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It was about 8:30 PM on a Thursday when I made my way home in Gaza City. The wind howled, making it impossible to remain any longer, leaving me to walk. At first, it was merely a soft rain, but following a brief walk the rain became a downpour. It came as no shock. I took shelter by a tent, rubbing my palms together to fight off the chill. A young boy was sitting outside selling sweet treats. We spoke briefly while I stood there, although he appeared disengaged. I observed the cookies were poorly packaged in plastic, moist from the drizzle, and I pondered if he’d have enough to sell before the night ended. The freezing temperature invaded every space.

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, only the sound of falling water and the whistle of the wind. Quickening my pace, seeking escape from the rain, I switched on my mobile phone's torch to illuminate the path. I couldn't stop thinking to those huddled within: What occupies them now? What are they thinking? What emotions do they hold? A severe chill gripped the air. I envisioned 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 struggles borne across Gaza in these severe cold season. I entered my apartment and was overwhelmed by the guilt of possessing shelter when a multitude remained unprotected to the storm.

The Night Worsens

In the middle of the night, the storm reached its peak. Outside, plastic sheeting on shattered windows sagged and flapped violently, while corrugated metal tore loose and fell with a clatter. Above it all came the piercing, fearful cries of children, cutting through the darkness. I felt totally incapable.

For the last fortnight, the rain has been relentless. Cold, heavy, and driven by strong winds, it has drenched shelters, swamped refugee areas and turned bare earth into mud. In different contexts, this might be called “bad weather”. In Gaza, it is lived with exposure and abandonment.

The Harshest Days

Palestinians know 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 shows its true power. Typically, it is endured with preparation and shelter. Currently, Gaza has neither. The frost seeps through homes, streets are vacant and people just persevere.

But the danger of winter is now very real. In the early hours of Sunday before Christmas, civil defense teams retrieved the remains of two children after the roof of a war-damaged building collapsed in northern Gaza, rescuing five others, including a child and two women. Two people have not been found. These incidents are not caused by ongoing hostilities, but the consequence of homes weakened by months of bombardment and succumbing to winter rain. In recent days, a young child in Khan Younis passed away from exposure to the cold.

A Life in Tents

Walking past 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 remained wet, 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 several times over. Homes are destroyed. Neighbourhoods leveled. Winter has come to Gaza, but defense against it has not. It has come without proper shelter, with no power, devoid of warmth.

The Weight on Education

As a university lecturer in Gaza, this weather causes deep concern. My students are not mere statistics; they are faces I recognize; smart, persistent, but deeply weary. Most join virtual lessons from tents; others from packed rooms where privacy is impossible and connectivity sporadic. Countless learners have already suffered personal loss. Most have lost their homes. Yet they still try to study. Their resilience is extraordinary, but it must not be demanded in this way.

In Gaza, what would normally count as routine academic practices—tasks, schedules—become moral negotiations, influenced daily by anxiety over students’ security, heat and proximity to protection.

During nights like these, I am constantly preoccupied about them. Is their shelter holding? Do they feel any warmth? Has the gale ripped through their shelter during the night? For those residing in apartments, or what remains of them, there is an absence of warmth. With electricity scarce and fuel rare, warmth comes mainly from donning extra clothing and using the few bedding items available. Even so, cold nights are unbearable. What about those living in tents?

Aid and Abandonment

Agencies state that more than a million people in Gaza reside in temporary housing. Aid supplies, including thermal blankets, have been inadequate. When the cyclone hit, relief groups reported providing tarpaulins, tents and bedding to thousands of families. On the ground, however, this assistance was frequently felt to be inconsistent and lacking, limited to short-term fixes that offered scant protection against prolonged exposure to cold, wind and rain. Shelters fail. Sicknesses, hypothermia, and infections caused by damp conditions are increasing.

This is not an unexpected catastrophe. Winter arrives cyclically. People in Gaza interpret this shortcoming not as fate, but as abandonment. People speak of how essential materials are hindered or postponed, while attempts to repair damaged homes are frequently blocked. Local initiatives have tried to make do, to provide coverings, yet they continue to be hampered by restrictions on imports. The culpability lies in political and humanitarian. Answers are available, but are withheld.

A Symbolic Season

The factor that intensifies this hardship especially agonizing is how avoidable it could have been. No one should have to study, raise children, or battle sickness standing ankle-deep in cold water inside a tent. No student should fear the rain destroying their final textbook. Rain exposes just how precarious existence is. It tests bodies worn down by pressure, weariness, and sorrow.

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