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It was around 8:30 PM on a weekday evening when I made my way home in Gaza City. The wind howled, forcing me inside any longer, so I had to walk. At first, it was just a gentle sprinkle, but following a brief walk the rain suddenly grew heavier. This was expected. I took shelter by a tent, rubbing my palms together to fight off the chill. A young boy was sitting outside selling homemade cookies. We exchanged a few words during my pause, though he didn’t seem interested. I noticed the cookies were loosely wrapped in plastic, moist from the drizzle, and I questioned if he’d find buyers before the night ended. The cold seeped into everything.

A Journey Through a Place of Tents

While traversing 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 rain pouring down and the moan of the wind. Quickening my pace, seeking escape from the rain, I switched on my mobile phone's torch to see the road ahead. My thoughts kept returning to those taking refuge within: How are they passing the time now? What are they thinking? What emotions do they hold? A severe chill gripped the air. I pictured children curled under damp covers, parents moving restlessly to keep them warm.

Upon opening the door to my apartment, the freezing handle served as a subtle yet haunting reminder of the suffering faced across Gaza in these harsh winter conditions. I stepped inside my apartment and felt consumed by the guilt of having a roof when so many were exposed to the storm.

The Midnight Hour Intensifies

In the middle of the night, the storm reached its peak. Outside, makeshift covers on damaged glass billowed and tore, while corrugated metal ripped free and crashed to the ground. Cutting through the chaos came the piercing, fearful cries of children, piercing the darkness. I felt completely helpless.

Over the past two weeks, the rain has been unending. Cold, heavy, and driven by strong winds, it has flooded makeshift homes, swamped refugee areas and turned the soil into mud. In different contexts, this might be called “bad weather”. In Gaza, it is lived with exposure and abandonment.

The Harshest Days

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 definite start of winter, the moment when the season reveals its full force. Typically, it is endured with preparation and shelter. This year, Gaza has no such defenses. The cold bites through homes, streets are vacant and people merely survive.

But the danger of winter is no longer abstract. On the Sunday morning before Christmas, recovery efforts found the victims of two children after the roof of a shelled home collapsed in northern Gaza, rescuing five others, including a child and two women. Two people are still unaccounted for. Such collapses are not new attacks, but the result of homes damaged from months of bombardment and ultimately defeated by winter rain. Earlier this month, an eight-month-old baby girl in Khan Younis succumbed to exposure to the cold.

Precarious Existence

Walking past the camp nearest my home, I witnessed the impact up close. Flimsy tarpaulins buckled beneath the weight of water, mattresses bobbed in water and clothes remained wet, incapable of drying. Each step reminded me how precarious these dwellings are and how close the rain and cold came to claiming life and health for countless individuals living in tents and overcrowded shelters.

Most of these people have already been displaced, many repeatedly. Homes are gone. Neighbourhoods flattened. Winter has arrived in Gaza, but shelter from its fury has not. It has come lacking adequate housing, in darkness, without heating.

A Teacher's Anguish

As a university lecturer in Gaza, this weather causes deep concern. My students are not figures in a report; they are faces I recognize; smart, persistent, but deeply weary. Most attend online classes from tents; others from packed rooms where solitude is unattainable and connectivity unreliable. Many of my students have already experienced bereavement. Most have seen their houses destroyed. Yet they persist in learning. Their perseverance is astounding, but it should not be required in this way.

In Gaza, what would usually be routine academic practices—tasks, schedules—turn into moral negotiations, dictated every moment by uncertainty about students’ safety, warmth and ability to find refuge.

During nights like these, I find myself thinking about them. Are they dry? Are they warm? Did the wind tear through their shelter during the night? For those still living in apartments, or damaged structures, there is an absence of warmth. With electricity mostly absent and fuel rare, warmth comes mainly from wearing multiple layers and using whatever blankets are left. Nonetheless, cold nights are unbearable. What, then those living in tents?

Political Failure

Figures show that over a million people in Gaza live in shelters. Aid supplies, including thermal blankets, have been far from enough. When the cyclone hit, humanitarian partners reported delivering coverings, shelters and sleeping materials to thousands of families. In reality, however, this assistance was frequently felt to be uneven and inadequate, limited to temporary solutions that were largely ineffective against ongoing suffering to cold, wind and rain. Structures give way. Respiratory illnesses, hypothermia, and infections associated with damp conditions are rising.

This goes beyond an surprise calamity. Winter arrives cyclically. People in Gaza understand this failure not as fate, but as neglect. People speak of how critical supplies are blocked or slowed, while attempts to repair damaged homes are consistently hampered. Local initiatives have tried to make do, to distribute plastic sheeting, yet they are still constrained by bureaucratic barriers. The failure is political and humanitarian. Answers are available, but are prevented from arriving.

A Symbolic Season

The factor that intensifies this hardship especially painful is how avoidable it could have been. It is unconscionable 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 vulnerable survival is. It strains physiques 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 most vulnerable. In Palestine, that {symbolism