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It was around 8:30 PM on a weekday evening when I made my way home in Gaza City. A strong wind was blowing, forcing me inside any longer, so I had to walk. Initially, it was merely a soft rain, but a short distance later the rain became a downpour. This was expected. I took shelter by a tent, clapping my hands to generate a little heat. A young boy sat nearby selling sweet treats. We exchanged a few words as I waited, but his attention was elsewhere. I observed the cookies were hastily covered in plastic, dampened from the drizzle, and I pondered if he’d find buyers before the night ended. The cold seeped into everything.

A Journey Through a City of Tents

While traversing al-Wehda Street in Gaza City, canvas structures flanked both sides of the road. No sounds of conversation came from inside them, just the noise of rain pouring down and the whistle of the wind. Rushing forward, attempting to avoid the rain, I activated my mobile phone's torch to illuminate the path. My mind continually drifted to those taking refuge within: How are they passing the time now? What thoughts fill their minds? What are they experiencing? It was bitterly cold. I imagined children huddled under damp covers, parents moving restlessly to keep them warm.

Upon opening the door to my apartment, the cold metal served as a quiet but powerful reminder of the suffering faced across Gaza in these brutal winter climate. 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

During the darkest hours, the storm intensified. Outside, makeshift covers on damaged glass billowed and tore, while corrugated metal tore loose and fell with a clatter. Above it all came the sharp, panicked screams of children, shattering the darkness. I felt completely helpless.

For the last fortnight, the rain has been relentless. Chilly, dense, and propelled by strong winds, it has drenched shelters, flooded makeshift camps and turned open ground into mud. Elsewhere, this might be called “poor conditions”. In Gaza, it is lived with exposure and abandonment.

The Harshest Days

Palestinians know this time of year as al-Arba’iniya; the 40 coldest and harshest days of winter, commencing in late December and lasting until the end of January. It is the true beginning of winter, the moment when the season reveals its full force. Typically, it is weathered through preparation and shelter. This year, Gaza has no such defenses. The chill penetrates through homes, streets are vacant and people simply endure.

But the danger of winter is no longer abstract. Early on the Sunday before Christmas, rescue operations found the victims of two children after the roof of a bombarded structure collapsed in northern Gaza, freeing five additional individuals, including a child and two women. Two people are still unaccounted for. These incidents are not the result of fresh strikes, but the result of homes compromised after months of bombardment and ultimately defeated by winter rain. Earlier this month, an infant in Khan Younis died of exposure to the cold.

Fragile Shelters

Observing the camp nearest my home, I witnessed the impact 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 claiming life and health for a vast population living in tents and cramped refuges.

The majority of these individuals have already been displaced, many several times over. Homes are lost. Neighbourhoods leveled. Winter has arrived in Gaza, but shelter from its fury has not. It has come devoid of safe refuge, with no power, lacking heat.

Students in the Storm

As a university lecturer in Gaza, this weather is a heavy burden. My students are not figures in a report; they are faces I recognize; intelligent, determined, but extremely fatigued. Most join virtual lessons from tents; others from packed rooms where solitude is unattainable and connectivity sporadic. Countless learners have already suffered personal loss. Most have seen their houses destroyed. Yet they persist in learning. Their resilience is extraordinary, but it must not be demanded in this way.

In Gaza, what would normally count as routine academic practices—assignments, deadlines—turn into ethical dilemmas, dictated every moment by concern for students’ safety, warmth and access to shelter.

During nights like these, I find myself thinking about them. Are they dry? Is there heat? Has the gale ripped through their shelter as they attempted to rest? For those remaining in apartments, or what remains of them, there is no heating. With electricity largely unavailable and fuel in short supply, warmth comes primarily through wearing multiple layers and using the few bedding items available. Even so, cold nights are unbearable. How then those living in tents?

The Humanitarian Shortfall

Reports indicate that more than a million people in Gaza live in shelters. Relief items, including insulated tents, have been inadequate. When the cyclone hit, aid organizations reported providing plastic sheets, tents and mattresses to numerous households. In reality, however, this assistance was frequently felt to be uneven and inadequate, limited to temporary solutions that did little against extended hardship to cold, wind and rain. Tents collapse. Chest infections, hypothermia, and infections associated with damp conditions are rising.

This is not an unforeseen disaster. Winter comes every year. People in Gaza view this crisis not as misfortune, but as being forsaken. People speak of how critical supplies are hindered or postponed, while attempts to reinforce weakened structures are repeatedly obstructed. Grassroots projects have tried to make do, to hand out tarps, yet they continue to be hampered by restrictions on imports. The culpability lies in political and humanitarian. Remedies are known, but are prevented from arriving.

A Symbolic Season

The factor that intensifies this hardship especially agonizing is how avoidable it could have been. It is unconscionable 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 strains physiques worn down by anxiety, fatigue, and loss.

This winter occurs alongside the Christmas season that, for millions, epitomizes warmth, refuge and care for the neediest. In Palestine, that {symbolism