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It was around 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, leaving me to walk. At first, it was just a gentle sprinkle, but after about 200 metres the rain intensified abruptly. That wasn’t surprising. I paused beside a tent, rubbing my palms together to draw some warmth. A young boy sat nearby selling homemade cookies. We exchanged a few words as I waited, though he didn’t seem interested. I noticed the cookies were loosely wrapped in plastic, already soggy from the drizzle, and I questioned if he’d find buyers before the night ended. The cold seeped into everything.

A Trek Through a Landscape of Tents

While traversing al-Wehda Street in Gaza City, tents lined both sides of the road. No sounds of conversation came from inside them, just the noise of rain pouring down and the moan of the wind. Quickening my pace, trying to dodge the rain, I switched on my mobile phone's torch to illuminate the path. I couldn't stop thinking to those taking refuge within: What are they doing now? What thoughts fill their minds? What emotions do they hold? A severe chill gripped the air. I imagined children huddled under wet blankets, parents adjusting repeatedly to keep them warm.

Upon opening the door to my apartment, the freezing handle served as a understated yet stark reminder of the hardships endured across Gaza in these severe cold season. I stepped inside my apartment and felt consumed by the guilt of possessing shelter when countless others faced exposure to the storm.

The Darkness Intensifies

During the darkest hours, the storm intensified. Outside, makeshift covers on broken panes sagged and flapped violently, while metal sheets broke away and crashed to the ground. Above it all came the sharp, panicked screams of children, cutting through the darkness. I felt totally incapable.

For the last fortnight, the rain has been relentless. Chilly, dense, and propelled by strong winds, it has soaked tents, swamped refugee areas and turned bare earth into mud. Elsewhere, 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, commencing in late December and persisting to the end of January. It is the real onset of winter, the moment when the season unleashes its intensity. Ordinarily, it is endured with preparation and shelter. Currently, Gaza has none of these. The cold bites through homes, streets are vacant and people simply endure.

But the threat posed by the cold is far from theoretical. In the early hours of Sunday before Christmas, recovery efforts recovered the bodies of two children after the roof of a bombarded structure collapsed in northern Gaza, saving five more people, including a child and two women. Two people are still unaccounted for. These structural failures are not new attacks, but the consequence of homes compromised after months of bombardment and ultimately defeated by winter rain. Earlier this month, an infant in Khan Younis passed away from exposure to the cold.

Fragile Shelters

Walking past the camp nearest my home, I witnessed the impact up close. Flimsy tarpaulins strained under the weight of water, mattresses were adrift and clothes were perpetually moist, incapable of drying. Each step reminded me how vulnerable these tents are and how close the rain and cold came to claiming life and health for a vast population living in tents and packed sanctuaries.

A great number of these residents have already been uprooted, many several times over. Homes are lost. Neighbourhoods flattened. Winter has come to Gaza, but defense against it has not. It has come devoid of safe refuge, with no power, lacking heat.

The Weight on Education

In my role as a professor in Gaza, this weather is a heavy burden. My students are not distant names; they are individuals I know; bright, resilient, but extremely fatigued. Most join virtual lessons from tents; others from overcrowded shelters where privacy is impossible and connectivity intermittent. Countless learners have already suffered personal loss. Most have seen their houses destroyed. Yet they continue their education. Their fortitude is remarkable, but it ought not be necessary in this way.

In Gaza, what would normally count as routine academic practices—assignments, deadlines—turn into ethical dilemmas, dictated every moment by uncertainty about students’ safety, warmth and access to shelter.

When the storm rages, I find myself thinking about them. Do they have dryness? Is there heat? Has the gale ripped through their shelter as they attempted to rest? For those still living in apartments, or damaged structures, there is no heating. With electricity scarce and fuel in short supply, warmth comes mostly via bundling up and using any remaining covers. Nonetheless, cold nights are intolerable. How then those living in tents?

Political Failure

Agencies state that well over a million people in Gaza reside in temporary housing. Relief items, including insulated tents, have been far from enough. During the recent storm, relief groups reported delivering tarpaulins, tents and bedding to thousands of families. In reality, however, this assistance was frequently felt to be inconsistent and lacking, limited to band-aid measures that were largely ineffective against prolonged exposure to cold, wind and rain. Structures give way. Chest infections, hypothermia, and infections associated with damp conditions are on the upswing.

This is not an unforeseen disaster. Winter arrives cyclically. People in Gaza view this crisis not as misfortune, but as being forsaken. People speak of how critical supplies are restricted or delayed, while attempts to fix broken houses are frequently blocked. Grassroots projects have tried to find solutions, to hand out tarps, yet they remain limited by restrictions on imports. The failure is political and humanitarian. Remedies are known, but are prevented from arriving.

A Symbolic Season

What makes this suffering especially painful is how avoidable it could have been. No one should have to study, raise children, or combat disease standing knee-high 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 precarious existence is. It tests bodies worn down by anxiety, fatigue, and loss.

The current cold season coincides with the Christmas season that, for millions, represents warmth, refuge and care for the neediest. In Palestine, that {symbolism