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The clock read approximately 8:30 PM on a Thursday when I returned home in Gaza City. Gusts of wind blew, and I couldn’t stay out any longer, so walking was my only option. Initially, it was only a light drizzle, but after about 200 metres the rain suddenly grew heavier. That wasn’t surprising. I took shelter by a tent, clapping my hands to generate a little heat. A young boy was sitting outside selling baked goods. We shared brief remarks during my pause, though he didn’t seem interested. I noticed the cookies were hastily covered in plastic, moist 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 Landscape of Tents

As I walked along al-Wehda Street in Gaza City, tents lined both sides of the road. An eerie silence replaced voices from inside them, just the noise of falling water and the moan of the wind. As I hurried on, seeking escape from the rain, I turned on my mobile phone's torch to illuminate the path. My thoughts kept returning to those sheltering inside: What are they doing now? What thoughts fill their minds? What are they experiencing? The cold was piercing. I imagined children nestled under damp covers, 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 hardships endured across Gaza in these harsh winter conditions. I entered my apartment and couldn't shake the guilt of enjoying a dry home when a multitude remained unprotected to the storm.

The Night Worsens

As midnight passed, the storm intensified. Outside, makeshift covers on damaged glass billowed and tore, while tin roofing ripped free and slammed down. Overriding the noise came the sharp, panicked screams of children, piercing the darkness. I felt completely helpless.

During recent days, the rain has been incessant. Freezing, pouring, and carried by strong winds, it has soaked tents, inundated temporary settlements and turned bare earth into mud. In other places, this might be called “poor conditions”. In Gaza, it is experienced amidst exposure and abandonment.

The Cruelest Season

Locals call this time of year as al-Arba’iniya; the 40 coldest and harshest days of winter, commencing in late December and continuing through the end of January. It is the true beginning of winter, the moment when the season unleashes its intensity. Typically, it is weathered through preparation and shelter. Now, Gaza has neither. The frost seeps through homes, streets are deserted and people simply endure.

But the threat posed by the cold is far from theoretical. On the Sunday morning before Christmas, rescue operations recovered the bodies 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 new attacks, but the consequence of homes weakened by months of bombardment and finally undone by winter rain. Earlier this month, a young child in Khan Younis died of exposure to the cold.

Precarious Existence

Walking past the camp nearest my home, I saw the consequences up close. Flimsy tarpaulins buckled beneath the weight of water, mattresses were adrift and clothes remained wet, always damp. Each step highlighted how precarious these dwellings are and how close the rain and cold came to taking life and health for a vast population living in tents and packed sanctuaries.

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

A Teacher's Anguish

As a university lecturer in Gaza, this weather causes deep concern. My students are not mere statistics; they are individuals I know; intelligent, determined, but extremely fatigued. Most participate in digital sessions from tents; others from cramped quarters where solitude is unattainable and connectivity intermittent. A significant number of pupils have already suffered personal loss. Most have seen their houses destroyed. Yet they still try to study. Their perseverance is astounding, but it should not be required in this way.

In Gaza, what would normally count as routine academic practices—tasks, schedules—turn into moral negotiations, influenced daily by uncertainty about students’ safety, warmth and proximity to protection.

During nights like these, I am constantly preoccupied about them. Do they have dryness? Do they feel any warmth? Could the storm have shredded through their shelter as they attempted to rest? For those remaining in apartments, or damaged structures, there is no heating. With electricity mostly absent and fuel rare, warmth comes primarily through wearing multiple layers and using whatever blankets are left. Even so, cold nights are excruciating. How then those living in tents?

The Humanitarian Shortfall

Reports indicate that well over a million people in Gaza live in shelters. Aid supplies, including thermal blankets, have been inadequate. When the cyclone hit, aid organizations reported providing plastic sheets, tents and mattresses to thousands of families. In reality, however, this assistance was often perceived as patchy and insufficient, limited to temporary solutions that were largely ineffective against ongoing suffering to cold, wind and rain. Structures give way. Respiratory illnesses, hypothermia, and infections caused by damp conditions are increasing.

This is not an unforeseen disaster. Winter comes every year. People in Gaza view this crisis not as fate, but as abandonment. People speak of how essential materials are hindered or postponed, while attempts to reinforce weakened structures are repeatedly obstructed. Community efforts have tried to make do, to hand out tarps, yet they remain limited by what is allowed to enter. The root cause is political and humanitarian. Remedies are known, but are withheld.

A Symbolic Season

The aspect that renders this pain especially painful is how unnecessary it should be. It is unconscionable to study, raise children, or combat disease standing ankle-deep in cold water inside a tent. No student should fear the rain damaging their precious phone. Rain reveals just how vulnerable survival is. It strains physiques worn down by anxiety, fatigue, and loss.

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