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It was about 8:30 PM on a weekday evening when I headed back home in Gaza City. A strong wind was blowing, and I couldn’t stay out any longer, so walking was my only option. At first, it was just a gentle sprinkle, but after about 200 metres the rain intensified abruptly. This was expected. I stopped near a tent, clapping my hands to generate a little heat. A young boy was sitting outside selling homemade cookies. We exchanged a few words during my pause, though he didn’t seem interested. I noticed the cookies were hastily covered in plastic, moist from the drizzle, and I wondered if he’d have enough to sell before the night ended. The freezing temperature invaded every space.

A Trek Through a City of Tents

As I walked along 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 falling water and the moan of the wind. As I hurried on, seeking escape from the rain, I activated my mobile phone's torch to light my way. My thoughts kept returning to those taking refuge within: What are they doing now? What are they thinking? 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 quiet but powerful reminder of the hardships endured across Gaza in these severe cold season. I stepped inside my apartment and couldn't shake the guilt of having a roof when countless others faced exposure to the storm.

The Midnight Hour Escalates

As midnight passed, the storm reached its peak. Outside, tarps on broken panes whipped and strained, while corrugated metal ripped free and crashed to the ground. Cutting through the chaos came the piercing, fearful cries of children, shattering the darkness. I felt utterly powerless.

For the last fortnight, the rain has been unending. Cold, heavy, and driven by strong winds, it has drenched shelters, flooded makeshift camps and turned the soil into mud. In other places, this might be called “inclement weather”. In Gaza, it is endured in a state of exposure and abandonment.

The Harshest Days

Residents refer to this time of year as al-Arba’iniya; the most bitter forty days of winter, commencing in late December and persisting to the end of January. It is the true beginning of winter, the moment when the season shows its true power. Typically, it is weathered through preparation and shelter. This year, Gaza has no such defenses. The cold bites through homes, streets are deserted and people simply endure.

But the threat posed by the cold is now very real. On the Sunday morning before Christmas, civil defense teams recovered the bodies 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. Such collapses are not the result of fresh strikes, but the result of homes compromised after months of bombardment and succumbing to winter rain. Not long ago, an eight-month-old baby girl in Khan Younis succumbed to exposure to the cold.

Fragile Shelters

Passing by the camp nearest my home, I saw the consequences up close. Inadequate coverings buckled beneath the weight of water, mattresses floated and clothes were perpetually moist, never fully drying. Each step reminded me how vulnerable these tents are and how close the rain and cold threatened life and health for countless individuals living in tents and overcrowded shelters.

A great number of these residents have already been forced from their homes, many repeatedly. Homes are gone. Neighbourhoods flattened. Winter has descended upon Gaza, but defense against it has not. It has come lacking adequate housing, with no power, without heating.

Students in the Storm

In my role as a professor in Gaza, this weather is a heavy burden. My students are not distant names; they are young people I speak to; intelligent, determined, but deeply weary. Most join virtual lessons from tents; others from overcrowded shelters where solitude is unattainable and connectivity unreliable. Countless learners 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—projects, due dates—turn into ethical dilemmas, shaped each day by uncertainty about students’ security, heat and ability to find refuge.

When the storm rages, I find myself thinking about them. Are they dry? Do they feel any warmth? Could the storm have shredded through their shelter while they were trying to sleep? For those remaining in apartments, or the shells that are left, there is a lack of heat. With electricity mostly absent and fuel scarce, warmth comes mostly via wearing multiple layers and using whatever blankets are left. Even so, cold nights are intolerable. What, then those living in tents?

The Humanitarian Shortfall

Reports indicate that over a million people in Gaza live in shelters. Relief items, including insulated tents, have been inadequate. During the recent storm, aid organizations reported delivering plastic sheets, tents and mattresses to numerous households. On the ground, however, this assistance was frequently felt to be patchy and insufficient, limited to band-aid measures that did little against prolonged exposure to cold, wind and rain. Shelters fail. Respiratory illnesses, hypothermia, and infections caused by damp conditions are on the upswing.

This goes beyond an surprise calamity. Winter comes every year. People in Gaza view this crisis not as bad luck, but as abandonment. People speak of how critical supplies are restricted or delayed, while attempts to repair damaged homes are repeatedly obstructed. Grassroots projects have tried to improvise, to distribute plastic sheeting, yet they remain limited by what is allowed to enter. The failure is political and humanitarian. Solutions exist, but are prevented from arriving.

A Symbolic Season

The aspect that renders this pain especially heartbreaking is how avoidable it could have been. It is unconscionable to study, raise children, or battle sickness standing knee-high in cold water inside a tent. It is wrong for a pupil to worry about the rain ruining their last notebook. Rain exposes just how vulnerable survival is. It strains physiques worn down by stress, exhaustion, and grief.

This year's chill occurs alongside the Christmas season that, for millions, epitomizes warmth, refuge and care for the most vulnerable. In Palestine, that {symbolism