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The time was around 8:30 PM on a weekday evening when I headed back home in Gaza City. The wind howled, and I couldn’t stay out any longer, so I had to walk. At first, it was just a gentle sprinkle, but after about 200 metres the rain intensified abruptly. That wasn’t surprising. I stopped near a tent, rubbing my palms together to fight off the chill. A young boy was sitting outside selling baked goods. We exchanged a few words during my pause, although he appeared disengaged. I noticed the cookies were poorly packaged in plastic, moist from the drizzle, and I questioned if he’d have enough to sell before the night ended. A deep chill permeated the air.

A Trek Through a City of Tents

As I walked along al-Wehda Street in Gaza City, makeshift shelters crowded both sides of the road. No sounds of conversation came from inside them, merely the din of torrential rain and the roar of the wind. Rushing forward, trying to dodge the rain, I turned on 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? The cold was piercing. I envisioned children huddled under damp covers, parents shifting constantly to keep them warm.

As I unlocked the door to my apartment, the freezing handle served as a subtle yet haunting reminder of the suffering faced across Gaza in these brutal winter climate. I entered my apartment and couldn't shake the guilt of possessing shelter when so many were exposed to the storm.

The Midnight Hour Escalates

In the middle of the night, the storm grew stronger. Outside, tarps on shattered windows whipped and strained, while corrugated metal broke away and crashed to the ground. Cutting through the chaos came the sharp, panicked screams of children, shattering the darkness. I felt completely helpless.

For the last fortnight, the rain has been relentless. Freezing, pouring, and carried by strong winds, it has soaked tents, flooded makeshift camps and turned open ground into mud. In different contexts, this might be called “inclement weather”. In Gaza, it is lived with exposure and abandonment.

The Harshest Days

Locals call this time of year as al-Arba’iniya; the most bitter forty days of winter, commencing in late December and lasting until the end of January. It is the definite start of winter, the moment when the season reveals its full force. Typically, it is weathered through preparation and shelter. Currently, Gaza has none of these. The cold bites through homes, streets are deserted and people simply endure.

But the threat posed by the cold is far from theoretical. In the early hours of Sunday before Christmas, rescue operations recovered the bodies 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. Such collapses are not caused by ongoing hostilities, but the outcome of homes compromised after months of bombardment and succumbing to winter rain. Earlier this month, an infant in Khan Younis succumbed to exposure to the cold.

Precarious Existence

Walking past the camp nearest my home, I witnessed the impact up close. Inadequate coverings buckled beneath the weight of water, mattresses were adrift and clothes hung damply, incapable of drying. Each step highlighted how vulnerable these tents are and how close the rain and cold came to taking life and health for hundreds of thousands living in tents and cramped refuges.

The majority of these individuals have already been uprooted, many on multiple occasions. Homes are lost. Neighbourhoods razed. Winter has arrived in Gaza, but defense against it has not. It has come without proper shelter, without electricity, without heating.

A Teacher's Anguish

In my role as a professor in Gaza, this weather weighs heavily on me. My students are not mere statistics; they are young people I speak to; smart, persistent, but deeply weary. Most participate in digital sessions from tents; others from packed rooms where privacy is impossible and connectivity sporadic. Countless learners have already experienced bereavement. Most have lost their homes. Yet they continue their education. Their perseverance is astounding, but it ought not be necessary in this way.

In Gaza, what would normally count as routine academic practices—projects, due dates—become moral negotiations, shaped each day by concern for students’ well-being, comfort and access to shelter.

During nights like these, I find myself thinking about them. Are they dry? Do they feel any warmth? Did the wind tear through their shelter as they attempted to rest? For those still living in apartments, or damaged structures, there is an absence of warmth. With electricity largely unavailable and fuel rare, warmth comes mainly from donning extra clothing and using any remaining covers. Even so, cold nights are intolerable. What about those living in tents?

The Humanitarian Shortfall

Agencies state that over a million people in Gaza reside in temporary housing. Aid supplies, including insulated tents, have been inadequate. When the cyclone hit, aid organizations reported distributing plastic sheets, tents and mattresses to numerous households. On the ground, however, this assistance was often perceived as patchy and insufficient, limited to band-aid measures that offered scant protection against prolonged exposure to cold, wind and rain. Tents collapse. Sicknesses, hypothermia, and infections linked to damp conditions are on the upswing.

This is not an surprise calamity. Winter arrives cyclically. People in Gaza interpret this shortcoming not as misfortune, but as being forsaken. People speak of how necessary items are hindered or postponed, while attempts to fix broken houses are repeatedly obstructed. Local initiatives have tried to improvise, to provide coverings, yet they remain limited by what is allowed to enter. The root cause is political and humanitarian. Remedies are known, but are prevented from arriving.

An Unnecessary Pain

What makes this suffering especially agonizing is how avoidable it could have been. No one should have to study, raise children, or battle sickness standing ankle-deep in cold water inside a tent. It is wrong for a pupil to worry about 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 coincides with the Christmas season that, for millions, symbolises warmth, refuge and care for the neediest. In Palestine, that {symbolism