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It was about 8:30 PM on a weekday evening when I headed back home in Gaza City. Gusts of wind blew, forcing me inside any longer, so walking was my only option. At first, 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, rubbing my palms together to fight off the chill. A young boy sat nearby selling baked goods. We spoke briefly during my pause, though he didn’t seem interested. I observed the cookies were hastily covered in plastic, moist from the drizzle, and I wondered if he’d find buyers before the night ended. The freezing temperature invaded every space.

A Journey 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, just the noise of rain pouring down and the whistle of the wind. Quickening my pace, seeking escape from the rain, I turned on my mobile phone's torch to illuminate the path. My mind continually drifted to those sheltering inside: What are they doing now? What is their state of mind? How do they feel? It was bitterly cold. I envisioned children huddled under wet blankets, parents moving restlessly to keep them warm.

Upon opening the door to my apartment, the freezing handle served as a quiet but powerful reminder of the struggles borne across Gaza in these brutal winter climate. I entered my apartment and felt consumed by the guilt of having a roof when countless others faced exposure to the storm.

The Night Escalates

As midnight passed, the storm grew stronger. Outside, plastic sheeting on damaged glass sagged and flapped violently, while tin roofing broke away and fell with a clatter. Overriding the noise came the piercing, fearful cries of children, piercing the darkness. I felt utterly powerless.

Over the past two weeks, the rain has been unending. Chilly, dense, and propelled by strong winds, it has soaked tents, swamped refugee areas and turned the soil into mud. Elsewhere, this might be called “poor conditions”. In Gaza, it is endured in a state of exposure and abandonment.

The Harshest Days

Residents refer to this time of year as al-Arba’iniya; the 40 coldest and harshest days of winter, commencing in late December and persisting to 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. Now, Gaza has neither. The frost seeps through homes, streets are deserted and people merely survive.

But the peril of the season 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, saving five more people, including a child and two women. Two people are still unaccounted for. Such collapses are not the result of fresh strikes, but the outcome of homes weakened by months of bombardment and succumbing to winter rain. Earlier this month, an eight-month-old baby girl in Khan Younis passed away from exposure to the cold.

Precarious Existence

Observing the camp nearest my home, I saw the consequences up close. Flimsy tarpaulins strained under the weight of water, mattresses floated and clothes remained wet, always damp. Each step highlighted how precarious these dwellings are and how close the rain and cold threatened life and health for hundreds of thousands living in tents and packed sanctuaries.

The majority of these individuals have already been forced from their homes, many several times over. Homes are gone. Neighbourhoods razed. Winter has come to Gaza, but protection from it has not. It has come without proper shelter, in darkness, lacking heat.

Students in the Storm

In my role as a professor in Gaza, this weather is a heavy burden. My students are not mere statistics; they are individuals I know; smart, persistent, but extremely fatigued. Most attend online classes from tents; others from packed rooms where solitude is unattainable and connectivity intermittent. A significant number of pupils have already lost family members. Most have lost their homes. Yet they persist in learning. Their resilience is extraordinary, but it should not be required in this way.

In Gaza, what would typically constitute routine academic practices—assignments, deadlines—turn into questions of conscience, influenced daily by uncertainty about students’ security, heat and access to shelter.

When the storm rages, I am constantly preoccupied about them. Are they dry? Do they feel any warmth? Could the storm have shredded through their shelter while they were trying to sleep? For those residing in apartments, or damaged structures, there is a lack of heat. With electricity scarce and fuel in short supply, warmth comes mainly from donning extra clothing and using the few bedding items available. Despite this, cold nights are intolerable. What, then those living in tents?

Political Failure

Agencies state that more than a million people in Gaza live in shelters. Humanitarian assistance, including weatherproof shelters, have been inadequate. Amid the last tempest, humanitarian partners reported providing tarpaulins, tents and bedding to thousands of families. In reality, however, this assistance was often perceived as inconsistent and lacking, limited to short-term fixes that offered scant protection against extended hardship to cold, wind and rain. Tents collapse. Sicknesses, hypothermia, and infections associated with damp conditions are increasing.

This goes beyond an surprise calamity. Winter comes every year. People in Gaza interpret this shortcoming not as fate, but as neglect. People speak of how critical supplies are hindered or postponed, while attempts to reinforce weakened structures are repeatedly obstructed. Local initiatives have tried to make do, to distribute plastic sheeting, yet they are still constrained by what is allowed to enter. The root cause is political and humanitarian. Answers are available, but are prevented from arriving.

A Symbolic Season

The aspect that renders this pain especially heartbreaking is how avoidable it could have been. No individual ought to study, raise children, or battle sickness standing ankle-deep in cold water inside a tent. No student should fear the rain destroying their final textbook. Rain exposes just how vulnerable survival is. It tests bodies worn down by stress, exhaustion, and grief.

This winter aligns with the Christmas season that, for millions, epitomizes warmth, refuge and care for the disadvantaged. In Palestine, that {symbolism