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It was around 8:30 PM on a Thursday when I made my way home in Gaza City. Gusts of wind blew, forcing me inside any longer, so I had to walk. Initially, 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 was sitting outside selling homemade cookies. We exchanged a few words while I stood there, although he appeared disengaged. I noticed the cookies were poorly packaged in plastic, dampened from the drizzle, and I pondered if he’d have enough to sell before the night ended. A deep chill permeated the air.

A Trek Through a Landscape of Tents

Walking down al-Wehda Street in Gaza City, tents lined both sides of the road. No sounds of conversation came from inside them, only the sound of torrential rain and the whistle of the wind. Rushing forward, attempting to avoid the rain, I turned on my mobile phone's torch to see the road ahead. I couldn't stop thinking to those taking refuge within: What occupies them now? What are they thinking? What emotions do they hold? The cold was piercing. I imagined children curled under damp covers, parents shifting constantly to keep them warm.

Upon opening the door to my apartment, the cold metal served as a quiet but powerful reminder of the struggles borne across Gaza in these brutal winter climate. I walked into my apartment and felt consumed by the guilt of having a roof when countless others faced exposure to the storm.

The Midnight Hour Escalates

As midnight passed, the storm intensified. Outside, plastic sheeting on damaged glass whipped and strained, while metal sheets broke away and fell with a clatter. Cutting through the chaos came the piercing, fearful cries of children, shattering the darkness. I felt totally incapable.

For the last fortnight, the rain has been unending. Chilly, dense, and propelled by strong winds, it has soaked tents, flooded makeshift camps and turned bare earth into mud. In other places, this might be called “poor conditions”. In Gaza, it is endured in a state of exposure and abandonment.

Al-Arba’iniya

Locals call this time of year as al-Arba’iniya; the most bitter forty days of winter, beginning in late December and continuing through the end of January. It is the real onset of winter, the moment when the season shows its true power. Normally, it is endured with preparation and shelter. Now, Gaza has none of these. The chill penetrates through homes, streets are empty and people simply endure.

But the danger of winter is no longer abstract. Early on the Sunday before Christmas, recovery efforts 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 new attacks, but the outcome of homes compromised after months of bombardment and finally undone by winter rain. In recent days, an infant in Khan Younis died of exposure to the cold.

A Life in Tents

Passing by the camp nearest my home, I saw the consequences up close. Thin plastic sheets buckled beneath the weight of water, mattresses bobbed in water and clothes were perpetually moist, incapable of drying. Each step reinforced how vulnerable these tents are and how close the rain and cold came to claiming life and health for countless individuals living in tents and overcrowded shelters.

The majority of these individuals have already been uprooted, many repeatedly. Homes are gone. Neighbourhoods leveled. Winter has come to Gaza, but shelter from its fury has not. It has come lacking adequate housing, without electricity, devoid of warmth.

The Weight on Education

In my role as a professor in Gaza, this weather causes deep concern. My students are not figures in a report; they are faces I recognize; smart, persistent, but extremely fatigued. Most join virtual lessons from tents; others from cramped quarters where solitude is unattainable and connectivity unreliable. A significant number of pupils have already experienced bereavement. Most have lost their homes. Yet they continue their education. Their perseverance is astounding, but it should not be required in this way.

In Gaza, what would normally count as routine academic practices—tasks, schedules—turn into moral negotiations, shaped each day by anxiety over students’ safety, warmth and ability to find refuge.

When the storm rages, I am constantly preoccupied about them. Is their shelter holding? Do they feel any warmth? Has the gale ripped through their shelter while they were trying to sleep? For those still living in apartments, or what remains of them, there is an absence of warmth. With electricity scarce and fuel rare, warmth comes primarily through bundling up and using the few bedding items available. Despite this, cold nights are excruciating. What, then those living in tents?

The Humanitarian Shortfall

Agencies state that over a million people in Gaza exist in makeshift accommodations. Aid supplies, including thermal blankets, have been insufficient. During the recent storm, relief groups reported distributing coverings, shelters and sleeping materials to numerous households. On the ground, however, this assistance was frequently felt to be uneven and inadequate, limited to band-aid measures that did little against extended hardship to cold, wind and rain. Tents collapse. Respiratory illnesses, hypothermia, and infections linked to damp conditions are rising.

This is not an surprise calamity. Winter arrives cyclically. People in Gaza view this crisis not as fate, but as abandonment. People speak of how essential materials are blocked or slowed, while attempts to fix broken houses are frequently blocked. Local initiatives have tried to find solutions, to hand out tarps, yet they continue to be hampered by restrictions on imports. The failure is political and humanitarian. Answers are available, but are kept out.

A Symbolic Season

The aspect that renders this pain especially agonizing is how preventable it is. No individual ought to study, raise children, or fight illness standing ankle-deep in cold water inside a tent. No learner should dread the rain damaging their precious phone. Rain lays bare just how vulnerable survival is. It strains physiques worn down by anxiety, fatigue, and loss.

This year's chill aligns with the Christmas season that, for millions, symbolises warmth, refuge and care for the most vulnerable. In Palestine, that {symbolism