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It was about 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, leaving me to walk. At first, it was just a gentle sprinkle, 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 generate a little heat. A young boy had positioned himself selling sweet treats. We exchanged a few words while I stood there, but his attention was elsewhere. I observed the cookies were hastily covered in plastic, already soggy from the drizzle, and I wondered if he’d manage to sell them all before the night ended. A deep chill permeated the air.

A Trek Through a Place 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, only the sound of falling water and the roar of the wind. Rushing forward, seeking escape from the rain, I switched on my mobile phone's torch to light my way. My mind continually drifted to those sheltering inside: How are they passing the time now? What thoughts fill their minds? What are they experiencing? A severe chill gripped the air. I pictured children curled under damp covers, parents moving restlessly to keep them warm.

As I unlocked the door to my apartment, the icy doorknob served as a subtle yet haunting reminder of the suffering faced across Gaza in these harsh winter conditions. I stepped inside my apartment and was overwhelmed by the guilt of enjoying a dry home when a multitude remained unprotected to the storm.

The Midnight Hour Worsens

During the darkest hours, the storm grew stronger. Outside, makeshift covers on broken panes billowed and tore, while corrugated metal broke away and fell with a clatter. Above it all came the piercing, fearful cries of children, cutting through the darkness. I felt totally incapable.

Over the past two weeks, the rain has been incessant. Freezing, pouring, and carried by strong winds, it has drenched shelters, swamped refugee areas and turned bare earth into mud. Elsewhere, this might be called “bad weather”. In Gaza, it is experienced amidst exposure and abandonment.

The Cruelest Season

Palestinians know this time of year as al-Arba’iniya; the 40 coldest and harshest 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 endured with preparation and shelter. This year, Gaza has no such defenses. The frost seeps through homes, streets are empty and people simply endure.

But the peril of the season is no longer abstract. In the early hours of Sunday before Christmas, civil defense teams recovered the bodies 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 remain missing. These structural failures are not caused by ongoing hostilities, but the result of homes compromised after months of bombardment and ultimately defeated by winter rain. In recent days, a young child in Khan Younis died of exposure to the cold.

Fragile Shelters

Observing the camp nearest my home, I saw the consequences up close. Inadequate coverings buckled beneath the weight of water, mattresses bobbed in water and clothes hung damply, always damp. Each step reinforced how precarious these dwellings are and how close the rain and cold came to taking life and health for countless individuals living in tents and overcrowded shelters.

A great number of these residents have already been uprooted, many several times over. Homes are gone. Neighbourhoods leveled. Winter has arrived in Gaza, but protection from it has not. It has come devoid of safe refuge, with no power, without heating.

Students in the Storm

As a university lecturer in Gaza, this weather causes deep concern. My students are not mere statistics; they are individuals I know; bright, resilient, but deeply weary. Most participate in digital sessions from tents; others from packed rooms where personal space doesn't exist and connectivity unreliable. Countless learners have already suffered personal loss. Most have been rendered homeless. Yet they persist in learning. Their fortitude is remarkable, but it ought not be necessary in this way.

In Gaza, what would usually be routine academic practices—projects, due dates—transform into questions of conscience, dictated every moment by uncertainty about students’ well-being, comfort and access to shelter.

When the storm rages, I cannot help but wonder about them. Do they have dryness? Are they warm? Did the wind tear through their shelter as they attempted to rest? For those still living in apartments, or what remains of them, there is no heating. With electricity scarce and fuel scarce, warmth comes mainly from bundling up and using whatever blankets are left. Nonetheless, cold nights are excruciating. What about those living in tents?

Political Failure

Reports indicate that over a million people in Gaza live in shelters. Humanitarian assistance, including weatherproof shelters, have been far from enough. During the recent storm, humanitarian partners reported distributing coverings, shelters and sleeping materials to a multitude of people. On the ground, however, this assistance was widely experienced as patchy and insufficient, limited to short-term fixes that did little against prolonged exposure to cold, wind and rain. Structures give way. Chest infections, hypothermia, and infections caused by damp conditions are on the upswing.

This is not an surprise calamity. Winter comes every year. People in Gaza understand this failure not as fate, but as neglect. People speak of how critical supplies are blocked or slowed, while attempts to reinforce weakened structures are frequently blocked. Grassroots projects have tried to make do, to hand out tarps, yet they continue to be hampered by what is allowed to enter. The root cause is political and humanitarian. Answers are available, but are kept out.

An Unnecessary Pain

The aspect that renders this pain especially heartbreaking is how avoidable it could have been. It is unconscionable to study, raise children, or combat disease standing surrounded by cold water inside a tent. No learner should dread the rain ruining their last notebook. Rain lays bare just how vulnerable survival is. It tests bodies worn down by stress, exhaustion, and grief.

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