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The time was approximately 8:30 PM on a weekday evening when I returned home in Gaza City. A strong wind was blowing, making it impossible to remain any longer, so walking was my only option. Initially, it was merely a soft rain, but after about 200 metres the rain became a downpour. That wasn’t surprising. I stopped near a tent, trying to warm my hands to draw some warmth. A young boy sat nearby selling baked goods. We exchanged a few words as I waited, though he didn’t seem interested. I saw the cookies were loosely wrapped in plastic, already soggy from the drizzle, and I questioned if he’d manage to sell them all before the night ended. The freezing temperature invaded every space.

A Walk Through a City of Tents

Walking down 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 moan of the wind. As I hurried on, attempting to avoid the rain, I activated my mobile phone's torch to illuminate the path. I couldn't stop thinking to those huddled within: How are they passing the time now? What is their state of mind? What emotions do they hold? The cold was piercing. I pictured children huddled under wet blankets, 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 struggles borne across Gaza in these harsh winter conditions. I walked into my apartment and was overwhelmed by the guilt of possessing shelter when a multitude remained unprotected to the storm.

The Midnight Hour Escalates

In the middle of the night, the storm grew stronger. Outside, plastic sheeting on shattered windows sagged and flapped violently, while corrugated metal broke away and crashed to the ground. Overriding the noise came the piercing, fearful cries of children, cutting through the darkness. I felt completely helpless.

Over the past two weeks, 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 “poor conditions”. In Gaza, it is lived with exposure and abandonment.

The Harshest Days

Residents refer to this time of year as al-Arba’iniya; the 40 coldest and harshest days of winter, starting from late December and lasting until 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. This year, Gaza has no such defenses. The chill penetrates through homes, streets are empty and people just persevere.

But the threat posed by the cold is far from theoretical. Early on the Sunday before Christmas, civil defense teams retrieved the remains of two children after the roof of a shelled home collapsed in northern Gaza, freeing five additional individuals, including a child and two women. Two people remain missing. These structural failures are not caused by ongoing hostilities, but the outcome of homes compromised after months of bombardment and ultimately defeated by winter rain. In recent days, a young child in Khan Younis passed away from exposure to the cold.

A Life in Tents

Walking past the camp nearest my home, I saw the consequences up close. Flimsy tarpaulins sagged under the weight of water, mattresses floated and clothes were perpetually moist, never fully drying. Each step reminded me how precarious these dwellings are and how close the rain and cold came to claiming life and health for hundreds of thousands living in tents and packed sanctuaries.

The majority of these individuals have already been displaced, many on multiple occasions. Homes are gone. Neighbourhoods flattened. Winter has come to Gaza, but defense against it has not. It has come lacking adequate housing, with no power, without heating.

A Teacher's Anguish

As a university lecturer in Gaza, this weather weighs heavily on me. My students are not mere statistics; they are faces I recognize; smart, persistent, but extremely fatigued. Most participate in digital sessions from tents; others from packed rooms where privacy is impossible and connectivity intermittent. Countless learners have already experienced bereavement. Most have seen their houses destroyed. Yet they continue their education. Their resilience is extraordinary, but it must not be demanded in this way.

In Gaza, what would normally count as routine academic practices—assignments, deadlines—transform into questions of conscience, shaped each day by anxiety over students’ well-being, comfort and proximity to protection.

On evenings such as this, I find myself thinking about them. Do they have dryness? Do they feel any warmth? Has the gale ripped through their shelter as they attempted to rest? For those remaining in apartments, or damaged structures, there is no heating. With electricity mostly absent and fuel scarce, warmth comes mostly via donning extra clothing and using any remaining covers. Despite this, cold nights are unbearable. How then those living in tents?

The Humanitarian Shortfall

Figures show that well over a million people in Gaza exist in makeshift accommodations. Relief items, including thermal blankets, have been far from enough. During the recent storm, aid organizations reported distributing coverings, shelters and sleeping materials to thousands of families. In reality, however, this assistance was often perceived as uneven and inadequate, limited to band-aid measures that offered scant protection against extended hardship to cold, wind and rain. Tents collapse. Chest infections, hypothermia, and infections linked to damp conditions are increasing.

This is not an unforeseen disaster. Winter is an annual event. People in Gaza interpret this shortcoming not as bad luck, but as neglect. People speak of how essential materials are restricted or delayed, while attempts to repair damaged homes are frequently blocked. Grassroots projects have tried to make do, to provide coverings, yet they are still constrained by bureaucratic barriers. The root cause is political and humanitarian. Solutions exist, but are withheld.

A Preventable Suffering

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 ankle-deep in cold water inside a tent. It is wrong for a pupil to worry about the rain damaging their precious phone. Rain lays bare just how vulnerable survival is. It tests bodies worn down by pressure, weariness, and sorrow.

This winter aligns with the Christmas season that, for millions, epitomizes warmth, refuge and care for the disadvantaged. In Palestine, that {symbolism