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It was around 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, so I had to walk. In the beginning, it was only a light drizzle, but after about 200 metres the rain suddenly grew heavier. That wasn’t surprising. I stopped near a tent, rubbing my palms together to draw some warmth. A young boy was sitting outside selling homemade cookies. We spoke briefly during my pause, although he appeared disengaged. I noticed the cookies were hastily covered in plastic, dampened from the drizzle, and I questioned if he’d find buyers before the night ended. The freezing temperature invaded every space.

A Walk Through a Place of Tents

As I walked along al-Wehda Street in Gaza City, makeshift shelters crowded both sides of the road. There were no voices from inside them, merely the din of falling water and the whistle of the wind. Rushing forward, seeking escape from the rain, I turned on my mobile phone's torch to see the road ahead. My thoughts kept returning to those taking refuge within: What occupies them now? What is their state of mind? What are they experiencing? The cold was piercing. I imagined children curled under wet blankets, parents adjusting repeatedly to keep them warm.

As I unlocked the door to my apartment, the icy doorknob served as a subtle yet haunting reminder of the suffering faced across Gaza in these harsh winter conditions. I walked into my apartment and felt consumed by the guilt of enjoying a dry home when so many were exposed to the storm.

The Midnight Hour Intensifies

As midnight passed, the storm reached its peak. Outside, tarps on damaged glass sagged and flapped violently, while tin roofing ripped free and crashed to the ground. Above it all came the piercing, fearful cries of children, shattering the darkness. I felt completely helpless.

For the last fortnight, the rain has been incessant. Cold, heavy, and driven by strong winds, it has drenched shelters, inundated temporary settlements and turned open ground into mud. In other places, this might be called “inclement weather”. In Gaza, it is lived with exposure and abandonment.

The Cruelest Season

Palestinians know this time of year as al-Arba’iniya; the fourty most severe days of winter, commencing in late December and lasting until the end of January. It is the real onset of winter, the moment when the season reveals its full force. Typically, it is faced with preparation and shelter. This year, Gaza has neither. The frost seeps through homes, streets are deserted and people just persevere.

But the threat posed by the cold is now very real. On the Sunday morning before Christmas, rescue operations recovered the bodies 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 remain missing. These incidents are not the result of fresh strikes, but the consequence of homes compromised after months of bombardment and succumbing to winter rain. Earlier this month, a young child in Khan Younis died of exposure to the cold.

Fragile Shelters

Observing 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 reinforced 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 overcrowded shelters.

A great number of these residents have already been displaced, many repeatedly. Homes are gone. Neighbourhoods razed. Winter has descended upon Gaza, but shelter from its fury has not. It has come devoid of safe refuge, with no power, lacking heat.

The Weight on Education

Being an educator in Gaza, this weather weighs heavily on me. My students are not distant names; they are young people I speak to; bright, resilient, but profoundly exhausted. Most attend online classes from tents; others from packed rooms where privacy is impossible and connectivity unreliable. Many of my students have already experienced bereavement. Most have been rendered homeless. Yet they continue their education. Their fortitude is remarkable, but it should not be required in this way.

In Gaza, what would typically constitute routine academic practices—projects, due dates—become ethical dilemmas, influenced daily by uncertainty about students’ well-being, comfort and ability to find refuge.

During nights like these, I find myself thinking about them. Are they dry? Are they warm? Has the gale ripped through their shelter as they attempted to rest? For those remaining in apartments, or damaged structures, there is a lack of heat. With electricity mostly absent and fuel in short supply, warmth comes mainly from bundling up and using whatever blankets are left. Despite this, cold nights are excruciating. How then those living in tents?

The Humanitarian Shortfall

Figures show that more than a million people in Gaza reside in temporary housing. Humanitarian assistance, including thermal blankets, have been insufficient. Amid the last tempest, relief groups reported providing tarpaulins, tents and bedding to numerous households. On the ground, however, this assistance was frequently felt to be inconsistent and lacking, limited to short-term fixes that offered scant protection against ongoing suffering to cold, wind and rain. Shelters fail. Sicknesses, hypothermia, and infections associated with damp conditions are on the upswing.

This goes beyond an surprise calamity. Winter is an annual event. People in Gaza interpret this shortcoming not as bad luck, but as abandonment. People speak of how necessary items are restricted or delayed, while attempts to repair damaged homes are frequently blocked. Local initiatives have tried to find solutions, to provide coverings, yet they are still constrained by bureaucratic barriers. The failure is political and humanitarian. Solutions exist, but are kept out.

A Symbolic Season

The aspect that renders this pain especially painful is how avoidable it could have been. No one should have to study, raise children, or fight illness standing ankle-deep in cold water inside a tent. No student should fear the rain ruining their last notebook. Rain exposes just how fragile life has become. It tests bodies worn down by stress, exhaustion, and grief.

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