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The clock read about 8:30 PM on a weekday evening when I headed back home in Gaza City. A strong wind was blowing, making it impossible to remain any longer, leaving me to walk. At first, it was just a gentle sprinkle, but after about 200 metres the rain suddenly grew heavier. It came as no shock. I stopped near a tent, clapping my hands to draw some warmth. A young boy had positioned himself selling homemade cookies. We shared brief remarks while I stood there, although he appeared disengaged. 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 Walk Through a Place of Tents

As I walked along al-Wehda Street in Gaza City, canvas structures flanked both sides of the road. An eerie silence replaced voices from inside them, just the noise of torrential rain and the whistle of the wind. As I hurried on, seeking escape from the rain, I switched on 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? What emotions do they hold? The cold was piercing. I pictured children curled under damp covers, parents adjusting repeatedly to keep them warm.

As I unlocked the door to my apartment, the icy doorknob served as a subtle yet haunting reminder of the suffering faced across Gaza in these brutal winter climate. I entered my apartment and was overwhelmed by the guilt of possessing shelter when a multitude remained unprotected to the storm.

The Midnight Hour Intensifies

In the middle of the night, the storm grew stronger. Outside, tarps 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, piercing the darkness. I felt completely helpless.

For the last fortnight, the rain has been incessant. Chilly, dense, and propelled by strong winds, it has drenched shelters, flooded makeshift camps and turned open ground into mud. In different contexts, this might be called “inclement weather”. In Gaza, it is lived with exposure and abandonment.

The Harshest Days

Palestinians know 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 real onset of winter, the moment when the season shows its true power. Normally, it is faced with preparation and shelter. Currently, Gaza has no such defenses. The frost seeps through homes, streets are deserted and people just persevere.

But the danger of winter is far from theoretical. Early on the Sunday before Christmas, recovery efforts retrieved the remains of two children after the roof of a shelled home collapsed in northern Gaza, saving five more people, including a child and two women. Two people remain missing. These structural failures are not new attacks, but the outcome of homes compromised after months of bombardment and finally undone by winter rain. Not long ago, a young child in Khan Younis died of exposure to the cold.

Precarious Existence

Passing by the camp nearest my home, I observed the results up close. Inadequate coverings strained under the weight of water, mattresses floated and clothes remained wet, always damp. Each step reinforced how vulnerable these tents are and how close the rain and cold came to taking life and health for countless individuals living in tents and cramped refuges.

A great number of these residents have already been uprooted, many on multiple occasions. Homes are destroyed. Neighbourhoods razed. Winter has arrived in Gaza, but shelter from its fury has not. It has come without proper shelter, with no power, lacking heat.

A Teacher's Anguish

As a university lecturer in Gaza, this weather causes deep concern. My students are not distant names; they are young people I speak to; smart, persistent, but extremely fatigued. Most attend online classes from tents; others from overcrowded shelters where privacy is impossible and connectivity sporadic. Countless learners have already lost family members. Most have lost their homes. Yet they persist in learning. Their fortitude is remarkable, but it ought not be necessary in this way.

In Gaza, what would usually be routine academic practices—tasks, schedules—transform into moral negotiations, dictated every moment by anxiety over students’ security, heat and proximity to protection.

When the storm rages, I am constantly preoccupied about them. Do they have dryness? Is there heat? Did the wind tear through their shelter as they attempted to rest? For those residing in apartments, or damaged structures, there is no heating. With electricity largely unavailable and fuel scarce, warmth comes primarily through wearing multiple layers and using whatever blankets are left. Despite this, cold nights are intolerable. What about those living in tents?

The Humanitarian Shortfall

Agencies state that more than a million people in Gaza live in shelters. Humanitarian assistance, including insulated tents, have been far from enough. During the recent storm, relief groups reported delivering plastic sheets, tents and mattresses to a multitude of people. In reality, however, this assistance was often perceived as uneven and inadequate, limited to band-aid measures that were largely ineffective against prolonged exposure to cold, wind and rain. Structures give way. Sicknesses, hypothermia, and infections associated with damp conditions are on the upswing.

This cannot be described as an unexpected catastrophe. Winter comes every year. People in Gaza view this crisis not as fate, but as abandonment. People speak of how critical supplies are hindered or postponed, while attempts to fix broken houses are repeatedly obstructed. Community efforts have tried to improvise, to distribute plastic sheeting, yet they continue to be hampered by bureaucratic barriers. The culpability lies in political and humanitarian. Remedies are known, but are kept out.

An Unnecessary Pain

The factor that intensifies this hardship especially agonizing is how unnecessary it should be. No one should have to study, raise children, or fight illness standing ankle-deep in cold water inside a tent. It is wrong for a pupil to worry about the rain damaging their precious phone. Rain reveals just how fragile life has become. It strains physiques worn down by pressure, weariness, and sorrow.

The current cold season occurs alongside the Christmas season that, for millions, symbolises warmth, refuge and care for the most vulnerable. In Palestine, that {symbolism