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The time was approximately 8:30 PM on a Thursday when I made my way 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, trying to warm my hands to fight off the chill. A young boy sat nearby selling homemade cookies. We shared brief remarks while I stood there, but his attention was elsewhere. I noticed the cookies were hastily covered in plastic, moist 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 Place of Tents

Walking down al-Wehda Street in Gaza City, makeshift shelters crowded both sides of the road. There were no voices from inside them, just the noise 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 light my way. My mind continually drifted to those sheltering inside: What are they doing now? What is their state of mind? What are they experiencing? It was bitterly cold. I envisioned children huddled under soaked bedding, 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 suffering faced across Gaza in these harsh winter conditions. I walked into my apartment and couldn't shake the guilt of enjoying a dry home when so many were exposed to the storm.

The Night Worsens

As midnight passed, the storm grew stronger. Outside, plastic sheeting on shattered windows sagged and flapped violently, while corrugated metal ripped free and slammed down. Cutting through the chaos came the desperate, terrified shouts of children, piercing the darkness. I felt totally incapable.

During recent days, the rain has been unending. Chilly, dense, and propelled by strong winds, it has flooded makeshift homes, swamped refugee areas and turned the soil into mud. In other places, this might be called “inclement weather”. In Gaza, it is lived with exposure and abandonment.

The Cruelest Season

Residents refer to 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 definite start of winter, the moment when the season reveals its full force. Ordinarily, it is endured with preparation and shelter. Now, Gaza has none of these. The chill penetrates through homes, streets are vacant and people just persevere.

But the threat posed by the cold is now very real. In the early hours of Sunday before Christmas, rescue operations found the victims 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 have not been found. These structural failures are not caused by ongoing hostilities, but the result of homes compromised after months of bombardment and finally undone by winter rain. Earlier this month, a young child in Khan Younis passed away from exposure to the cold.

Precarious Existence

Passing by the camp nearest my home, I saw the consequences up close. Thin plastic sheets sagged under the weight of water, mattresses floated and clothes were perpetually moist, incapable of drying. Each step reminded me how precarious these dwellings are and how close the rain and cold came to claiming life and health for a vast population living in tents and overcrowded shelters.

Most of these people have already been forced from their homes, many on multiple occasions. Homes are destroyed. Neighbourhoods razed. Winter has descended upon Gaza, but protection from it has not. It has come without proper shelter, 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 figures in a report; they are faces I recognize; smart, persistent, but profoundly exhausted. Most participate in digital sessions from tents; others from overcrowded shelters where privacy is impossible and connectivity sporadic. A significant number of pupils have already experienced bereavement. Most have been rendered homeless. Yet they continue their education. Their resilience is extraordinary, but it must not be demanded in this way.

In Gaza, what would usually be routine academic practices—tasks, schedules—transform into moral negotiations, dictated every moment by anxiety over students’ safety, warmth and ability to find refuge.

When the storm rages, I am constantly preoccupied about them. Do they have dryness? Is there heat? Could the storm have shredded through their shelter during the night? For those still living in apartments, or damaged structures, there is no heating. With electricity mostly absent and fuel rare, warmth comes mainly from donning extra clothing and using the few bedding items available. Despite this, cold nights are intolerable. What about those living in tents?

The Humanitarian Shortfall

Reports indicate that more than a million people in Gaza live in shelters. Humanitarian assistance, including thermal blankets, have been far from enough. During the recent storm, humanitarian partners reported providing coverings, shelters and sleeping materials to a multitude of people. On the ground, however, this assistance was widely experienced as inconsistent and lacking, limited to short-term fixes that did little against extended hardship to cold, wind and rain. Tents collapse. Sicknesses, hypothermia, and infections associated with damp conditions are on the upswing.

This cannot be described as an surprise calamity. Winter arrives cyclically. People in Gaza understand this failure not as fate, but as being forsaken. People speak of how necessary items are restricted or delayed, while attempts to fix broken houses are frequently blocked. Community efforts have tried to improvise, to distribute plastic sheeting, yet they continue to be hampered by restrictions on imports. The root cause is political and humanitarian. Solutions exist, but are prevented from arriving.

An Unnecessary Pain

The aspect that renders this pain especially painful is how avoidable it could have been. It is unconscionable to study, raise children, or fight illness standing ankle-deep in cold water inside a tent. It is wrong for a pupil to worry about the rain destroying their final textbook. Rain exposes just how vulnerable survival is. It challenges health worn down by stress, exhaustion, and grief.

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