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It was around 8:30 PM on a Thursday when I headed back home in Gaza City. Gusts of wind blew, forcing me inside any longer, leaving me to walk. At first, it was merely a soft rain, but a short distance later the rain suddenly grew heavier. This was expected. I took shelter by a tent, clapping my hands to draw some warmth. A young boy sat nearby selling baked goods. We spoke briefly as I waited, although he appeared disengaged. I saw the cookies were poorly packaged in plastic, dampened from the drizzle, and I wondered if he’d have enough to sell before the night ended. The freezing temperature invaded every space.

A Journey Through a Place of Tents

As I walked along al-Wehda Street in Gaza City, tents lined both sides of the road. An eerie silence replaced voices from inside them, only the sound of falling water and the whistle of the wind. Quickening my pace, seeking escape from the rain, I switched on my mobile phone's torch to light my way. I couldn't stop thinking to those taking refuge within: What are they doing now? What are they thinking? What are they experiencing? A severe chill gripped the air. I imagined children nestled under wet blankets, parents shifting constantly to keep them warm.

When I opened the door to my apartment, the freezing handle served as a understated yet stark reminder of the struggles borne across Gaza in these brutal winter climate. I stepped inside my apartment and felt consumed by the guilt of enjoying a dry home when countless others faced exposure to the storm.

The Midnight Hour Worsens

As midnight passed, the storm reached its peak. Outside, tarps on damaged glass whipped and strained, while tin roofing tore loose and slammed down. Cutting through the chaos came the piercing, fearful cries 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, inundated temporary settlements and turned bare earth into mud. Elsewhere, this might be called “inclement weather”. In Gaza, it is endured in a state of exposure and abandonment.

The Harshest Days

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 true beginning of winter, the moment when the season reveals its full force. Normally, it is weathered through preparation and shelter. Now, Gaza has no such defenses. The frost seeps through homes, streets are empty and people just persevere.

But the peril of the season is far from theoretical. Early on the Sunday before Christmas, recovery efforts found the victims 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 are still unaccounted for. These incidents are not caused by ongoing hostilities, but the consequence of homes compromised after months of bombardment and succumbing to winter rain. In recent days, an infant in Khan Younis passed away from exposure to the cold.

Fragile Shelters

Passing by the camp nearest my home, I witnessed the impact up close. Flimsy tarpaulins buckled beneath the weight of water, mattresses bobbed in water and clothes hung damply, incapable of drying. Each step reminded me how vulnerable these tents are and how close the rain and cold came to claiming life and health for a vast population living in tents and cramped refuges.

The majority of these individuals have already been forced from their homes, many repeatedly. Homes are destroyed. Neighbourhoods leveled. Winter has come to Gaza, but protection from it has not. It has come lacking adequate housing, with no power, without heating.

A Teacher's Anguish

As a university lecturer in Gaza, this weather is a heavy burden. My students are not figures in a report; they are young people I speak to; smart, persistent, but profoundly exhausted. Most attend online classes from tents; others from cramped quarters where solitude is unattainable and connectivity sporadic. A significant number of pupils have already suffered personal loss. Most have lost their homes. Yet they continue their education. Their perseverance is astounding, but it must not be demanded in this way.

In Gaza, what would typically constitute routine academic practices—tasks, schedules—turn into ethical dilemmas, shaped each day by concern for students’ safety, warmth and proximity to protection.

During nights like these, I am constantly preoccupied about them. Do they have dryness? Do they feel any warmth? Has the gale ripped through their shelter as they attempted to rest? For those remaining in apartments, or damaged structures, there is a lack of heat. With electricity largely unavailable and fuel rare, warmth comes mainly from wearing multiple layers and using whatever blankets are left. Nonetheless, cold nights are excruciating. How then those living in tents?

Aid and Abandonment

Figures show that over a million people in Gaza reside in temporary housing. Relief items, including thermal blankets, have been insufficient. During the recent storm, relief groups reported delivering coverings, shelters and sleeping materials to a multitude of people. On the ground, however, this assistance was widely experienced as inconsistent and lacking, limited to band-aid measures that offered scant protection against extended hardship to cold, wind and rain. Tents collapse. Respiratory illnesses, hypothermia, and infections linked to damp conditions are increasing.

This cannot be described as an unforeseen disaster. Winter arrives cyclically. People in Gaza interpret this shortcoming not as misfortune, but as being forsaken. People speak of how essential materials are hindered or postponed, while attempts to fix broken houses are repeatedly obstructed. Local initiatives have tried to find solutions, to distribute plastic sheeting, yet they continue to be hampered by restrictions on imports. The failure is political and humanitarian. Answers are available, but are prevented from arriving.

A Preventable Suffering

The aspect that renders this pain especially agonizing is how avoidable it could have been. No individual ought to study, raise children, or fight illness standing surrounded by cold water inside a tent. No student should fear the rain ruining their last notebook. Rain exposes just how precarious existence is. It tests bodies worn down by pressure, weariness, and sorrow.

This year's chill coincides with the Christmas season that, for millions, symbolises warmth, refuge and care for the neediest. In Palestine, that {symbolism