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The time was about 8:30 PM on a weekday evening 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. Initially, it was merely a soft rain, but a short distance later the rain became a downpour. That wasn’t surprising. I took shelter by a tent, trying to warm my hands to fight off the chill. A young boy was sitting outside selling homemade cookies. We exchanged a few words as I waited, but his attention was elsewhere. I noticed the cookies were poorly packaged in plastic, already soggy from the drizzle, and I questioned if he’d find buyers before the night ended. The freezing temperature invaded every space.

A Journey Through a City 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, only the sound of falling water and the roar of the wind. As I hurried on, attempting to avoid the rain, I turned on my mobile phone's torch to light my way. I couldn't stop thinking to those sheltering inside: What are they doing 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.

When I opened the door to my apartment, the cold metal served as a understated yet stark reminder of the suffering faced across Gaza in these severe cold season. I entered my apartment and felt consumed by the guilt of having a roof when so many were exposed to the storm.

The Darkness Worsens

In the middle of the night, the storm intensified. Outside, plastic sheeting on broken panes billowed and tore, while metal sheets ripped free and slammed down. Overriding the noise came the piercing, fearful cries of children, cutting through the darkness. I felt utterly powerless.

Over the past two weeks, the rain has been unending. Freezing, pouring, and carried by strong winds, it has drenched shelters, flooded makeshift camps and turned the soil into mud. Elsewhere, this might be called “poor conditions”. In Gaza, it is experienced amidst exposure and abandonment.

The Cruelest Season

Residents refer to this time of year as al-Arba’iniya; the fourty most severe days of winter, starting from late December and continuing through the end of January. It is the definite start of winter, the moment when the season unleashes its intensity. Normally, it is faced with preparation and shelter. Currently, Gaza has no such defenses. The chill penetrates through homes, streets are vacant and people merely survive.

But the threat posed by the cold is now very real. In the early hours of Sunday before Christmas, recovery efforts 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 remain missing. These structural failures are not the result of fresh strikes, but the outcome of homes damaged from months of bombardment and finally undone by winter rain. Not long ago, an infant in Khan Younis succumbed to exposure to the cold.

A Life in Tents

Walking past the camp nearest my home, I saw the consequences 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 fragile these shelters were and how close the rain and cold came to claiming life and health for hundreds of thousands living in tents and packed sanctuaries.

The majority of these individuals have already been uprooted, many on multiple occasions. Homes are destroyed. Neighbourhoods leveled. Winter has descended upon Gaza, but defense against it has not. It has come devoid of safe refuge, without electricity, lacking heat.

A Teacher's Anguish

As a university lecturer in Gaza, this weather causes deep concern. My students are not distant names; they are individuals I know; smart, persistent, but profoundly exhausted. Most participate in digital sessions from tents; others from packed rooms where solitude is unattainable and connectivity intermittent. Many of my students have already experienced bereavement. Most have lost their homes. Yet they still try to study. Their perseverance is astounding, but it should not be required in this way.

In Gaza, what would usually be routine academic practices—projects, due dates—turn into moral negotiations, dictated every moment by anxiety over students’ well-being, comfort and access to shelter.

When the storm rages, I find myself thinking about them. Do they have dryness? Do they feel any warmth? Has the gale ripped through their shelter while they were trying to sleep? For those remaining in apartments, or the shells that are left, there is an absence of warmth. With electricity scarce and fuel rare, warmth comes primarily through wearing multiple layers and using any remaining covers. Despite this, cold nights are intolerable. What about those living in tents?

The Humanitarian Shortfall

Figures show that more than a million people in Gaza reside in temporary housing. Humanitarian assistance, including insulated tents, have been insufficient. Amid the last tempest, aid organizations reported distributing tarpaulins, tents and bedding to numerous households. In reality, however, this assistance was frequently felt to be inconsistent and lacking, limited to temporary solutions that did little against prolonged exposure to cold, wind and rain. Tents collapse. Sicknesses, hypothermia, and infections linked to damp conditions are increasing.

This goes beyond an surprise calamity. Winter comes every year. People in Gaza understand this failure not as misfortune, but as abandonment. People speak of how essential materials are restricted or delayed, while attempts to repair damaged homes are repeatedly obstructed. Local initiatives have tried to find solutions, to distribute plastic sheeting, yet they remain limited by bureaucratic barriers. The failure is political and humanitarian. Answers are available, but are withheld.

A Preventable Suffering

The factor that intensifies this hardship especially heartbreaking is how preventable it is. No individual ought 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 exposes just how precarious existence is. It challenges health worn down by stress, exhaustion, and grief.

This year's chill aligns with the Christmas season that, for millions, represents warmth, refuge and care for the disadvantaged. In Palestine, that {symbolism