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The clock read around 8:30 PM on a weekday evening when I made my way home in Gaza City. Gusts of wind blew, making it impossible to remain any longer, leaving me to walk. At first, it was only a light drizzle, but a short distance later the rain intensified abruptly. That wasn’t surprising. I paused beside a tent, trying to warm my hands to fight off the chill. A young boy sat nearby selling homemade cookies. We shared brief remarks while I stood there, although he appeared disengaged. I noticed the cookies were hastily covered in plastic, moist from the drizzle, and I pondered if he’d have enough to sell before the night ended. A deep chill permeated the air.

A Trek Through a Place of Tents

While traversing al-Wehda Street in Gaza City, makeshift shelters crowded both sides of the road. An eerie silence replaced voices from inside them, merely the din of rain pouring down and the moan of the wind. Rushing forward, 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 are they doing now? What are they thinking? What are they experiencing? The cold was piercing. I imagined children curled under wet blankets, parents adjusting repeatedly to keep them warm.

As I unlocked the door to my apartment, the cold metal served as a understated yet stark reminder of the suffering faced across Gaza in these harsh winter conditions. I entered my apartment and felt consumed by the guilt of having a roof when so many were exposed to the storm.

The Darkness Worsens

As midnight passed, the storm reached its peak. Outside, makeshift covers on shattered windows billowed and tore, while corrugated metal tore loose and crashed to the ground. Overriding the noise came the piercing, fearful cries of children, cutting through the darkness. I felt utterly powerless.

Over the past two weeks, the rain has been relentless. Cold, heavy, and driven by strong winds, it has flooded makeshift homes, flooded makeshift camps and turned bare earth into mud. In different contexts, this might be called “bad weather”. In Gaza, it is experienced amidst exposure and abandonment.

Al-Arba’iniya

Locals call this time of year as al-Arba’iniya; the 40 coldest and harshest days of winter, starting from late December and continuing through 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. Now, Gaza has neither. The frost seeps through homes, streets are deserted and people just persevere.

But the danger of winter is now very real. On the Sunday morning before Christmas, civil defense teams retrieved the remains of two children after the roof of a bombarded structure collapsed in northern Gaza, rescuing five others, including a child and two women. Two people remain missing. Such collapses are not the result of fresh strikes, but the result of homes damaged from months of bombardment and succumbing to winter rain. Earlier this month, 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. Inadequate coverings sagged under the weight of water, mattresses floated and clothes were perpetually moist, never fully drying. Each step highlighted how vulnerable these tents are and how close the rain and cold came to taking life and health for a vast population living in tents and packed sanctuaries.

Most of these people have already been displaced, many on multiple occasions. Homes are destroyed. Neighbourhoods flattened. Winter has arrived in Gaza, but protection from it has not. It has come lacking adequate housing, without electricity, lacking heat.

Students in the Storm

Being an educator in Gaza, this weather weighs heavily on me. My students are not distant names; they are individuals I know; bright, resilient, but extremely fatigued. Most join virtual lessons from tents; others from overcrowded shelters where solitude is unattainable and connectivity sporadic. Countless learners have already experienced bereavement. Most have been rendered homeless. Yet they continue their education. 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 moral negotiations, dictated every moment by concern for students’ safety, warmth and access to shelter.

During nights like these, I cannot help but wonder about them. Is their shelter holding? Are they warm? Did the wind tear through their shelter while they were trying to sleep? For those still living in apartments, or what remains of them, there is a lack of heat. With electricity largely unavailable and fuel in short supply, warmth comes mainly from wearing multiple layers and using whatever blankets are left. Despite this, cold nights are excruciating. What about those living in tents?

The Humanitarian Shortfall

Reports indicate that well over a million people in Gaza reside in temporary housing. Aid supplies, including weatherproof shelters, have been far from enough. During the recent storm, humanitarian partners reported providing plastic sheets, tents and mattresses to numerous households. For those affected, however, this assistance was often perceived as inconsistent and lacking, limited to short-term fixes that were largely ineffective against extended hardship to cold, wind and rain. Shelters fail. Sicknesses, hypothermia, and infections caused by damp conditions are increasing.

This goes beyond an unexpected catastrophe. Winter is an annual event. People in Gaza interpret this shortcoming not as fate, but as neglect. People speak of how critical supplies are restricted or delayed, while attempts to repair damaged homes are frequently blocked. Local initiatives have tried to improvise, to distribute plastic sheeting, yet they remain limited by what is allowed to enter. The failure is political and humanitarian. Remedies are known, but are withheld.

A Preventable Suffering

What makes this suffering especially painful is how unnecessary it should be. No individual ought to study, raise children, or fight illness standing knee-high in cold water inside a tent. No student should fear the rain ruining their last notebook. Rain exposes just how precarious existence is. It tests bodies worn down by anxiety, fatigue, and loss.

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