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It was approximately 8:30 PM on a Thursday when I returned home in Gaza City. Gusts of wind blew, and I couldn’t stay out any longer, leaving me to walk. In the beginning, it was only a light drizzle, but after about 200 metres the rain became a downpour. This was expected. I took shelter by a tent, rubbing my palms together to draw some warmth. A young boy sat nearby selling sweet treats. We shared brief remarks while I stood there, though he didn’t seem interested. I saw the cookies were hastily covered in plastic, dampened from the drizzle, and I questioned if he’d have enough to sell before the night ended. The cold seeped into everything.

A Walk Through a Place of Tents

While traversing al-Wehda Street in Gaza City, tents lined both sides of the road. There were no voices from inside them, just the noise of falling water and the roar of the wind. Quickening my pace, trying to dodge the rain, I switched on my mobile phone's torch to see the road ahead. My mind continually drifted to those taking refuge within: What are they doing now? What are they thinking? What are they experiencing? It was bitterly cold. I envisioned children nestled under soaked bedding, parents adjusting repeatedly to keep them warm.

When I opened the door to my apartment, the cold metal served as a quiet but powerful reminder of the hardships endured across Gaza in these harsh winter conditions. I walked into my apartment and couldn't shake the guilt of possessing shelter when so many were exposed to the storm.

The Darkness Worsens

In the middle of the night, the storm intensified. Outside, makeshift covers on broken panes whipped and strained, while tin roofing ripped free and crashed to the ground. Cutting through the chaos came the piercing, fearful cries of children, piercing the darkness. I felt totally incapable.

For the last fortnight, the rain has been unending. Cold, heavy, and driven by strong winds, it has soaked tents, swamped refugee areas and turned bare earth into mud. In different contexts, this might be called “poor conditions”. In Gaza, it is lived with exposure and abandonment.

Al-Arba’iniya

Palestinians know this time of year as al-Arba’iniya; the 40 coldest and harshest days of winter, starting from late December and continuing through the end of January. It is the true beginning of winter, the moment when the season reveals its full force. Normally, it is weathered through preparation and shelter. Currently, Gaza has no such defenses. The cold bites through homes, streets are deserted and people merely survive.

But the danger of winter is far from theoretical. On the Sunday morning before Christmas, rescue operations found the victims 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 remain missing. These structural failures are not new attacks, but the outcome of homes damaged from months of bombardment and succumbing to winter rain. Earlier this month, a young child in Khan Younis succumbed to exposure to the cold.

Fragile Shelters

Passing by the camp nearest my home, I witnessed the impact up close. Flimsy tarpaulins strained under the weight of water, mattresses floated and clothes were perpetually moist, always damp. Each step highlighted how fragile these shelters were and how close the rain and cold threatened life and health for countless individuals living in tents and packed sanctuaries.

A great number of these residents have already been forced from their homes, many on multiple occasions. Homes are gone. Neighbourhoods leveled. Winter has descended upon Gaza, but defense against it has not. It has come lacking adequate housing, in darkness, devoid of warmth.

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 individuals I know; bright, resilient, but profoundly exhausted. Most attend online classes from tents; others from cramped quarters where solitude is unattainable and connectivity intermittent. Many of my students have already experienced bereavement. Most have lost their homes. Yet they still try to study. Their fortitude is remarkable, but it should not be required in this way.

In Gaza, what would typically constitute routine academic practices—tasks, schedules—transform into questions of conscience, dictated every moment by uncertainty about students’ well-being, comfort and proximity to protection.

When the storm rages, I cannot help but wonder about them. Do they have dryness? Is there heat? Did the wind tear through their shelter as they attempted to rest? For those remaining in apartments, or the shells that are left, there is an absence of warmth. With electricity largely unavailable and fuel scarce, warmth comes mostly via bundling up and using the few bedding items available. Despite this, cold nights are excruciating. What, then those living in tents?

The Humanitarian Shortfall

Figures show that over a million people in Gaza reside in temporary housing. Relief items, including insulated tents, have been far from enough. Amid the last tempest, relief groups reported providing tarpaulins, tents and bedding to thousands of families. In reality, however, this assistance was widely experienced as patchy and insufficient, limited to short-term fixes that offered scant protection against prolonged exposure to cold, wind and rain. Shelters fail. Chest infections, hypothermia, and infections caused by damp conditions are on the upswing.

This cannot be described as an unexpected catastrophe. Winter comes every year. People in Gaza view this crisis not as bad luck, 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 make do, to provide coverings, yet they continue to be hampered by restrictions on imports. The culpability lies in political and humanitarian. Solutions exist, but are prevented from arriving.

An Unnecessary Pain

What makes this suffering especially heartbreaking is how avoidable it could have been. No one should have to study, raise children, or fight illness standing knee-high in cold water inside a tent. No learner should dread the rain ruining their last notebook. Rain lays bare just how precarious existence is. It challenges health worn down by stress, exhaustion, and grief.

This winter coincides with the Christmas season that, for millions, represents warmth, refuge and care for the most vulnerable. In Palestine, that {symbolism