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It was approximately 8:30 PM on a weekday evening when I headed back home in Gaza City. Gusts of wind blew, forcing me inside any longer, leaving me to walk. Initially, it was only a light drizzle, but following a brief walk the rain intensified abruptly. It came as no shock. I stopped near a tent, rubbing my palms together to generate a little heat. A young boy had positioned himself selling homemade cookies. We exchanged a few words during my pause, but his attention was elsewhere. I observed 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. The freezing temperature invaded every space.

A Trek Through a City of Tents

While traversing al-Wehda Street in Gaza City, canvas structures flanked both sides of the road. No sounds of conversation came from inside them, just the noise of falling water 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. I couldn't stop thinking to those sheltering inside: How are they passing the time now? What are they thinking? How do they feel? A severe chill gripped the air. I envisioned children curled under soaked bedding, parents shifting constantly to keep them warm.

As I unlocked the door to my apartment, the cold metal served as a understated yet stark reminder of the suffering faced across Gaza in these severe cold season. I walked into my apartment and couldn't shake the guilt of having a roof when a multitude remained unprotected to the storm.

The Darkness Worsens

During the darkest hours, the storm reached its peak. Outside, makeshift covers on damaged glass billowed and tore, while metal sheets broke away and slammed down. Cutting through the chaos came the desperate, terrified shouts of children, piercing the darkness. I felt totally incapable.

Over the past two weeks, the rain has been unending. Chilly, dense, and propelled by strong winds, it has drenched shelters, swamped refugee areas and turned open ground into mud. In different contexts, this might be called “inclement weather”. In Gaza, it is endured in a state of exposure and abandonment.

The Harshest Days

Palestinians know this time of year as al-Arba’iniya; the fourty most severe days of winter, commencing in late December and continuing through the end of January. It is the real onset of winter, the moment when the season unleashes its intensity. Normally, it is endured with preparation and shelter. This year, Gaza has no such defenses. The cold bites through homes, streets are deserted and people just persevere.

But the danger of winter is far from theoretical. On the Sunday morning before Christmas, recovery efforts retrieved the remains 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 are still unaccounted for. These structural failures are not the result of fresh strikes, but the result of homes damaged from months of bombardment and finally undone by winter rain. Not long ago, an eight-month-old baby girl in Khan Younis passed away from exposure to the cold.

Fragile Shelters

Passing by the camp nearest my home, I witnessed the impact up close. Thin plastic sheets sagged under the weight of water, mattresses were adrift and clothes remained wet, always damp. Each step reinforced 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 uprooted, many repeatedly. Homes are destroyed. Neighbourhoods flattened. Winter has arrived in Gaza, but defense against it has not. It has come devoid of safe refuge, in darkness, without heating.

A Teacher's Anguish

Being an educator in Gaza, this weather causes deep concern. 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 cramped quarters where privacy is impossible and connectivity sporadic. Many of my students have already experienced bereavement. Most have seen their houses destroyed. 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—projects, due dates—transform into ethical dilemmas, shaped each day by uncertainty about students’ safety, warmth and ability to find refuge.

When the storm rages, I cannot help but wonder about them. Are they dry? Is there heat? Did the wind tear through their shelter while they were trying to sleep? For those residing in apartments, or what remains of them, there is an absence of warmth. With electricity scarce and fuel rare, warmth comes mostly via donning extra clothing and using whatever blankets are left. Despite this, cold nights are unbearable. How then those living in tents?

The Humanitarian Shortfall

Agencies state that more than a million people in Gaza reside in temporary housing. Aid supplies, including thermal blankets, have been inadequate. When the cyclone hit, relief groups reported distributing plastic sheets, tents and mattresses to thousands of families. In reality, however, this assistance was widely experienced as patchy and insufficient, limited to short-term fixes that did little against ongoing suffering to cold, wind and rain. Shelters fail. Respiratory illnesses, hypothermia, and infections caused by damp conditions are on the upswing.

This goes beyond an unforeseen disaster. Winter is an annual event. People in Gaza understand this failure not as bad luck, but as being forsaken. People speak of how essential materials are blocked or slowed, while attempts to repair damaged homes are consistently hampered. Local initiatives have tried to improvise, to provide coverings, yet they continue to be hampered by bureaucratic barriers. The culpability lies in political and humanitarian. Solutions exist, but are kept out.

A Symbolic Season

The factor that intensifies this hardship especially heartbreaking is how avoidable it could have been. No one should have to study, raise children, or combat disease standing knee-high in cold water inside a tent. No student should fear the rain ruining their last notebook. Rain exposes just how vulnerable survival is. It tests bodies worn down by anxiety, fatigue, and loss.

The current cold season occurs alongside the Christmas season that, for millions, symbolises warmth, refuge and care for the most vulnerable. In Palestine, that {symbolism