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The time was around 8:30 PM on a Thursday when I returned home in Gaza City. Gusts of wind blew, making it impossible to remain any longer, leaving me to walk. In the beginning, 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, clapping my hands to generate a little heat. A young boy had positioned himself selling baked goods. We shared brief remarks while I stood there, though he didn’t seem interested. I noticed the cookies were loosely wrapped 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 Trek Through a City of Tents

Walking down al-Wehda Street in Gaza City, makeshift shelters crowded both sides of the road. No sounds of conversation came from inside them, merely the din of rain pouring down 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 thoughts kept returning to those taking refuge within: What occupies them now? What is their state of mind? How do they feel? It was bitterly cold. I pictured children curled under damp covers, parents adjusting repeatedly to keep them warm.

As I unlocked the door to my apartment, the freezing handle served as a subtle yet haunting reminder of the hardships endured across Gaza in these harsh winter conditions. I stepped inside my apartment and couldn't shake the guilt of enjoying a dry home when so many were exposed to the storm.

The Darkness Intensifies

During the darkest hours, the storm grew stronger. Outside, tarps on broken panes whipped and strained, while metal sheets ripped free and slammed down. Above it all came the piercing, fearful cries of children, cutting through the darkness. I felt completely helpless.

Over the past two weeks, the rain has been relentless. Freezing, pouring, and carried by strong winds, it has soaked tents, swamped refugee areas and turned open ground into mud. In different contexts, this might be called “poor conditions”. In Gaza, it is endured in a state of exposure and abandonment.

The Cruelest Season

Locals call this time of year as al-Arba’iniya; the 40 coldest and harshest days of winter, beginning in late December and continuing through the end of January. It is the definite start of winter, the moment when the season shows its true power. Typically, it is endured with preparation and shelter. Currently, Gaza has no such defenses. The cold bites through homes, streets are deserted and people simply endure.

But the peril of the season is no longer abstract. In the early hours of Sunday before Christmas, recovery efforts retrieved the remains 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 have not been found. These structural failures are not caused by ongoing hostilities, but the consequence of homes damaged from months of bombardment and finally undone by winter rain. In recent days, an eight-month-old baby girl in Khan Younis died of 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 bobbed in water and clothes remained wet, always damp. Each step reinforced how fragile these shelters were and how close the rain and cold came to taking life and health for a vast population living in tents and overcrowded shelters.

Most of these people have already been uprooted, many on multiple occasions. Homes are lost. Neighbourhoods leveled. Winter has arrived in Gaza, but protection from it has not. It has come without proper shelter, in darkness, lacking heat.

The Weight on Education

In my role as a professor in Gaza, this weather causes deep concern. My students are not figures in a report; they are young people I speak to; bright, resilient, but extremely fatigued. Most join virtual lessons from tents; others from overcrowded shelters where personal space doesn't exist and connectivity intermittent. A significant number of pupils have already experienced bereavement. Most have lost their homes. Yet they persist in learning. Their perseverance is astounding, but it must not be demanded in this way.

In Gaza, what would normally count as routine academic practices—projects, due dates—turn into moral negotiations, shaped each day by anxiety over students’ well-being, comfort and proximity to protection.

When the storm rages, 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 remaining in apartments, or damaged structures, there is no heating. With electricity largely unavailable and fuel rare, warmth comes primarily through bundling up and using the few bedding items available. Even so, cold nights are unbearable. What, then those living in tents?

Political Failure

Agencies state that well over a million people in Gaza live in shelters. Aid supplies, including insulated tents, have been insufficient. When the cyclone hit, aid organizations reported providing tarpaulins, tents and bedding to thousands of families. In reality, however, this assistance was widely experienced as inconsistent and lacking, limited to band-aid measures that were largely ineffective against ongoing suffering to cold, wind and rain. Structures give way. Respiratory illnesses, hypothermia, and infections associated with damp conditions are on the upswing.

This is not an unforeseen disaster. Winter comes every year. People in Gaza view this crisis not as bad luck, but as being forsaken. People speak of how critical supplies are blocked or slowed, while attempts to reinforce weakened structures are frequently blocked. Local initiatives have tried to find solutions, to hand out tarps, yet they continue to be hampered by what is allowed to enter. The failure is political and humanitarian. Solutions exist, but are prevented from arriving.

An Unnecessary Pain

What makes this suffering especially agonizing is how preventable it is. 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 destroying their final textbook. Rain lays bare just how fragile life has become. It tests bodies 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 disadvantaged. In Palestine, that {symbolism