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It was around 8:30 PM on a Thursday when I made my way home in Gaza City. The wind howled, making it impossible to remain any longer, so walking was my only option. In the beginning, it was only a light drizzle, but a short distance later the rain intensified abruptly. It came as no shock. I took shelter by a tent, clapping my hands to draw some warmth. A young boy sat nearby selling baked goods. We exchanged a few words as I waited, although he appeared disengaged. I observed the cookies were hastily covered in plastic, moist 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 City of Tents

As I walked along al-Wehda Street in Gaza City, tents lined both sides of the road. No sounds of conversation came from inside them, only the sound of torrential rain and the whistle of the wind. As I hurried on, attempting to avoid the rain, I activated my mobile phone's torch to light my way. My mind continually drifted to those taking refuge within: What occupies them now? What are they thinking? How do they feel? It was bitterly cold. I imagined children nestled under soaked bedding, parents shifting constantly to keep them warm.

When I opened the door to my apartment, the icy doorknob served as a quiet but powerful reminder of the hardships endured across Gaza in these severe cold season. I stepped inside my apartment and felt consumed by the guilt of possessing shelter when so many were exposed to the storm.

The Night Escalates

As midnight passed, the storm intensified. Outside, tarps on broken panes whipped and strained, while tin roofing ripped free and slammed down. Overriding the noise came the desperate, terrified shouts of children, piercing the darkness. I felt totally incapable.

Over the past two weeks, the rain has been unending. Freezing, pouring, and carried by strong winds, it has soaked tents, flooded makeshift camps and turned bare earth into mud. In other places, this might be called “poor conditions”. 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, beginning in late December and continuing through the end of January. It is the definite start of winter, the moment when the season shows its true power. Ordinarily, it is weathered through preparation and shelter. Now, Gaza has no such defenses. The cold bites through homes, streets are deserted and people simply endure.

But the threat posed by the cold is no longer abstract. In the early hours of Sunday before Christmas, recovery efforts retrieved the remains of two children after the roof of a shelled home collapsed in northern Gaza, saving five more people, including a child and two women. Two people are still unaccounted for. Such collapses are not new attacks, but the result of homes weakened by months of bombardment and succumbing to winter rain. Not long ago, an infant in Khan Younis succumbed to exposure to the cold.

Precarious Existence

Observing the camp nearest my home, I witnessed the impact up close. Thin plastic sheets buckled beneath the weight of water, mattresses were adrift and clothes hung damply, 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 a vast population living in tents and cramped refuges.

The majority of these individuals have already been displaced, many several times over. Homes are gone. Neighbourhoods leveled. Winter has come to Gaza, but shelter from its fury has not. It has come devoid of safe refuge, without electricity, lacking heat.

Students in the Storm

As a university lecturer in Gaza, this weather causes deep concern. My students are not mere statistics; they are individuals I know; smart, persistent, but extremely fatigued. Most attend online classes from tents; others from overcrowded shelters where solitude is unattainable and connectivity unreliable. A significant number of pupils have already experienced bereavement. 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 normally count as routine academic practices—tasks, schedules—become ethical dilemmas, influenced daily by concern for students’ security, heat and proximity to protection.

On evenings such as this, I find myself thinking about them. Do they have dryness? Are they warm? Did the wind tear through their shelter during the night? For those remaining in apartments, or damaged structures, there is no heating. With electricity scarce and fuel scarce, warmth comes mostly via wearing multiple layers and using the few bedding items available. Nonetheless, cold nights are excruciating. How then those living in tents?

Aid and Abandonment

Agencies state that over a million people in Gaza live in shelters. Relief items, including weatherproof shelters, have been insufficient. Amid the last tempest, relief groups reported distributing coverings, shelters and sleeping materials to a multitude of people. In reality, however, this assistance was frequently felt to be uneven and inadequate, limited to short-term fixes that offered scant protection against extended hardship to cold, wind and rain. Structures give way. Respiratory illnesses, hypothermia, and infections linked to damp conditions are rising.

This is not an unexpected catastrophe. Winter comes every year. People in Gaza view this crisis not as fate, but as neglect. People speak of how necessary items are blocked or slowed, while attempts to repair damaged homes are consistently hampered. Local initiatives have tried to improvise, to distribute plastic sheeting, yet they remain limited by restrictions on imports. The failure is political and humanitarian. Remedies are known, but are withheld.

A Preventable Suffering

What makes this suffering especially agonizing is how avoidable it could have been. No individual ought to study, raise children, or battle sickness standing knee-high in cold water inside a tent. No student should fear the rain ruining their last notebook. Rain lays bare just how fragile life has become. It strains physiques worn down by stress, exhaustion, and grief.

The current cold season aligns with the Christmas season that, for millions, epitomizes warmth, refuge and care for the neediest. In Palestine, that {symbolism