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The clock read about 8:30 PM on a Thursday when I made my way home in Gaza City. A strong wind was blowing, and I couldn’t stay out any longer, leaving me to walk. Initially, it was merely a soft rain, but after about 200 metres the rain intensified abruptly. It came as no shock. I took shelter by a tent, rubbing my palms together to draw some warmth. A young boy sat nearby selling homemade cookies. We shared brief remarks as I waited, although he appeared disengaged. I saw the cookies were hastily covered in plastic, dampened from the drizzle, and I pondered if he’d manage to sell them all before the night ended. The cold seeped into everything.

A Walk Through a City of Tents

While traversing 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 roar of the wind. As I hurried on, seeking escape from the rain, I activated my mobile phone's torch to see the road ahead. My mind continually drifted to those taking refuge within: What are they doing now? What is their state of mind? What are they experiencing? A severe chill gripped the air. I envisioned children nestled under wet blankets, parents shifting constantly to keep them warm.

When I opened the door to my apartment, the freezing handle served as a quiet but powerful reminder of the suffering faced across Gaza in these harsh winter conditions. I stepped inside my apartment and was overwhelmed by the guilt of enjoying a dry home when countless others faced exposure to the storm.

The Night Intensifies

During the darkest hours, the storm reached its peak. Outside, tarps on shattered windows whipped and strained, while corrugated metal ripped free and crashed to the ground. Overriding the noise came the piercing, fearful cries of children, shattering the darkness. I felt completely helpless.

During recent days, the rain has been relentless. Cold, heavy, and driven by strong winds, it has drenched shelters, inundated temporary settlements and turned bare earth into mud. Elsewhere, this might be called “bad weather”. In Gaza, it is experienced amidst exposure and abandonment.

The Harshest Days

Locals call this time of year as al-Arba’iniya; the 40 coldest and harshest days of winter, starting from late December and persisting to the end of January. It is the real onset of winter, the moment when the season unleashes its intensity. Typically, it is faced with preparation and shelter. Currently, Gaza has no such defenses. The cold bites through homes, streets are vacant and people simply endure.

But the threat posed by the cold is now very real. In the early hours of Sunday before Christmas, recovery efforts retrieved the remains 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 have not been found. These incidents are not new attacks, but the outcome of homes compromised after months of bombardment and finally undone by winter rain. In recent days, a young child in Khan Younis succumbed to exposure to the cold.

Precarious Existence

Passing by the camp nearest my home, I observed the results up close. Thin plastic sheets sagged under the weight of water, mattresses were adrift and clothes remained wet, never fully drying. Each step reminded me how fragile these shelters were and how close the rain and cold came to taking life and health for hundreds of thousands living in tents and overcrowded shelters.

The majority of these individuals have already been uprooted, many on multiple occasions. Homes are destroyed. Neighbourhoods razed. Winter has arrived in Gaza, but defense against it has not. It has come devoid of safe refuge, with no power, without heating.

The Weight on Education

As a university lecturer in Gaza, this weather causes deep concern. My students are not mere statistics; they are faces I recognize; bright, resilient, but extremely fatigued. Most attend online classes from tents; others from overcrowded shelters where solitude is unattainable and connectivity unreliable. Many of my students have already experienced bereavement. Most have been rendered homeless. Yet they continue their education. Their perseverance is astounding, but it should not be required in this way.

In Gaza, what would normally count as routine academic practices—assignments, deadlines—turn into questions of conscience, influenced daily by anxiety over students’ security, heat and access to shelter.

During nights like these, I am constantly preoccupied about them. Is their shelter holding? Are they warm? Did the wind tear through their shelter while they were trying to sleep? For those residing in apartments, or damaged structures, there is no heating. With electricity largely unavailable and fuel in short supply, warmth comes primarily through donning extra clothing and using any remaining covers. Despite this, cold nights are intolerable. What, then those living in tents?

The Humanitarian Shortfall

Figures show that more than a million people in Gaza exist in makeshift accommodations. Aid supplies, including insulated tents, have been inadequate. When the cyclone hit, aid organizations reported delivering tarpaulins, tents and bedding to a multitude of people. In reality, however, this assistance was often perceived as patchy and insufficient, limited to short-term fixes that offered scant protection against prolonged exposure to cold, wind and rain. Tents collapse. Chest infections, hypothermia, and infections caused by damp conditions are on the upswing.

This goes beyond an surprise calamity. Winter arrives cyclically. People in Gaza interpret this shortcoming not as bad luck, but as abandonment. People speak of how essential materials are restricted or delayed, while attempts to reinforce weakened structures are consistently hampered. Community efforts have tried to make do, to provide coverings, yet they continue to be hampered by what is allowed to enter. The failure is political and humanitarian. Answers are available, but are prevented from arriving.

An Unnecessary Pain

The aspect that renders this pain especially agonizing is how avoidable it could have been. No individual ought to study, raise children, or battle sickness standing surrounded by cold water inside a tent. No student should fear the rain destroying their final textbook. Rain lays bare just how vulnerable survival is. It tests bodies worn down by anxiety, fatigue, and loss.

This year's chill occurs alongside the Christmas season that, for millions, symbolises warmth, refuge and care for the disadvantaged. In Palestine, that {symbolism