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The clock read about 8:30 PM on a weekday evening when I made my way home in Gaza City. A strong wind was blowing, making it impossible to remain any longer, leaving me to walk. At first, it was just a gentle sprinkle, but a short distance later the rain suddenly grew heavier. That wasn’t surprising. I stopped near a tent, clapping my hands to generate a little heat. A young boy was sitting outside selling sweet treats. We spoke briefly during my pause, although he appeared disengaged. I noticed the cookies were poorly packaged in plastic, already soggy from the drizzle, and I wondered if he’d manage to sell them all before the night ended. A deep chill permeated the air.

A Walk Through a Place of Tents

Walking down al-Wehda Street in Gaza City, tents lined both sides of the road. No sounds of conversation came from inside them, just the noise of falling water and the roar of the wind. As I hurried on, attempting to avoid the rain, I activated my mobile phone's torch to see the road ahead. I couldn't stop thinking to those taking refuge within: What are they doing now? What is their state of mind? How do they feel? The cold was piercing. I pictured children huddled under soaked bedding, parents adjusting repeatedly to keep them warm.

As I unlocked the door to my apartment, the cold metal served as a quiet but powerful reminder of the struggles borne across Gaza in these harsh winter conditions. I stepped inside my apartment and was overwhelmed by the guilt of enjoying a dry home when a multitude remained unprotected to the storm.

The Darkness Intensifies

As midnight passed, the storm reached its peak. Outside, tarps on broken panes whipped and strained, while metal sheets broke away and fell with a clatter. Overriding the noise came the sharp, panicked screams of children, shattering the darkness. I felt utterly powerless.

During recent days, the rain has been incessant. Chilly, dense, and propelled by strong winds, it has soaked tents, inundated temporary settlements and turned the soil into mud. In different contexts, this might be called “inclement weather”. In Gaza, it is endured in a state of exposure and abandonment.

Al-Arba’iniya

Locals call this time of year as al-Arba’iniya; the 40 coldest and harshest days of winter, beginning in late December and persisting to the end of January. It is the true beginning of winter, the moment when the season reveals its full force. Typically, it is faced with preparation and shelter. Currently, Gaza has none of these. The cold bites through homes, streets are deserted and people simply endure.

But the peril of the season is far from theoretical. In the early hours of Sunday before Christmas, civil defense teams 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 remain missing. Such collapses are not new attacks, but the result of homes compromised after months of bombardment and ultimately defeated by winter rain. Earlier this month, a young child in Khan Younis passed away from exposure to the cold.

Fragile Shelters

Walking past the camp nearest my home, I observed the results up close. Inadequate coverings sagged under the weight of water, mattresses bobbed in water and clothes were perpetually moist, incapable of drying. Each step highlighted how vulnerable these tents are and how close the rain and cold threatened life and health for hundreds of thousands living in tents and overcrowded shelters.

Most of these people have already been displaced, many repeatedly. Homes are lost. Neighbourhoods flattened. Winter has descended upon Gaza, but protection from it has not. It has come lacking adequate housing, without electricity, lacking heat.

Students in the Storm

In my role as a professor in Gaza, this weather weighs heavily on me. My students are not figures in a report; they are young people I speak to; smart, persistent, but extremely fatigued. Most join virtual lessons from tents; others from packed rooms where personal space doesn't exist and connectivity sporadic. Many of my students have already suffered personal loss. Most have been rendered homeless. Yet they continue their education. Their fortitude is remarkable, but it should not be required in this way.

In Gaza, what would normally count as routine academic practices—tasks, schedules—become questions of conscience, dictated every moment by concern for students’ well-being, comfort and proximity to protection.

During nights like these, I cannot help but wonder about them. Are they dry? Are they warm? Did the wind tear through their shelter while they were trying to sleep? For those remaining in apartments, or damaged structures, there is no heating. With electricity scarce and fuel in short supply, warmth comes primarily through bundling up and using the few bedding items available. Nonetheless, cold nights are intolerable. What, then those living in tents?

Political Failure

Figures show that over a million people in Gaza reside in temporary housing. Humanitarian assistance, including weatherproof shelters, have been far from enough. Amid the last tempest, relief groups reported providing plastic sheets, tents and mattresses to numerous households. On the ground, however, this assistance was widely experienced as patchy and insufficient, limited to band-aid measures that offered scant protection against ongoing suffering to cold, wind and rain. Shelters fail. Chest infections, hypothermia, and infections associated with damp conditions are on the upswing.

This cannot be described as an unforeseen disaster. Winter arrives cyclically. People in Gaza view this crisis not as misfortune, but as neglect. People speak of how critical supplies are restricted or delayed, while attempts to fix broken houses are frequently blocked. Local initiatives have tried to improvise, to distribute plastic sheeting, yet they continue to be hampered by bureaucratic barriers. The root cause is political and humanitarian. Answers are available, but are kept out.

A Preventable Suffering

The aspect that renders this pain especially painful is how unnecessary it should be. No one should have to study, raise children, or battle sickness standing knee-high in cold water inside a tent. No learner should dread the rain ruining their last notebook. Rain reveals just how fragile life has become. It tests bodies worn down by pressure, weariness, and sorrow.

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