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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, so walking was my only option. In the beginning, it was merely a soft rain, but a short distance later the rain intensified abruptly. It came as no shock. I took shelter by a tent, trying to warm my hands to generate a little heat. A young boy had positioned himself selling baked goods. We shared brief remarks while I stood there, but his attention was elsewhere. I noticed the cookies were loosely wrapped in plastic, dampened from the drizzle, and I pondered 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. Rushing forward, trying to dodge the rain, I activated my mobile phone's torch to see the road ahead. My thoughts kept returning to those taking refuge within: What occupies them now? What is their state of mind? How do they feel? It was bitterly cold. I pictured 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 subtle yet haunting reminder of the suffering faced across Gaza in these severe cold season. I entered my apartment and couldn't shake the guilt of enjoying a dry home when so many were exposed to the storm.

The Night Intensifies

In the middle of the night, the storm reached its peak. Outside, plastic sheeting on damaged glass sagged and flapped violently, while corrugated metal broke away and slammed down. Overriding the noise came the desperate, terrified shouts of children, shattering the darkness. I felt totally incapable.

During recent days, the rain has been relentless. Cold, heavy, and driven by strong winds, it has drenched shelters, flooded makeshift camps and turned the soil into mud. Elsewhere, this might be called “poor conditions”. In Gaza, it is endured in a state of exposure and abandonment.

Al-Arba’iniya

Palestinians know this time of year as al-Arba’iniya; the fourty most severe 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 reveals its full force. Typically, it is weathered through preparation and shelter. This year, Gaza has neither. The chill penetrates through homes, streets are deserted and people simply endure.

But the peril of the season is no longer abstract. On the Sunday morning before Christmas, recovery efforts retrieved the remains 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 remain missing. These incidents are not the result of fresh strikes, but the result of homes damaged from months of bombardment and ultimately defeated by winter rain. In recent days, an eight-month-old baby girl in Khan Younis died of exposure to the cold.

Precarious Existence

Observing the camp nearest my home, I witnessed the impact up close. Thin plastic sheets strained under the weight of water, mattresses were adrift and clothes remained wet, incapable of drying. Each step highlighted how fragile these shelters were and how close the rain and cold threatened life and health for a vast population living in tents and overcrowded shelters.

Most of these people have already been displaced, many repeatedly. Homes are destroyed. Neighbourhoods razed. Winter has arrived in Gaza, but protection from it has not. It has come lacking adequate housing, with no power, devoid of warmth.

Students in the Storm

Being an educator in Gaza, this weather causes deep concern. My students are not mere statistics; they are faces I recognize; smart, persistent, but extremely fatigued. Most attend online classes from tents; others from packed rooms where solitude is unattainable and connectivity sporadic. Countless learners have already lost family members. Most have lost their homes. Yet they persist in learning. Their resilience is extraordinary, but it ought not be necessary in this way.

In Gaza, what would normally count as routine academic practices—assignments, deadlines—transform into questions of conscience, shaped each day by concern for students’ well-being, comfort and ability to find refuge.

On evenings such as this, I am constantly preoccupied about them. Are they dry? Are they warm? Could the storm have shredded through their shelter during the night? For those still living in apartments, or the shells that are left, there is an absence of warmth. With electricity largely unavailable and fuel in short supply, warmth comes mainly from wearing multiple layers and using the few bedding items available. Nonetheless, cold nights are intolerable. What about those living in tents?

Political Failure

Figures show that over a million people in Gaza reside in temporary housing. Humanitarian assistance, including weatherproof shelters, have been far from enough. When the cyclone hit, aid organizations reported delivering plastic sheets, tents and mattresses to a multitude of people. In reality, however, this assistance was widely experienced as uneven and inadequate, limited to short-term fixes that did little against ongoing suffering to cold, wind and rain. Tents collapse. Sicknesses, hypothermia, and infections linked to damp conditions are rising.

This goes beyond an surprise calamity. Winter arrives cyclically. People in Gaza view this crisis not as misfortune, but as being forsaken. People speak of how essential materials 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 continue to be hampered by restrictions on imports. The root cause is political and humanitarian. Answers are available, but are withheld.

A Symbolic Season

What makes this suffering especially heartbreaking is how unnecessary it should be. No individual ought to study, raise children, or combat disease standing knee-high in cold water inside a tent. No learner should dread the rain ruining their last notebook. Rain reveals just how vulnerable survival is. It strains physiques worn down by pressure, weariness, and sorrow.

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