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The time was around 8:30 PM on a Thursday when I made my way home in Gaza City. Gusts of wind blew, forcing me inside any longer, so walking was my only option. In the beginning, it was merely a soft rain, but after about 200 metres the rain suddenly grew heavier. That wasn’t surprising. I paused beside a tent, clapping my hands to fight off the chill. A young boy sat nearby selling homemade cookies. We shared brief remarks as I waited, but his attention was elsewhere. I saw the cookies were hastily covered in plastic, moist 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 Journey Through a City 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, merely the din of falling water and the roar 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 huddled within: What occupies them now? What thoughts fill their minds? What are they experiencing? The cold was piercing. I envisioned children nestled under damp covers, parents adjusting repeatedly to keep them warm.

Upon opening the door to my apartment, the cold metal served as a subtle yet haunting reminder of the suffering faced across Gaza in these brutal winter climate. I walked into my apartment and was overwhelmed by the guilt of having a roof when so many were exposed to the storm.

The Night Worsens

In the middle of the night, the storm reached its peak. Outside, makeshift covers on broken panes sagged and flapped violently, while corrugated metal broke away and slammed down. Above it all came the piercing, fearful cries of children, cutting through the darkness. I felt completely helpless.

For the last fortnight, the rain has been relentless. Freezing, pouring, and carried by strong winds, it has flooded makeshift homes, inundated temporary settlements and turned the soil into mud. In different contexts, this might be called “inclement weather”. In Gaza, it is lived with exposure and abandonment.

Al-Arba’iniya

Palestinians know this time of year as al-Arba’iniya; the 40 coldest and harshest days of winter, starting from late December and lasting until the end of January. It is the true beginning of winter, the moment when the season shows its true power. Ordinarily, it is faced with preparation and shelter. This year, Gaza has none of these. The frost seeps through homes, streets are empty and people simply endure.

But the threat posed by the cold is no longer abstract. 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, rescuing five others, including a child and two women. Two people have not been found. Such collapses are not new attacks, but the outcome of homes compromised after months of bombardment and ultimately defeated by winter rain. Not long ago, a young child in Khan Younis passed away from exposure to the cold.

A Life in Tents

Walking past the camp nearest my home, I saw the consequences up close. Flimsy tarpaulins buckled beneath the weight of water, mattresses were adrift and clothes were perpetually moist, incapable of drying. Each step reminded me how vulnerable these tents are and how close the rain and cold came to claiming life and health for a vast population living in tents and overcrowded shelters.

The majority of these individuals have already been displaced, many several times over. Homes are lost. Neighbourhoods leveled. Winter has arrived in Gaza, but protection from it has not. It has come devoid of safe refuge, without electricity, lacking heat.

A Teacher's Anguish

As a university lecturer in Gaza, this weather weighs heavily on me. My students are not distant names; they are individuals I know; intelligent, determined, but deeply weary. Most attend online classes from tents; others from packed rooms where solitude is unattainable and connectivity sporadic. Countless learners have already experienced bereavement. Most have seen their houses destroyed. Yet they still try to study. Their perseverance is astounding, but it must not be demanded in this way.

In Gaza, what would typically constitute routine academic practices—tasks, schedules—turn into questions of conscience, shaped each day by anxiety over students’ safety, warmth and proximity to protection.

On evenings such as this, I am constantly preoccupied about them. Is their shelter holding? Are they warm? Has the gale ripped through their shelter while they were trying to sleep? For those residing in apartments, or damaged structures, there is an absence of warmth. With electricity largely unavailable and fuel rare, warmth comes mostly via bundling up and using any remaining covers. Even so, cold nights are unbearable. What, then those living in tents?

The Humanitarian Shortfall

Reports indicate that over a million people in Gaza live in shelters. Relief items, including weatherproof shelters, have been insufficient. Amid the last tempest, aid organizations reported distributing tarpaulins, tents and bedding to thousands of families. In reality, however, this assistance was often perceived as uneven and inadequate, limited to short-term fixes that offered scant protection against ongoing suffering to cold, wind and rain. Tents collapse. Chest infections, hypothermia, and infections associated with damp conditions are increasing.

This goes beyond an surprise calamity. Winter is an annual event. People in Gaza view this crisis not as fate, but as being forsaken. People speak of how critical supplies are blocked or slowed, 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 Symbolic Season

What makes this suffering especially heartbreaking is how avoidable it could have been. No individual ought to study, raise children, or fight illness 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 challenges health worn down by pressure, weariness, and sorrow.

This winter occurs alongside the Christmas season that, for millions, represents warmth, refuge and care for the disadvantaged. In Palestine, that {symbolism