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The time was approximately 8:30 PM on a Thursday when I made my way home in Gaza City. Gusts of wind blew, and I couldn’t stay out any longer, so walking was my only option. In the beginning, it was just a gentle sprinkle, but a short distance later the rain became a downpour. This was expected. I stopped near a tent, trying to warm my hands to generate a little heat. A young boy was sitting outside selling sweet treats. We exchanged a few words during my pause, but his attention was elsewhere. I saw the cookies were hastily covered in plastic, already soggy from the drizzle, and I pondered if he’d manage to sell them all before the night ended. A deep chill permeated the air.

A Trek Through a City of Tents

While traversing al-Wehda Street in Gaza City, makeshift shelters crowded both sides of the road. No sounds of conversation came from inside them, only the sound of rain pouring down and the moan of the wind. As I hurried on, attempting to avoid the rain, I activated my mobile phone's torch to illuminate the path. I couldn't stop thinking to those taking refuge within: How are they passing the time now? What thoughts fill their minds? What are they experiencing? The cold was piercing. I pictured children nestled under soaked bedding, parents shifting constantly to keep them warm.

Upon opening the door to my apartment, the icy doorknob served as a understated yet stark reminder of the struggles borne across Gaza in these harsh winter conditions. I stepped inside my apartment and was overwhelmed by the guilt of having a roof when so many were exposed to the storm.

The Darkness Escalates

In the middle of the night, the storm reached its peak. Outside, tarps on shattered windows whipped and strained, while metal sheets ripped free and fell with a clatter. Above it all came the sharp, panicked screams of children, shattering the darkness. I felt utterly powerless.

For the last fortnight, the rain has been unending. Chilly, dense, and propelled by strong winds, it has drenched shelters, flooded makeshift camps and turned bare earth into mud. In other places, this might be called “poor conditions”. In Gaza, it is experienced amidst exposure and abandonment.

The Harshest Days

Palestinians know 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 unleashes its intensity. Typically, it is weathered through preparation and shelter. This year, Gaza has no such defenses. The chill penetrates through homes, streets are deserted and people just persevere.

But the peril of the season is no longer abstract. In the early hours of Sunday before Christmas, recovery efforts recovered the bodies of two children after the roof of a war-damaged building collapsed in northern Gaza, rescuing five others, including a child and two women. Two people remain missing. These incidents are not the result of fresh strikes, but the outcome of homes weakened by months of bombardment and finally undone by winter rain. In recent days, a young child in Khan Younis died of exposure to the cold.

Fragile Shelters

Passing by the camp nearest my home, I observed the results up close. Inadequate coverings sagged under the weight of water, mattresses were adrift and clothes were perpetually moist, always damp. Each step highlighted how vulnerable these tents are and how close the rain and cold came to claiming life and health for countless individuals living in tents and packed sanctuaries.

The majority of these individuals have already been uprooted, many several times over. Homes are gone. Neighbourhoods razed. Winter has descended upon Gaza, but defense against it has not. It has come without proper shelter, with no power, devoid of warmth.

A Teacher's Anguish

As a university lecturer in Gaza, this weather is a heavy burden. My students are not mere statistics; they are individuals I know; smart, persistent, but deeply weary. Most join virtual lessons from tents; others from overcrowded shelters where privacy is impossible and connectivity sporadic. Many of my students have already lost family members. Most have seen their houses destroyed. Yet they persist in learning. Their fortitude is remarkable, but it ought not be necessary in this way.

In Gaza, what would usually be routine academic practices—assignments, deadlines—turn into ethical dilemmas, influenced daily by concern for students’ security, heat and proximity to protection.

During nights like these, I am constantly preoccupied about them. Is their shelter holding? Are they warm? Could the storm have shredded through their shelter during the night? For those still living in apartments, or damaged structures, there is a lack of heat. With electricity mostly absent and fuel rare, warmth comes mostly via wearing multiple layers and using any remaining covers. Even so, cold nights are excruciating. What, then those living in tents?

Political Failure

Agencies state that more than a million people in Gaza reside in temporary housing. Humanitarian assistance, including thermal blankets, have been insufficient. During the recent storm, aid organizations reported distributing coverings, shelters and sleeping materials to numerous households. In reality, however, this assistance was often perceived as uneven and inadequate, limited to short-term fixes that did little against ongoing suffering to cold, wind and rain. Structures give way. Chest infections, hypothermia, and infections linked to damp conditions are on the upswing.

This cannot be described as an unforeseen disaster. Winter is an annual event. People in Gaza view this crisis not as misfortune, but as being forsaken. People speak of how essential materials are blocked or slowed, while attempts to repair damaged homes are frequently blocked. Local initiatives have tried to improvise, 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 withheld.

An Unnecessary Pain

The factor that intensifies this hardship 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. No student should fear the rain ruining their last notebook. Rain reveals just how fragile life has become. It strains physiques worn down by anxiety, fatigue, and loss.

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