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The clock read around 8:30 PM on a weekday evening when I headed back home in Gaza City. The wind howled, making it impossible to remain any longer, so walking was my only option. At first, it was merely a soft rain, but after about 200 metres the rain suddenly grew heavier. That wasn’t surprising. I took shelter by a tent, clapping my hands to generate a little heat. A young boy had positioned himself selling sweet treats. We exchanged a few words while I stood there, but his attention was elsewhere. I noticed the cookies were poorly packaged in plastic, moist from the drizzle, and I wondered if he’d find buyers before the night ended. A deep chill permeated the air.

A Trek Through a Place of Tents

While traversing al-Wehda Street in Gaza City, tents lined both sides of the road. An eerie silence replaced voices from inside them, just the noise of rain pouring down and the whistle of the wind. Quickening my pace, attempting to avoid the rain, I turned on my mobile phone's torch to light my way. My thoughts kept returning to those taking refuge within: How are they passing the time now? What are they thinking? What are they experiencing? It was bitterly cold. I envisioned children nestled under soaked bedding, parents adjusting repeatedly 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 felt consumed by the guilt of enjoying a dry home when countless others faced exposure to the storm.

The Night Worsens

In the middle of the night, the storm grew stronger. Outside, plastic sheeting on shattered windows billowed and tore, while corrugated metal broke away and slammed down. Above it all came the desperate, terrified shouts of children, piercing the darkness. I felt utterly powerless.

Over the past two weeks, the rain has been relentless. Freezing, pouring, and carried by strong winds, it has soaked tents, inundated temporary settlements and turned bare earth into mud. In different contexts, this might be called “bad weather”. In Gaza, it is experienced amidst exposure and abandonment.

Al-Arba’iniya

Residents refer to this time of year as al-Arba’iniya; the 40 coldest and harshest 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. Currently, Gaza has neither. The frost seeps through homes, streets are vacant and people merely survive.

But the peril of the season is far from theoretical. In the early hours of Sunday before Christmas, rescue operations found the victims of two children after the roof of a war-damaged building collapsed in northern Gaza, freeing five additional individuals, including a child and two women. Two people remain missing. These structural failures are not new attacks, but the result of homes compromised after months of bombardment and ultimately defeated by winter rain. In recent days, a young child in Khan Younis died of exposure to the cold.

Fragile Shelters

Observing the camp nearest my home, I saw the consequences up close. Thin plastic sheets sagged under the weight of water, mattresses floated and clothes remained wet, always damp. Each step highlighted how fragile these shelters were and how close the rain and cold threatened life and health for hundreds of thousands living in tents and overcrowded shelters.

The majority of these individuals have already been displaced, many repeatedly. Homes are lost. Neighbourhoods razed. Winter has arrived in Gaza, but defense against it has not. It has come devoid of safe refuge, without electricity, lacking heat.

Students in the Storm

In my role as a professor in Gaza, this weather weighs heavily on me. My students are not mere statistics; they are individuals I know; smart, persistent, but profoundly exhausted. Most join virtual lessons from tents; others from overcrowded shelters where solitude is unattainable and connectivity unreliable. Countless learners have already suffered personal loss. Most have seen their houses destroyed. Yet they continue their education. Their perseverance is astounding, but it must not be demanded in this way.

In Gaza, what would normally count as routine academic practices—projects, due dates—turn into questions of conscience, influenced daily by anxiety over students’ security, heat and ability to find refuge.

When the storm rages, I am constantly preoccupied about them. Are they dry? Is there heat? Did the wind tear through their shelter as they attempted to rest? For those residing in apartments, or what remains of them, there is a lack of heat. With electricity scarce and fuel in short supply, warmth comes mostly via donning extra clothing and using whatever blankets are left. Nonetheless, cold nights are intolerable. What, then those living in tents?

The Humanitarian Shortfall

Agencies state that more than a million people in Gaza live in shelters. Humanitarian assistance, including weatherproof shelters, have been insufficient. When the cyclone hit, humanitarian partners reported providing tarpaulins, tents and bedding to thousands of families. On the ground, however, this assistance was frequently felt to be patchy and insufficient, limited to temporary solutions that were largely ineffective against extended hardship to cold, wind and rain. Structures give way. Respiratory illnesses, hypothermia, and infections caused by damp conditions are rising.

This goes beyond an surprise calamity. Winter comes every year. People in Gaza view this crisis not as fate, but as neglect. People speak of how necessary items are hindered or postponed, while attempts to reinforce weakened structures are repeatedly obstructed. Local initiatives have tried to improvise, to distribute plastic sheeting, yet they are still constrained by bureaucratic barriers. The root cause is political and humanitarian. Solutions exist, but are kept out.

A Preventable Suffering

The factor that intensifies this hardship especially heartbreaking is how avoidable it could have been. 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.

This year's chill aligns with the Christmas season that, for millions, epitomizes warmth, refuge and care for the most vulnerable. In Palestine, that {symbolism