-high in cold water inside a tent. No student should fear the rain damaging their precious phone. Rain lays bare just how vulnerable survival is. It strains physiques worn down by stress, exhaustion, and grief.

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