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The time was about 8:30 PM on a Thursday when I returned home in Gaza City. The wind howled, making it impossible to remain any longer, leaving me to walk. Initially, it was merely a soft rain, but after about 200 metres the rain suddenly grew heavier. That wasn’t surprising. I stopped near a tent, rubbing my palms together to generate a little heat. A young boy sat nearby selling homemade cookies. We shared brief remarks as I waited, although he appeared disengaged. I noticed the cookies were hastily covered in plastic, already soggy from the drizzle, and I wondered if he’d manage to sell them all before the night ended. The freezing temperature invaded every space.

A Journey Through a City of Tents

Walking down 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 rain pouring down and the whistle of the wind. Rushing forward, trying to dodge the rain, I activated my mobile phone's torch to light my way. My thoughts kept returning to those huddled within: How are they passing the time now? What thoughts fill their minds? How do they feel? It was bitterly cold. I envisioned children nestled under damp covers, parents adjusting repeatedly to keep them warm.

When I opened 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 was overwhelmed by the guilt of having a roof when a multitude remained unprotected to the storm.

The Night Escalates

During the darkest hours, the storm grew stronger. Outside, makeshift covers on damaged glass billowed and tore, while metal sheets broke away and slammed down. Overriding the noise came the desperate, terrified shouts 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 soaked tents, swamped refugee areas and turned bare earth into mud. Elsewhere, this might be called “inclement weather”. In Gaza, it is lived with exposure and abandonment.

Al-Arba’iniya

Palestinians know this time of year as al-Arba’iniya; the most bitter forty days of winter, beginning in late December and lasting until the end of January. It is the definite start of winter, the moment when the season unleashes its intensity. Typically, it is endured with preparation and shelter. This year, Gaza has none of these. The frost seeps through homes, streets are vacant and people simply endure.

But the danger of winter is now very real. On the Sunday morning before Christmas, rescue operations found the victims of two children after the roof of a bombarded structure collapsed in northern Gaza, freeing five additional individuals, 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 weakened by months of bombardment and ultimately defeated by winter rain. Not long ago, a young child in Khan Younis died of exposure to the cold.

Precarious Existence

Passing by the camp nearest my home, I saw the consequences up close. Inadequate coverings strained under the weight of water, mattresses were adrift and clothes remained wet, always damp. Each step reminded me how precarious these dwellings are and how close the rain and cold threatened life and health for countless individuals living in tents and overcrowded shelters.

The majority of these individuals have already been forced from their homes, many on multiple occasions. Homes are destroyed. Neighbourhoods flattened. Winter has come to Gaza, but defense against it has not. It has come devoid of safe refuge, in darkness, without heating.

A Teacher's Anguish

In my role as a professor in Gaza, this weather causes deep concern. My students are not mere statistics; they are young people I speak to; bright, resilient, but extremely fatigued. Most join virtual lessons from tents; others from cramped quarters where solitude is unattainable and connectivity sporadic. A significant number of pupils have already lost family members. Most have lost their homes. Yet they continue their education. Their fortitude is remarkable, but it must not be demanded in this way.

In Gaza, what would typically constitute routine academic practices—tasks, schedules—become ethical dilemmas, dictated every moment by uncertainty about students’ security, heat and ability to find refuge.

On evenings such as this, I am constantly preoccupied about them. Are they dry? Is there heat? Has the gale ripped through their shelter while they were trying to sleep? For those still living in apartments, or damaged structures, there is an absence of warmth. With electricity mostly absent and fuel scarce, warmth comes mainly from bundling up and using the few bedding items available. Despite this, cold nights are unbearable. What about those living in tents?

The Humanitarian Shortfall

Figures show that well over a million people in Gaza live in shelters. Aid supplies, including thermal blankets, have been far from enough. Amid the last tempest, aid organizations reported delivering tarpaulins, tents and bedding to numerous households. In reality, however, this assistance was widely experienced as uneven and inadequate, limited to short-term fixes that offered scant protection against ongoing suffering to cold, wind and rain. Shelters fail. Sicknesses, hypothermia, and infections caused by damp conditions are rising.

This cannot be described as 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 essential materials are hindered or postponed, while attempts to fix broken houses are repeatedly obstructed. Local initiatives have tried to find solutions, to provide coverings, yet they remain limited by restrictions on imports. The culpability lies in political and humanitarian. Answers are available, but are withheld.

A Preventable Suffering

The aspect that renders this pain especially painful is how avoidable it could have been. No individual ought to study, raise children, or fight illness standing knee-high in cold water inside a tent. No learner should dread the rain ruining their last notebook. Rain reveals just how precarious existence is. It strains physiques worn down by pressure, weariness, and sorrow.

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