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The time was approximately 8:30 PM on a weekday evening when I headed back home in Gaza City. The wind howled, and I couldn’t stay out any longer, leaving me to walk. Initially, it was only a light drizzle, but after about 200 metres the rain suddenly grew heavier. This was expected. I took shelter by a tent, clapping my hands to generate a little heat. A young boy sat nearby selling sweet treats. We spoke briefly during my pause, though he didn’t seem interested. I observed the cookies were poorly packaged in plastic, already soggy from the drizzle, and I questioned if he’d find buyers before the night ended. A deep chill permeated the air.

A Walk Through a City of Tents

Walking down al-Wehda Street in Gaza City, tents lined both sides of the road. An eerie silence replaced voices from inside them, just the noise of rain pouring down and the roar of the wind. Rushing forward, seeking escape from the rain, I activated my mobile phone's torch to light my way. I couldn't stop thinking to those taking refuge within: How are they passing the time now? What are they thinking? What emotions do they hold? The cold was piercing. I imagined children curled under damp covers, parents adjusting repeatedly to keep them warm.

Upon opening the door to my apartment, the icy doorknob served as a understated yet stark reminder of the hardships endured across Gaza in these severe cold season. I stepped inside my apartment and couldn't shake the guilt of having a roof when a multitude remained unprotected to the storm.

The Night Worsens

As midnight passed, the storm grew stronger. Outside, plastic sheeting on damaged glass whipped and strained, while corrugated metal broke away and slammed down. Cutting through the chaos came the desperate, terrified shouts of children, cutting through the darkness. I felt completely helpless.

Over the past two weeks, the rain has been relentless. Chilly, dense, and propelled by strong winds, it has flooded makeshift homes, flooded makeshift camps and turned bare earth into mud. In different contexts, this might be called “poor conditions”. 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, beginning in late December and persisting to the end of January. It is the definite start of winter, the moment when the season shows its true power. Typically, it is endured with preparation and shelter. This year, Gaza has neither. The frost seeps through homes, streets are vacant and people just persevere.

But the danger of winter is now very real. In the early hours of Sunday before Christmas, civil defense teams recovered the bodies of two children after the roof of a war-damaged building collapsed in northern Gaza, saving five more people, including a child and two women. Two people are still unaccounted for. These incidents are not the result of fresh strikes, but the consequence of homes damaged from months of bombardment and ultimately defeated by winter rain. In recent days, an infant in Khan Younis passed away from exposure to the cold.

Fragile Shelters

Walking past the camp nearest my home, I observed the results up close. Thin plastic sheets sagged under the weight of water, mattresses bobbed in water and clothes hung damply, incapable of drying. Each step highlighted how vulnerable these tents are and how close the rain and cold threatened life and health for countless individuals living in tents and packed sanctuaries.

A great number of these residents have already been displaced, many several times over. Homes are lost. Neighbourhoods leveled. Winter has come to Gaza, but protection from it has not. It has come lacking adequate housing, with no power, without heating.

The Weight on Education

Being an educator in Gaza, this weather weighs heavily on me. My students are not distant names; they are individuals I know; smart, persistent, but profoundly exhausted. Most join virtual lessons from tents; others from overcrowded shelters where personal space doesn't exist and connectivity unreliable. Many of my students have already suffered personal loss. Most have seen their houses destroyed. Yet they continue their education. Their resilience is extraordinary, but it ought not be necessary in this way.

In Gaza, what would usually be routine academic practices—projects, due dates—turn into ethical dilemmas, shaped each day by concern for students’ security, heat and access to shelter.

On evenings such as this, I am constantly preoccupied about them. Are they dry? Are they warm? Did the wind tear through their shelter as they attempted to rest? For those residing in apartments, or what remains of them, there is a lack of heat. With electricity largely unavailable and fuel rare, warmth comes mainly from donning extra clothing and using any remaining covers. Despite this, cold nights are excruciating. How then those living in tents?

The Humanitarian Shortfall

Agencies state that more than a million people in Gaza exist in makeshift accommodations. Aid supplies, including weatherproof shelters, have been inadequate. During the recent storm, aid organizations reported providing coverings, shelters and sleeping materials to numerous households. On the ground, however, this assistance was often perceived as inconsistent and lacking, limited to short-term fixes that were largely ineffective against ongoing suffering to cold, wind and rain. Structures give way. Respiratory illnesses, hypothermia, and infections linked to damp conditions are rising.

This goes beyond an unexpected catastrophe. Winter is an annual event. People in Gaza understand this failure not as bad luck, but as neglect. People speak of how essential materials are blocked or slowed, while attempts to repair damaged homes are frequently blocked. Grassroots projects have tried to improvise, to distribute plastic sheeting, yet they continue to be hampered by what is allowed to enter. The culpability lies in political and humanitarian. Solutions exist, but are withheld.

An Unnecessary Pain

The aspect that renders this pain especially agonizing is how avoidable it could have been. No one should have to study, raise children, or combat disease standing ankle-deep in cold water inside a tent. No student should fear the rain damaging their precious phone. Rain lays bare just how fragile life has become. It tests bodies worn down by pressure, weariness, and sorrow.

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