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It was approximately 8:30 PM on a Thursday when I made my way home in Gaza City. Gusts of wind blew, making it impossible to remain any longer, leaving me to walk. In the beginning, it was merely a soft rain, but following a brief walk the rain suddenly grew heavier. That wasn’t surprising. I took shelter by a tent, trying to warm my hands to draw some warmth. A young boy sat nearby selling sweet treats. We spoke briefly during my pause, but his attention was elsewhere. I noticed the cookies were poorly packaged in plastic, moist from the drizzle, and I pondered if he’d have enough to sell before the night ended. A deep chill permeated the air.

A Walk Through a Landscape of Tents

As I walked along al-Wehda Street in Gaza City, makeshift shelters crowded both sides of the road. There were no voices from inside them, merely the din of torrential rain and the roar of the wind. Rushing forward, trying to dodge the rain, I turned 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 is their state of mind? What are they experiencing? It was bitterly cold. I imagined children curled under wet blankets, parents shifting constantly to keep them warm.

Upon opening the door to my apartment, the icy doorknob served as a subtle yet haunting reminder of the hardships endured across Gaza in these severe cold season. I walked into my apartment and felt consumed by the guilt of possessing shelter when a multitude remained unprotected to the storm.

The Darkness Escalates

As midnight passed, the storm grew stronger. Outside, makeshift covers on shattered windows sagged and flapped violently, while tin roofing ripped free and slammed down. Cutting through the chaos came the piercing, fearful cries of children, cutting through the darkness. I felt totally incapable.

For the last fortnight, the rain has been unending. Chilly, dense, and propelled by strong winds, it has flooded makeshift homes, inundated temporary settlements and turned open ground 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

Residents refer to this time of year as al-Arba’iniya; the 40 coldest and harshest days of winter, beginning in late December and lasting until the end of January. It is the definite start of winter, the moment when the season shows its true power. Ordinarily, it is faced with preparation and shelter. Currently, Gaza has neither. The cold bites through homes, streets are deserted and people merely survive.

But the peril of the season is far from theoretical. On the Sunday morning before Christmas, civil defense teams retrieved the remains of two children after the roof of a shelled home collapsed in northern Gaza, freeing five additional individuals, including a child and two women. Two people have not been found. These structural failures are not the result of fresh strikes, but the result of homes weakened by months of bombardment and ultimately defeated by winter rain. Earlier this month, a young child in Khan Younis passed away from exposure to the cold.

Precarious Existence

Observing the camp nearest my home, I saw the consequences up close. Flimsy tarpaulins buckled beneath the weight of water, mattresses bobbed in water and clothes hung damply, never fully drying. Each step highlighted how vulnerable these tents are and how close the rain and cold threatened life and health for hundreds of thousands living in tents and packed sanctuaries.

A great number of these residents have already been forced from their homes, many several times over. Homes are gone. Neighbourhoods flattened. Winter has arrived in Gaza, but shelter from its fury has not. It has come devoid of safe refuge, without electricity, devoid of warmth.

The Weight on Education

As a university lecturer in Gaza, this weather weighs heavily on me. My students are not figures in a report; they are individuals I know; bright, resilient, but profoundly exhausted. Most participate in digital sessions from tents; others from packed rooms where privacy is impossible and connectivity sporadic. Countless learners have already suffered personal loss. Most have lost their homes. Yet they continue their education. Their fortitude is remarkable, but it ought not be necessary in this way.

In Gaza, what would usually be routine academic practices—projects, due dates—transform into ethical dilemmas, dictated every moment by uncertainty about students’ safety, warmth and ability to find refuge.

During nights like these, 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 a lack of heat. With electricity mostly absent and fuel rare, warmth comes mainly from wearing multiple layers and using the few bedding items available. Despite this, cold nights are excruciating. What about those living in tents?

Aid and Abandonment

Reports indicate that over a million people in Gaza exist in makeshift accommodations. Humanitarian assistance, including insulated tents, have been insufficient. Amid the last tempest, humanitarian partners reported providing plastic sheets, tents and mattresses to numerous households. In reality, however, this assistance was often perceived as inconsistent and lacking, limited to temporary solutions that offered scant protection against prolonged exposure to cold, wind and rain. Shelters fail. Sicknesses, hypothermia, and infections linked to damp conditions are increasing.

This cannot be described as an surprise calamity. Winter arrives cyclically. People in Gaza view this crisis not as fate, but as neglect. People speak of how critical supplies are restricted or delayed, while attempts to repair damaged homes are consistently hampered. Local initiatives have tried to improvise, to hand out tarps, yet they continue to be hampered by what is allowed to enter. The root cause is political and humanitarian. Answers are available, but are kept out.

A Symbolic Season

The aspect that renders this pain especially heartbreaking is how preventable it is. It is unconscionable to study, raise children, or battle sickness standing surrounded by cold water inside a tent. It is wrong for a pupil to worry about the rain ruining their last notebook. Rain exposes just how fragile life has become. It strains physiques worn down by pressure, weariness, and sorrow.

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