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The time was about 8:30 PM on a Thursday when I headed back home in Gaza City. A strong wind was blowing, forcing me inside any longer, leaving me to walk. Initially, it was just a gentle sprinkle, but after about 200 metres the rain intensified abruptly. It came as no shock. I paused beside a tent, trying to warm my hands to fight off the chill. A young boy was sitting outside selling sweet treats. We spoke briefly during my pause, but his attention was elsewhere. I saw the cookies were poorly packaged 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 Walk 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, merely the din of torrential rain and the moan of the wind. Rushing forward, attempting to avoid the rain, I switched on my mobile phone's torch to illuminate the path. I couldn't stop thinking to those taking refuge within: What are they doing now? What are they thinking? What emotions do they hold? The cold was piercing. I pictured children curled under damp covers, parents shifting constantly to keep them warm.

Upon opening the door to my apartment, the cold metal served as a understated yet stark reminder of the hardships endured across Gaza in these harsh winter conditions. I stepped inside my apartment and was overwhelmed by the guilt of possessing shelter when so many were exposed to the storm.

The Darkness Worsens

In the middle of the night, the storm intensified. Outside, makeshift covers on damaged glass billowed and tore, while metal sheets broke away and fell with a clatter. Cutting through the chaos came the desperate, terrified shouts of children, piercing the darkness. I felt totally incapable.

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. In different contexts, this might be called “poor conditions”. In Gaza, it is lived with exposure and abandonment.

The Harshest Days

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 shows its true power. Normally, it is weathered through preparation and shelter. Now, Gaza has neither. The frost seeps through homes, streets are deserted and people merely survive.

But the danger of winter is far from theoretical. On the Sunday morning before Christmas, recovery efforts recovered the bodies 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 are still unaccounted for. These structural failures are not new attacks, but the result of homes damaged from months of bombardment and finally undone by winter rain. In recent days, a young child in Khan Younis passed away from exposure to the cold.

A Life in Tents

Passing by the camp nearest my home, I observed the results up close. Inadequate coverings buckled beneath the weight of water, mattresses bobbed in water and clothes hung damply, never fully drying. Each step highlighted how vulnerable these tents are and how close the rain and cold came to taking life and health for hundreds of thousands living in tents and overcrowded shelters.

The majority of these individuals have already been uprooted, many on multiple occasions. Homes are lost. Neighbourhoods razed. Winter has arrived in Gaza, but shelter from its fury has not. It has come lacking adequate housing, in darkness, without heating.

Students in the Storm

In my role as a professor in Gaza, this weather is a heavy burden. My students are not figures in a report; they are faces I recognize; intelligent, determined, but extremely fatigued. Most join virtual lessons from tents; others from overcrowded shelters where solitude is unattainable and connectivity intermittent. Many of my students have already suffered personal loss. Most have been rendered homeless. Yet they still try to study. Their fortitude is remarkable, but it must not be demanded in this way.

In Gaza, what would usually be routine academic practices—assignments, deadlines—transform into moral negotiations, influenced daily by concern for students’ security, heat and ability to find refuge.

On evenings such as this, I cannot help but wonder about them. Is their shelter holding? Are they warm? Has the gale ripped through their shelter while they were trying to sleep? For those still living in apartments, or the shells that are left, there is a lack of heat. With electricity scarce and fuel rare, warmth comes mostly via donning extra clothing and using any remaining covers. Nonetheless, cold nights are intolerable. How then those living in tents?

Political Failure

Agencies state that more than a million people in Gaza live in shelters. Relief items, including weatherproof shelters, have been far from enough. During the recent storm, relief groups reported delivering coverings, shelters and sleeping materials to a multitude of people. In reality, however, this assistance was frequently felt to be uneven and inadequate, limited to temporary solutions that did little against prolonged exposure to cold, wind and rain. Tents collapse. Chest infections, hypothermia, and infections associated with damp conditions are increasing.

This cannot be described as an unexpected catastrophe. Winter arrives cyclically. People in Gaza view this crisis not as misfortune, but as abandonment. People speak of how critical supplies are restricted or delayed, while attempts to reinforce weakened structures are consistently hampered. Grassroots projects have tried to improvise, to hand out tarps, yet they remain limited by restrictions on imports. The failure is political and humanitarian. Solutions exist, but are kept out.

A Preventable Suffering

The factor that intensifies this hardship especially painful is how preventable it is. It is unconscionable to study, raise children, or combat disease standing surrounded by cold water inside a tent. It is wrong for a pupil to worry about the rain destroying their final textbook. Rain reveals just how vulnerable survival is. It challenges health worn down by stress, exhaustion, and grief.

This winter aligns with the Christmas season that, for millions, symbolises warmth, refuge and care for the most vulnerable. In Palestine, that {symbolism