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The time was approximately 8:30 PM on a weekday evening when I headed back home in Gaza City. The wind howled, and I couldn’t stay out any longer, so walking was my only option. At first, it was just a gentle sprinkle, but a short distance later the rain became a downpour. This was expected. I took shelter by a tent, clapping my hands to draw some warmth. A young boy sat nearby selling sweet treats. We shared brief remarks while I stood there, but his attention was elsewhere. I observed the cookies were poorly packaged in plastic, already soggy from the drizzle, and I pondered if he’d have enough to sell before the night ended. A deep chill permeated the air.

A Walk Through a Landscape of Tents

As I walked along al-Wehda Street in Gaza City, canvas structures flanked both sides of the road. An eerie silence replaced voices from inside them, just the noise of torrential rain and the moan of the wind. Rushing forward, seeking escape from the rain, I turned on my mobile phone's torch to illuminate the path. I couldn't stop thinking to those taking refuge within: How are they passing the time now? What thoughts fill their minds? What emotions do they hold? A severe chill gripped the air. I pictured children curled under soaked bedding, parents moving restlessly to keep them warm.

As I unlocked 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 felt consumed by the guilt of having a roof when countless others faced exposure to the storm.

The Darkness Worsens

As midnight passed, the storm intensified. Outside, plastic sheeting on shattered windows whipped and strained, while corrugated metal broke away and crashed to the ground. Cutting through the chaos came the piercing, fearful cries of children, piercing the darkness. I felt utterly powerless.

For the last fortnight, the rain has been unending. Cold, heavy, and driven by strong winds, it has drenched shelters, inundated temporary settlements and turned bare earth into mud. In other places, this might be called “poor conditions”. In Gaza, it is lived with exposure and abandonment.

Al-Arba’iniya

Palestinians know this time of year as al-Arba’iniya; the fourty most severe days of winter, starting from late December and continuing through 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 frost seeps through homes, streets are deserted and people just persevere.

But the threat posed by the cold is far from theoretical. In the early hours of Sunday before Christmas, rescue operations recovered the bodies 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 structural failures are not caused by ongoing hostilities, but the outcome of homes damaged from months of bombardment and ultimately defeated by winter rain. Earlier this month, an infant in Khan Younis died of exposure to the cold.

Fragile Shelters

Observing the camp nearest my home, I witnessed the impact up close. Thin plastic sheets buckled beneath the weight of water, mattresses floated and clothes were perpetually moist, always damp. Each step reminded me how vulnerable these tents are and how close the rain and cold came to taking life and health for countless individuals living in tents and cramped refuges.

A great number of these residents have already been forced from their homes, many several times over. Homes are gone. Neighbourhoods leveled. Winter has descended upon 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 faces I recognize; bright, resilient, but extremely fatigued. Most attend online classes from tents; others from overcrowded shelters where personal space doesn't exist and connectivity unreliable. Countless learners have already suffered personal loss. Most have seen their houses destroyed. Yet they persist in learning. Their fortitude is remarkable, but it should not be required in this way.

In Gaza, what would usually be routine academic practices—projects, due dates—become ethical dilemmas, shaped each day by concern for students’ security, heat and proximity to protection.

On evenings such as this, I find myself thinking about them. Are they dry? Is there heat? Could the storm have shredded through their shelter while they were trying to sleep? For those residing in apartments, or the shells that are left, there is no heating. With electricity mostly absent and fuel rare, warmth comes mainly from donning extra clothing and using whatever blankets are left. Despite this, cold nights are unbearable. What about those living in tents?

Aid and Abandonment

Agencies state that more than a million people in Gaza reside in temporary housing. Humanitarian assistance, including insulated tents, have been insufficient. During the recent storm, relief groups reported providing coverings, shelters and sleeping materials to a multitude of people. In reality, however, this assistance was widely experienced as inconsistent and lacking, limited to temporary solutions that did little against prolonged exposure to cold, wind and rain. Tents collapse. Sicknesses, hypothermia, and infections associated with damp conditions are rising.

This is not an surprise calamity. Winter is an annual event. People in Gaza interpret this shortcoming not as fate, but as abandonment. People speak of how necessary items are restricted or delayed, while attempts to reinforce weakened structures are repeatedly obstructed. Grassroots projects have tried to find solutions, to hand out tarps, yet they are still constrained by restrictions on imports. The culpability lies in political and humanitarian. Remedies are known, but are kept out.

A Symbolic Season

The factor that intensifies this hardship especially painful is how avoidable it could have been. No individual ought 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 ruining their last notebook. Rain exposes just how vulnerable survival is. It tests bodies worn down by stress, exhaustion, and grief.

This year's chill occurs alongside the Christmas season that, for millions, symbolises warmth, refuge and care for the most vulnerable. In Palestine, that {symbolism