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The time was 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. Initially, it was just a gentle sprinkle, but a short distance later the rain intensified abruptly. It came as no shock. I stopped near a tent, trying to warm my hands to fight off the chill. A young boy had positioned himself selling baked goods. We shared brief remarks during my pause, although he appeared disengaged. I noticed the cookies were loosely wrapped in plastic, dampened from the drizzle, and I wondered if he’d find buyers before the night ended. The freezing temperature invaded every space.

A Trek Through a City 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, just the noise of torrential rain and the whistle of the wind. Rushing forward, trying to dodge the rain, I switched on my mobile phone's torch to see the road ahead. My mind continually drifted to those taking refuge within: What are they doing now? What are they thinking? What emotions do they hold? It was bitterly cold. I pictured children curled under damp covers, parents moving restlessly to keep them warm.

Upon opening the door to my apartment, the cold metal served as a quiet but powerful reminder of the struggles borne across Gaza in these harsh winter conditions. I entered my apartment and was overwhelmed by the guilt of enjoying a dry home when countless others faced exposure to the storm.

The Midnight Hour Escalates

During the darkest hours, the storm grew stronger. Outside, tarps on shattered windows whipped and strained, while tin roofing broke away and fell with a clatter. Overriding the noise came the piercing, fearful cries of children, shattering the darkness. I felt completely helpless.

For the last fortnight, the rain has been unending. Freezing, pouring, and carried by strong winds, it has drenched shelters, inundated temporary settlements and turned open ground into mud. Elsewhere, this might be called “bad weather”. In Gaza, it is experienced amidst exposure and abandonment.

Al-Arba’iniya

Locals call this time of year as al-Arba’iniya; the most bitter forty 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 shows its true power. Typically, it is faced with preparation and shelter. Now, Gaza has neither. The frost seeps through homes, streets are empty and people simply endure.

But the threat posed by the cold is no longer abstract. Early on the Sunday before Christmas, rescue operations found the victims of two children after the roof of a bombarded structure collapsed in northern Gaza, saving five more people, including a child and two women. Two people remain missing. Such collapses are not caused by ongoing hostilities, 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 succumbed to exposure to the cold.

A Life in Tents

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 hung damply, incapable of drying. Each step reminded me how fragile these shelters were and how close the rain and cold came to claiming life and health for countless individuals living in tents and packed sanctuaries.

Most of these people have already been forced from their homes, many repeatedly. Homes are destroyed. Neighbourhoods leveled. Winter has arrived in Gaza, but protection from 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 is a heavy burden. My students are not figures in a report; they are individuals I know; smart, persistent, but extremely fatigued. Most join virtual lessons from tents; others from overcrowded shelters where personal space doesn't exist and connectivity sporadic. Countless learners have already lost family members. Most have been rendered homeless. Yet they continue their education. Their resilience is extraordinary, but it ought not be necessary in this way.

In Gaza, what would usually be routine academic practices—tasks, schedules—become moral negotiations, influenced daily by uncertainty about students’ security, heat and ability to find refuge.

During nights like these, I find myself thinking about them. Is their shelter holding? Do they feel any warmth? Could the storm have shredded through their shelter as they attempted to rest? For those residing in apartments, or the shells that are left, there is no heating. With electricity scarce and fuel scarce, warmth comes mainly from donning extra clothing and using any remaining covers. Despite this, cold nights are intolerable. How then those living in tents?

Political Failure

Figures show that over a million people in Gaza reside in temporary housing. Humanitarian assistance, including insulated tents, have been inadequate. Amid the last tempest, relief groups reported providing plastic sheets, tents and mattresses to a multitude of people. On the ground, however, this assistance was frequently felt to be patchy and insufficient, limited to short-term fixes that offered scant protection against ongoing suffering to cold, wind and rain. Shelters fail. Sicknesses, hypothermia, and infections linked to damp conditions are rising.

This goes beyond an unexpected catastrophe. Winter is an annual event. People in Gaza interpret this shortcoming not as fate, but as abandonment. People speak of how necessary items are hindered or postponed, while attempts to fix broken houses are consistently hampered. Grassroots projects have tried to find solutions, to provide coverings, yet they continue to be hampered by what is allowed to enter. The culpability lies in political and humanitarian. Answers are available, but are withheld.

A Preventable Suffering

The factor that intensifies this hardship especially painful is how unnecessary it should be. It is unconscionable 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 lays bare just how vulnerable survival is. It strains physiques worn down by stress, exhaustion, and grief.

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