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It was around 8:30 PM on a weekday evening when I returned home in Gaza City. Gusts of wind blew, making it impossible to remain any longer, so I had to walk. At first, it was only a light drizzle, but following a brief walk the rain became a downpour. That wasn’t surprising. I paused beside a tent, trying to warm my hands to draw some warmth. A young boy had positioned himself selling homemade cookies. We shared brief remarks as I waited, though he didn’t seem interested. I noticed the cookies were loosely wrapped in plastic, already soggy from the drizzle, and I pondered if he’d have enough to sell before the night ended. The freezing temperature invaded every space.

A Walk Through a City of Tents

As I walked along al-Wehda Street in Gaza City, canvas structures flanked both sides of the road. An eerie silence replaced voices from inside them, merely the din of falling water and the whistle of the wind. Quickening my pace, trying to dodge the rain, I turned on my mobile phone's torch to illuminate the path. My mind continually drifted to those sheltering inside: What are they doing now? What are they thinking? What emotions do they hold? A severe chill gripped the air. I envisioned children curled under soaked bedding, 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 severe cold season. I walked into my apartment and couldn't shake the guilt of possessing shelter when so many were exposed to the storm.

The Night Worsens

During the darkest hours, the storm intensified. Outside, makeshift covers on damaged glass whipped and strained, while tin roofing tore loose and crashed to the ground. Above it all came the sharp, panicked screams of children, cutting through the darkness. I felt utterly powerless.

For the last fortnight, the rain has been relentless. Chilly, dense, and propelled by strong winds, it has drenched shelters, swamped refugee areas and turned open ground into mud. Elsewhere, this might be called “bad weather”. In Gaza, it is experienced amidst exposure and abandonment.

Al-Arba’iniya

Residents refer to this time of year as al-Arba’iniya; the 40 coldest and harshest days of winter, beginning in late December and lasting until the end of January. It is the true beginning of winter, the moment when the season unleashes its intensity. Normally, it is endured with preparation and shelter. Now, Gaza has no such defenses. The chill penetrates through homes, streets are deserted and people merely survive.

But the threat posed by the cold is now very real. In the early hours of Sunday before Christmas, civil defense teams retrieved the remains of two children after the roof of a war-damaged building collapsed in northern Gaza, saving five more people, including a child and two women. Two people are still unaccounted for. Such collapses are not caused by ongoing hostilities, but the outcome of homes weakened by months of bombardment and succumbing to winter rain. Not long ago, a young child in Khan Younis died of exposure to the cold.

A Life in Tents

Walking past the camp nearest my home, I saw the consequences up close. Flimsy tarpaulins buckled beneath the weight of water, mattresses were adrift and clothes hung damply, never fully drying. Each step reinforced how fragile these shelters were and how close the rain and cold threatened life and health for a vast population living in tents and packed sanctuaries.

A great number of these residents have already been forced from their homes, many repeatedly. Homes are gone. Neighbourhoods flattened. Winter has arrived in Gaza, but shelter from its fury has not. It has come lacking adequate housing, in darkness, without heating.

Students in the Storm

Being an educator in Gaza, this weather is a heavy burden. My students are not figures in a report; they are young people I speak to; bright, resilient, but extremely fatigued. Most participate in digital sessions from tents; others from cramped quarters where solitude is unattainable and connectivity sporadic. Many of my students have already suffered personal loss. Most have lost their homes. Yet they continue their education. Their fortitude is remarkable, but it should not be required in this way.

In Gaza, what would typically constitute routine academic practices—assignments, deadlines—become questions of conscience, shaped each day by concern for students’ safety, warmth and ability to find refuge.

During nights like these, I find myself thinking about them. Do they have dryness? Do they feel any warmth? Could the storm have shredded through their shelter while they were trying to sleep? For those residing in apartments, or the shells that are left, there is a lack of heat. With electricity mostly absent and fuel scarce, warmth comes mainly from bundling up and using whatever blankets are left. Despite this, cold nights are excruciating. What about those living in tents?

The Humanitarian Shortfall

Agencies state that more than a million people in Gaza live in shelters. Aid supplies, including thermal blankets, have been insufficient. When the cyclone hit, relief groups reported providing plastic sheets, tents and mattresses to numerous households. On the ground, however, this assistance was often perceived as inconsistent and lacking, limited to band-aid measures that offered scant protection against prolonged exposure to cold, wind and rain. Tents collapse. Respiratory illnesses, hypothermia, and infections linked to damp conditions are increasing.

This cannot be described as an unforeseen disaster. Winter arrives cyclically. People in Gaza view this crisis not as misfortune, but as neglect. People speak of how essential materials are blocked or slowed, while attempts to repair damaged homes are frequently blocked. Local initiatives have tried to find solutions, to provide coverings, yet they are still constrained by restrictions on imports. 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 preventable it is. No individual ought to study, raise children, or battle sickness standing ankle-deep in cold water inside a tent. It is wrong for a pupil to worry about the rain ruining their last notebook. Rain lays bare just how precarious existence is. It tests bodies worn down by pressure, weariness, and sorrow.

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