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The clock read around 8:30 PM on a weekday evening when I headed back home in Gaza City. A strong wind was blowing, forcing me inside any longer, so I had to walk. At first, it was merely a soft rain, but following a brief walk the rain became a downpour. This was expected. I took shelter by a tent, clapping my hands to fight off the chill. A young boy was sitting outside selling homemade cookies. We spoke briefly during my pause, though he didn’t seem interested. I noticed the cookies were poorly packaged 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 Journey Through a City of Tents

While traversing al-Wehda Street in Gaza City, tents lined both sides of the road. There were no voices from inside them, only the sound of falling water and the moan of the wind. Rushing forward, seeking escape from the rain, I activated 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? It was bitterly cold. I envisioned children huddled under wet blankets, parents shifting constantly to keep them warm.

Upon opening the door to my apartment, the icy doorknob served as a quiet but powerful reminder of the suffering faced across Gaza in these harsh winter conditions. I stepped inside my apartment and couldn't shake the guilt of possessing shelter when countless others faced exposure to the storm.

The Darkness Escalates

In the middle of the night, the storm grew stronger. Outside, tarps on shattered windows sagged and flapped violently, while corrugated metal ripped free and fell with a clatter. 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 flooded makeshift homes, swamped refugee areas and turned the soil into mud. In different contexts, this might be called “poor conditions”. In Gaza, it is endured in a state of exposure and abandonment.

The Cruelest Season

Locals call 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 reveals its full force. Typically, it is endured with preparation and shelter. This year, Gaza has none of these. The cold bites through homes, streets are empty and people just persevere.

But the danger of winter is now very real. Early on the Sunday before Christmas, recovery efforts found the victims of two children after the roof of a war-damaged building collapsed in northern Gaza, rescuing five others, including a child and two women. Two people have not been found. Such collapses are not the result of fresh strikes, but the result of homes damaged from months of bombardment and succumbing to winter rain. Earlier this month, an eight-month-old baby girl in Khan Younis died of exposure to the cold.

Fragile Shelters

Walking past the camp nearest my home, I observed the results up close. Thin plastic sheets strained under the weight of water, mattresses bobbed in water and clothes remained wet, incapable of drying. Each step reinforced how precarious these dwellings are and how close the rain and cold came to taking life and health for countless individuals living in tents and overcrowded shelters.

Most of these people have already been uprooted, many several times over. Homes are gone. Neighbourhoods leveled. Winter has arrived in Gaza, but defense against it has not. It has come lacking adequate housing, in darkness, devoid of warmth.

The Weight on Education

In my role as a professor in Gaza, this weather causes deep concern. My students are not mere statistics; they are young people I speak to; smart, persistent, but extremely fatigued. Most join virtual lessons from tents; others from cramped quarters where solitude is unattainable and connectivity sporadic. Countless learners have already experienced bereavement. Most have lost their homes. Yet they persist in learning. Their resilience is extraordinary, but it must not be demanded in this way.

In Gaza, what would usually be routine academic practices—assignments, deadlines—transform into moral negotiations, shaped each day by concern for students’ well-being, comfort and access to shelter.

On evenings such as this, I cannot help but wonder about them. Is their shelter holding? Are they warm? Did the wind tear through their shelter as they attempted to rest? For those residing in apartments, or the shells that are left, there is an absence of warmth. With electricity mostly absent and fuel scarce, warmth comes primarily through donning extra clothing and using any remaining covers. Even so, cold nights are unbearable. What, then those living in tents?

Aid and Abandonment

Reports indicate that well over a million people in Gaza exist in makeshift accommodations. Humanitarian assistance, including thermal blankets, have been far from enough. When the cyclone hit, aid organizations reported distributing tarpaulins, tents and bedding to numerous households. On the ground, however, this assistance was often perceived as patchy and insufficient, limited to band-aid measures that offered scant protection against extended hardship to cold, wind and rain. Structures give way. Respiratory illnesses, hypothermia, and infections associated with damp conditions are on the upswing.

This is not an unexpected catastrophe. Winter is an annual event. People in Gaza understand this failure not as misfortune, but as neglect. People speak of how critical supplies are restricted or delayed, while attempts to fix broken houses are frequently blocked. Local initiatives have tried to make do, to provide coverings, yet they are still constrained by what is allowed to enter. The failure is political and humanitarian. Remedies are known, but are withheld.

A Preventable Suffering

The aspect that renders this pain especially agonizing is how preventable it is. No one should have to study, raise children, or combat disease standing surrounded by cold water inside a tent. No student should fear the rain destroying their final textbook. Rain reveals just how vulnerable survival is. It tests bodies worn down by stress, exhaustion, and grief.

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