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The time was approximately 8:30 PM on a Thursday when I headed back home in Gaza City. Gusts of wind blew, making it impossible to remain any longer, so I had to walk. Initially, it was merely a soft rain, but after about 200 metres the rain intensified abruptly. That wasn’t surprising. I paused beside a tent, clapping my hands to generate a little heat. A young boy was sitting outside selling homemade cookies. We exchanged a few words while I stood there, though he didn’t seem interested. I noticed the cookies were hastily covered in plastic, already soggy from the drizzle, and I questioned if he’d manage to sell them all before the night ended. A deep chill permeated the air.

A Walk Through a City of Tents

While traversing al-Wehda Street in Gaza City, canvas structures flanked both sides of the road. There were no voices from inside them, only the sound 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 taking refuge within: What occupies them now? What thoughts fill their minds? How do they feel? A severe chill gripped the air. I envisioned children huddled under soaked bedding, parents shifting constantly to keep them warm.

When I opened the door to my apartment, the cold metal served as a quiet but powerful reminder of the struggles borne across Gaza in these harsh winter conditions. I stepped inside my apartment and was overwhelmed by the guilt of enjoying a dry home when so many were exposed to the storm.

The Night Escalates

In the middle of the night, the storm grew stronger. Outside, makeshift covers on damaged glass billowed and tore, while tin roofing tore loose and slammed down. Overriding the noise came the desperate, terrified shouts of children, shattering the darkness. I felt totally incapable.

Over the past two weeks, the rain has been incessant. Cold, heavy, and driven by strong winds, it has soaked tents, swamped refugee areas and turned open ground into mud. In other places, this might be called “poor conditions”. In Gaza, it is experienced amidst exposure and abandonment.

The Harshest Days

Palestinians know this time of year as al-Arba’iniya; the fourty most severe days of winter, beginning in late December and lasting until the end of January. It is the real onset of winter, the moment when the season unleashes its intensity. Typically, it is weathered through preparation and shelter. This year, Gaza has none of these. The frost seeps through homes, streets are empty and people just persevere.

But the peril of the season is far from theoretical. In the early hours of Sunday before Christmas, rescue operations recovered the bodies of two children after the roof of a war-damaged building collapsed in northern Gaza, freeing five additional individuals, including a child and two women. Two people are still unaccounted for. Such collapses are not the result of fresh strikes, but the consequence of homes damaged from months of bombardment and succumbing to winter rain. In recent days, a young child in Khan Younis died of exposure to the cold.

Precarious Existence

Walking past the camp nearest my home, I observed the results up close. Thin plastic sheets sagged under the weight of water, mattresses were adrift and clothes remained wet, incapable of drying. Each step reminded me how fragile these shelters were and how close the rain and cold came to claiming life and health for a vast population living in tents and cramped refuges.

A great number of these residents have already been forced from their homes, many repeatedly. Homes are gone. Neighbourhoods razed. Winter has come to Gaza, but shelter from its fury has not. It has come without proper shelter, in darkness, devoid of warmth.

A Teacher's Anguish

In my role as a professor in Gaza, this weather weighs heavily on me. My students are not mere statistics; they are young people I speak to; bright, resilient, but profoundly exhausted. Most join virtual lessons from tents; others from cramped quarters where solitude is unattainable and connectivity sporadic. A significant number of pupils 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 typically constitute routine academic practices—projects, due dates—transform into moral negotiations, influenced daily by anxiety over students’ security, heat and proximity to protection.

When the storm rages, I cannot help but wonder about them. Do they have dryness? Do they feel any warmth? Has the gale ripped through their shelter while they were trying to sleep? For those remaining in apartments, or damaged structures, there is no heating. With electricity largely unavailable and fuel rare, warmth comes mostly via bundling up and using any remaining covers. Despite this, cold nights are unbearable. How 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 inadequate. Amid the last tempest, relief groups reported providing tarpaulins, tents and bedding to thousands of families. On the ground, however, this assistance was frequently felt to be uneven and inadequate, limited to band-aid measures that offered scant protection against prolonged exposure to cold, wind and rain. Shelters fail. Chest infections, hypothermia, and infections associated with damp conditions are on the upswing.

This is not an unexpected catastrophe. Winter comes every year. People in Gaza understand this failure not as misfortune, but as neglect. People speak of how necessary items are restricted or delayed, while attempts to repair damaged homes are frequently blocked. Local initiatives 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 Symbolic Season

The factor that intensifies this hardship especially agonizing is how preventable it is. It is unconscionable to study, raise children, or combat disease standing ankle-deep in cold water inside a tent. No student should fear the rain ruining their last notebook. Rain exposes just how precarious existence is. It challenges health worn down by stress, exhaustion, and grief.

This year's chill occurs alongside the Christmas season that, for millions, epitomizes warmth, refuge and care for the disadvantaged. In Palestine, that {symbolism