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The clock read about 8:30 PM on a Thursday when I returned home in Gaza City. Gusts of wind blew, making it impossible to remain any longer, leaving me to walk. Initially, it was just a gentle sprinkle, but after about 200 metres the rain suddenly grew heavier. It came as no shock. I paused beside a tent, trying to warm my hands to fight off the chill. A young boy was sitting outside selling sweet treats. We spoke briefly as I waited, though he didn’t seem interested. I saw the cookies were hastily covered in plastic, dampened from the drizzle, and I pondered if he’d find buyers before the night ended. The freezing temperature invaded every space.

A Journey Through a Landscape of Tents

Walking down al-Wehda Street in Gaza City, tents lined both sides of the road. An eerie silence replaced voices from inside them, only the sound of torrential rain and the roar of the wind. As I hurried on, trying to dodge 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 thoughts fill their minds? What emotions do they hold? The cold was piercing. I imagined children curled under damp covers, 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 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 so many were exposed to the storm.

The Midnight Hour Worsens

In the middle of the night, the storm intensified. Outside, makeshift covers on broken panes billowed and tore, while metal sheets tore loose and crashed to the ground. Cutting through the chaos came the sharp, panicked screams of children, shattering the darkness. I felt completely helpless.

Over the past two weeks, the rain has been relentless. Chilly, dense, and propelled by strong winds, it has soaked tents, swamped refugee areas and turned open ground into mud. Elsewhere, this might be called “bad weather”. In Gaza, it is endured in a state of exposure and abandonment.

The Cruelest Season

Residents refer to this time of year as al-Arba’iniya; the fourty most severe days of winter, starting from late December and persisting to the end of January. It is the definite start of winter, the moment when the season reveals its full force. Normally, it is faced with preparation and shelter. Now, Gaza has none of these. The chill penetrates through homes, streets are vacant and people merely survive.

But the danger of winter is now very real. In the early hours of Sunday before Christmas, rescue operations found the victims of two children after the roof of a shelled home collapsed in northern Gaza, rescuing five others, including a child and two women. Two people have not been found. These structural failures are not the result of fresh strikes, but the consequence of homes compromised after months of bombardment and succumbing to winter rain. Earlier this month, a young child in Khan Younis succumbed to exposure to the cold.

Precarious Existence

Walking past the camp nearest my home, I witnessed the impact up close. Flimsy tarpaulins buckled beneath the weight of water, mattresses floated and clothes hung damply, never fully drying. Each step reinforced how fragile these shelters were and how close the rain and cold came to taking 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 come to Gaza, but protection from it has not. It has come devoid of safe refuge, without electricity, lacking heat.

A Teacher's Anguish

As a university lecturer in Gaza, this weather causes deep concern. My students are not figures in a report; they are young people I speak to; intelligent, determined, but deeply weary. Most join virtual lessons from tents; others from overcrowded shelters where privacy is impossible and connectivity intermittent. Many of my students have already lost family members. Most have been rendered homeless. Yet they still try to study. Their resilience is extraordinary, but it ought not be necessary in this way.

In Gaza, what would normally count as routine academic practices—assignments, deadlines—become questions of conscience, shaped each day by uncertainty about students’ security, heat and proximity to protection.

When the storm rages, I am constantly preoccupied about them. Is their shelter holding? Is there heat? Could the storm have shredded through their shelter while they were trying to sleep? For those still living in apartments, or what remains of them, there is an absence of warmth. With electricity mostly absent and fuel rare, warmth comes mostly via wearing multiple layers and using any remaining covers. Despite this, cold nights are intolerable. What, then those living in tents?

Political Failure

Agencies state that more than a million people in Gaza live in shelters. Relief items, including weatherproof shelters, have been far from enough. Amid the last tempest, aid organizations reported providing plastic sheets, tents and mattresses to a multitude of people. For those affected, however, this assistance was often perceived as uneven and inadequate, limited to temporary solutions that offered scant protection against prolonged exposure to cold, wind and rain. Shelters fail. Chest infections, hypothermia, and infections caused by damp conditions are increasing.

This goes beyond an surprise calamity. Winter comes every year. People in Gaza interpret this shortcoming not as misfortune, but as neglect. People speak of how necessary items are hindered or postponed, while attempts to reinforce weakened structures are consistently hampered. Grassroots projects have tried to find solutions, to hand out tarps, yet they remain limited by what is allowed to enter. The root cause is political and humanitarian. Solutions exist, but are prevented from arriving.

A Symbolic Season

The factor that intensifies this hardship especially agonizing is how unnecessary it should be. No one should have to study, raise children, or fight illness standing ankle-deep in cold water inside a tent. It is wrong for a pupil to worry about the rain damaging their precious phone. Rain exposes just how vulnerable survival is. It challenges health worn down by stress, exhaustion, and grief.

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