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The clock read about 8:30 PM on a Thursday when I returned home in Gaza City. The wind howled, forcing me inside any longer, leaving me to walk. In the beginning, it was merely a soft rain, but after about 200 metres the rain suddenly grew heavier. It came as no shock. I took shelter by a tent, rubbing my palms together to draw some warmth. A young boy had positioned himself selling sweet treats. We spoke briefly during my pause, although he appeared disengaged. I observed the cookies were hastily covered in plastic, dampened from the drizzle, and I wondered if he’d manage to sell them all before the night ended. The freezing temperature invaded every space.

A Journey Through a Landscape 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, only the sound of rain pouring down and the moan 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 huddled within: What are they doing now? What thoughts fill their minds? How do they feel? It was bitterly cold. I envisioned children curled under damp covers, parents shifting constantly to keep them warm.

As I unlocked the door to my apartment, the cold metal served as a subtle yet haunting reminder of the suffering faced across Gaza in these harsh winter conditions. I walked into my apartment and was overwhelmed by the guilt of having a roof when a multitude remained unprotected to the storm.

The Darkness Escalates

During the darkest hours, the storm intensified. Outside, tarps on damaged glass whipped and strained, while tin roofing ripped free and fell with a clatter. Cutting through the chaos came the piercing, fearful cries of children, cutting through the darkness. I felt completely helpless.

For the last fortnight, the rain has been relentless. Freezing, pouring, and carried by strong winds, it has flooded makeshift homes, swamped refugee areas and turned open ground into mud. Elsewhere, this might be called “bad 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, beginning in late December and continuing through the end of January. It is the true beginning of winter, the moment when the season unleashes its intensity. Typically, it is faced with preparation and shelter. This year, Gaza has none of these. The cold bites through homes, streets are deserted and people just persevere.

But the danger of winter is no longer abstract. Early on the Sunday before Christmas, civil defense teams retrieved the remains of two children after the roof of a war-damaged building collapsed in northern Gaza, freeing five additional individuals, including a child and two women. Two people have not been found. These structural failures are not caused by ongoing hostilities, but the outcome of homes weakened by months of bombardment and finally undone by winter rain. In recent days, an eight-month-old baby girl in Khan Younis died of exposure to the cold.

Precarious Existence

Observing the camp nearest my home, I saw the consequences up close. Inadequate coverings strained under the weight of water, mattresses floated and clothes hung damply, always damp. Each step reminded me how precarious these dwellings are and how close the rain and cold came to taking life and health for a vast population living in tents and cramped refuges.

A great number of these residents have already been displaced, many several times over. Homes are gone. Neighbourhoods flattened. Winter has descended upon Gaza, but defense against it has not. It has come without proper shelter, in darkness, devoid of warmth.

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; intelligent, determined, but extremely fatigued. Most participate in digital sessions from tents; others from packed rooms where personal space doesn't exist and connectivity sporadic. Many of my students have already suffered personal loss. Most have lost their homes. Yet they persist in learning. Their perseverance is astounding, but it should not be required in this way.

In Gaza, what would usually be routine academic practices—projects, due dates—become questions of conscience, influenced daily by concern for students’ safety, warmth and ability to find refuge.

During nights like these, I cannot help but wonder about them. Do they have dryness? Do they feel any warmth? Has the gale ripped through their shelter as they attempted to rest? For those residing in apartments, or damaged structures, there is no heating. With electricity mostly absent and fuel scarce, warmth comes mostly via wearing multiple layers and using the few bedding items available. Even so, cold nights are unbearable. What about those living in tents?

Aid and Abandonment

Figures show that over a million people in Gaza live in shelters. Aid supplies, including weatherproof shelters, have been far from enough. During the recent storm, relief groups reported distributing tarpaulins, tents and bedding to thousands of families. For those affected, however, this assistance was widely experienced as inconsistent and lacking, limited to temporary solutions that were largely ineffective against prolonged exposure to cold, wind and rain. Structures give way. Chest infections, hypothermia, and infections caused by damp conditions are rising.

This goes beyond an surprise calamity. Winter arrives cyclically. People in Gaza interpret this shortcoming not as fate, but as abandonment. People speak of how critical supplies are hindered or postponed, while attempts to fix broken houses are repeatedly obstructed. Grassroots projects have tried to find solutions, to hand out tarps, yet they remain limited by what is allowed to enter. The culpability lies in political and humanitarian. Answers are available, but are withheld.

A Symbolic Season

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 damaging their precious phone. Rain reveals just how precarious existence is. It challenges health worn down by pressure, weariness, and sorrow.

This year's chill coincides with the Christmas season that, for millions, epitomizes warmth, refuge and care for the neediest. In Palestine, that {symbolism