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The time was about 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. Initially, it was just a gentle sprinkle, but following a brief walk the rain suddenly grew heavier. That wasn’t surprising. I stopped near a tent, clapping my hands to draw some warmth. A young boy was sitting outside selling sweet treats. We shared brief remarks during my pause, though he didn’t seem interested. I observed the cookies were loosely wrapped in plastic, dampened from the drizzle, and I pondered if he’d find buyers before the night ended. A deep chill permeated the air.

A Trek Through a Landscape of Tents

While traversing al-Wehda Street in Gaza City, canvas structures flanked both sides of the road. No sounds of conversation came from inside them, just the noise of falling water and the moan of the wind. Quickening my pace, attempting to avoid the rain, I turned on my mobile phone's torch to see the road ahead. My mind continually drifted to those taking refuge within: What are they doing now? What is their state of mind? What emotions do they hold? It was bitterly cold. I pictured children curled under damp covers, parents adjusting repeatedly to keep them warm.

Upon opening the door to my apartment, the cold metal served as a subtle yet haunting reminder of the hardships endured across Gaza in these harsh winter conditions. I stepped inside my apartment and felt consumed by the guilt of possessing shelter when countless others faced exposure to the storm.

The Night Escalates

During the darkest hours, the storm reached its peak. Outside, makeshift covers on damaged glass billowed and tore, while tin roofing tore loose and slammed down. Cutting through the chaos came the sharp, panicked screams of children, cutting through the darkness. I felt completely helpless.

For the last fortnight, the rain has been unending. Freezing, pouring, and carried by strong winds, it has soaked tents, flooded makeshift camps and turned bare earth into mud. In different contexts, this might be called “bad weather”. In Gaza, it is endured in a state of exposure and abandonment.

The Harshest Days

Palestinians know 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 true beginning of winter, the moment when the season unleashes its intensity. Typically, it is weathered through preparation and shelter. This year, Gaza has no such defenses. The cold bites through homes, streets are empty and people merely survive.

But the threat posed by the cold is now very real. Early on the Sunday before Christmas, rescue operations found the victims of two children after the roof of a bombarded structure collapsed in northern Gaza, freeing five additional individuals, including a child and two women. Two people remain missing. Such collapses are not the result of fresh strikes, but the outcome of homes weakened by months of bombardment and succumbing to winter rain. Earlier this month, a young child in Khan Younis died of exposure to the cold.

Precarious Existence

Walking past the camp nearest my home, I saw the consequences up close. Thin plastic sheets sagged under the weight of water, mattresses floated and clothes hung damply, never fully drying. Each step reinforced how precarious these dwellings are and how close the rain and cold came to claiming life and health for countless individuals 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 devoid of safe refuge, in darkness, without heating.

Students in the Storm

Being an educator in Gaza, this weather is a heavy burden. My students are not distant names; they are young people I speak to; smart, persistent, but profoundly exhausted. Most join virtual lessons from tents; others from packed rooms where solitude is unattainable and connectivity intermittent. Countless learners have already lost family members. Most have lost their homes. Yet they persist in learning. Their fortitude is remarkable, but it must not be demanded in this way.

In Gaza, what would usually be routine academic practices—projects, due dates—transform into ethical dilemmas, shaped each day by anxiety over students’ well-being, comfort and proximity to protection.

During nights like these, I cannot help but wonder about them. Are they dry? Do they feel any warmth? Could the storm have shredded through their shelter while they were trying to sleep? For those still living in apartments, or what remains of them, there is no heating. With electricity largely unavailable and fuel in short supply, warmth comes mostly via donning extra clothing and using the few bedding items available. Even so, cold nights are excruciating. What about those living in tents?

The Humanitarian Shortfall

Agencies state that over a million people in Gaza live in shelters. Aid supplies, including weatherproof shelters, have been far from enough. Amid the last tempest, relief groups reported providing plastic sheets, tents and mattresses to a multitude of people. On the ground, however, this assistance was widely experienced as inconsistent and lacking, limited to temporary solutions that offered scant protection against ongoing suffering to cold, wind and rain. Structures give way. Chest infections, hypothermia, and infections caused by damp conditions are rising.

This cannot be described as an surprise calamity. Winter arrives cyclically. People in Gaza understand this failure not as misfortune, but as being forsaken. People speak of how necessary items are blocked or slowed, while attempts to repair damaged homes are repeatedly obstructed. Grassroots projects have tried to find solutions, to distribute plastic sheeting, yet they are still constrained by what is allowed to enter. The culpability lies in political and humanitarian. Remedies are known, but are kept out.

A Symbolic Season

What makes this suffering especially painful is how preventable it is. It is unconscionable to study, raise children, or combat disease standing surrounded by cold water inside a tent. No student should fear the rain damaging their precious phone. Rain lays bare just how vulnerable survival is. It challenges health worn down by pressure, weariness, and sorrow.

This winter occurs alongside the Christmas season that, for millions, epitomizes warmth, refuge and care for the neediest. In Palestine, that {symbolism