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The clock read approximately 8:30 PM on a weekday evening when I made my way home in Gaza City. The wind howled, forcing me inside any longer, so walking was my only option. At first, it was only a light drizzle, but after about 200 metres the rain intensified abruptly. That wasn’t surprising. I paused beside a tent, rubbing my palms together to draw some warmth. A young boy was sitting outside selling baked goods. We spoke briefly during my pause, but his attention was elsewhere. I saw the cookies were hastily covered in plastic, moist from the drizzle, and I questioned if he’d find buyers before the night ended. A deep chill permeated the air.

A Trek Through a Landscape of Tents

As I walked along al-Wehda Street in Gaza City, tents lined both sides of the road. No sounds of conversation came from inside them, only the sound of falling water and the whistle 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 huddled within: How are they passing the time now? What thoughts fill their minds? What are they experiencing? A severe chill gripped the air. I envisioned children nestled under soaked bedding, parents shifting constantly to keep them warm.

Upon opening the door to my apartment, the icy doorknob served as a understated yet stark reminder of the struggles borne across Gaza in these brutal winter climate. I entered my apartment and couldn't shake the guilt of having a roof when a multitude remained unprotected to the storm.

The Night Worsens

In the middle of the night, the storm intensified. Outside, tarps on shattered windows whipped and strained, while corrugated metal broke away and crashed to the ground. Cutting through the chaos came the desperate, terrified shouts of children, shattering the darkness. I felt completely helpless.

Over the past two weeks, the rain has been relentless. Cold, heavy, and driven by strong winds, it has soaked tents, flooded makeshift camps and turned open ground into mud. Elsewhere, this might be called “inclement weather”. In Gaza, it is lived with exposure and abandonment.

The Cruelest Season

Residents refer to this time of year as al-Arba’iniya; the most bitter forty days of winter, commencing 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 endured with preparation and shelter. This year, Gaza has no such defenses. The chill penetrates through homes, streets are deserted and people merely survive.

But the peril of the season is now very real. In the early hours of Sunday before Christmas, civil defense teams retrieved the remains 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 are still unaccounted for. These incidents are not caused by ongoing hostilities, but the result of homes compromised after months of bombardment and finally undone by winter rain. Earlier this month, a young child in Khan Younis died of exposure to the cold.

Precarious Existence

Passing by the camp nearest my home, I witnessed the impact up close. Thin plastic sheets strained under the weight of water, mattresses floated and clothes were perpetually moist, always damp. Each step reminded me how precarious these dwellings are and how close the rain and cold came to claiming life and health for hundreds of thousands living in tents and packed sanctuaries.

The majority of these individuals have already been forced from their homes, many repeatedly. Homes are gone. Neighbourhoods razed. Winter has arrived in Gaza, but defense against it 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 figures in a report; they are young people I speak to; bright, resilient, but deeply weary. Most participate in digital sessions from tents; others from overcrowded shelters where solitude is unattainable and connectivity sporadic. Many of my students have already experienced bereavement. Most have lost their homes. Yet they persist in learning. Their resilience is extraordinary, but it should not be required in this way.

In Gaza, what would normally count as routine academic practices—assignments, deadlines—transform into ethical dilemmas, shaped each day by anxiety over students’ well-being, comfort and access to shelter.

On evenings such as this, I find myself thinking about them. Are they dry? Are they warm? Did the wind tear through their shelter during the night? For those remaining in apartments, or damaged structures, there is a lack of heat. With electricity scarce and fuel scarce, warmth comes primarily through wearing multiple layers and using the few bedding items available. Nonetheless, cold nights are unbearable. What about those living in tents?

Political Failure

Agencies state that well over a million people in Gaza reside in temporary housing. Aid supplies, including insulated tents, have been far from enough. When the cyclone hit, humanitarian partners reported delivering tarpaulins, tents and bedding to thousands of families. In reality, however, this assistance was frequently felt to be inconsistent and lacking, limited to temporary solutions that did little against extended hardship to cold, wind and rain. Tents collapse. Chest infections, hypothermia, and infections caused by damp conditions are on the upswing.

This is not an surprise calamity. Winter comes every year. People in Gaza interpret this shortcoming not as misfortune, but as neglect. People speak of how critical supplies are restricted or delayed, while attempts to repair damaged homes are repeatedly obstructed. Local initiatives have tried to make do, to provide coverings, yet they are still constrained by bureaucratic barriers. The root cause is political and humanitarian. Remedies are known, but are prevented from arriving.

A Symbolic Season

What makes this suffering especially heartbreaking is how avoidable it could have been. It is unconscionable to study, raise children, or combat disease standing knee-high 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 vulnerable survival is. It tests bodies worn down by anxiety, fatigue, and loss.

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