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It was approximately 8:30 PM on a weekday evening when I made my way home in Gaza City. Gusts of wind blew, and I couldn’t stay out any longer, leaving me to walk. Initially, it was merely a soft rain, but following a brief walk the rain suddenly grew heavier. It came as no shock. I paused beside a tent, rubbing my palms together to fight off the chill. A young boy was sitting outside selling homemade cookies. We shared brief remarks while I stood there, though he didn’t seem interested. I observed the cookies were loosely wrapped in plastic, moist from the drizzle, and I pondered if he’d find buyers before the night ended. The cold seeped into everything.

A Journey Through a Landscape of Tents

While traversing al-Wehda Street in Gaza City, makeshift shelters crowded both sides of the road. There were no voices from inside them, just the noise of torrential rain and the whistle of the wind. Quickening my pace, trying to dodge the rain, I turned on my mobile phone's torch to light my way. My thoughts kept returning to those huddled within: What occupies them now? What thoughts fill their minds? What emotions do they hold? It was bitterly cold. I imagined children huddled under soaked bedding, parents shifting constantly to keep them warm.

When I opened the door to my apartment, the icy doorknob served as a quiet but powerful reminder of the hardships endured across Gaza in these harsh winter conditions. I walked into my apartment and couldn't shake the guilt of possessing shelter when so many were exposed to the storm.

The Night Worsens

During the darkest hours, the storm reached its peak. Outside, makeshift covers on damaged glass billowed and tore, while corrugated metal ripped free and crashed to the ground. Cutting through the chaos came the piercing, fearful cries of children, cutting through the darkness. I felt completely helpless.

For the last fortnight, the rain has been unending. Cold, heavy, and driven by strong winds, it has soaked tents, flooded makeshift camps and turned the soil into mud. In other places, this might be called “poor conditions”. 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 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 endured with preparation and shelter. This year, Gaza has neither. The frost seeps through homes, streets are vacant and people merely survive.

But the peril of the season is far from theoretical. Early on the Sunday before Christmas, civil defense teams recovered the bodies of two children after the roof of a bombarded structure collapsed in northern Gaza, freeing five additional individuals, including a child and two women. Two people remain missing. Such collapses are not caused by ongoing hostilities, but the result of homes damaged from months of bombardment and succumbing to winter rain. Earlier this month, an eight-month-old baby girl in Khan Younis succumbed to exposure to the cold.

Fragile Shelters

Passing by the camp nearest my home, I saw the consequences up close. Thin plastic sheets strained under the weight of water, mattresses floated and clothes were perpetually moist, always damp. Each step reinforced how precarious these dwellings are and how close the rain and cold came to taking life and health for hundreds of thousands living in tents and packed sanctuaries.

A great number of these residents have already been displaced, many on multiple occasions. Homes are destroyed. Neighbourhoods flattened. Winter has come to Gaza, but shelter from its fury has not. It has come devoid of safe refuge, with no power, 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; bright, resilient, but extremely fatigued. Most participate in digital sessions from tents; others from overcrowded shelters where personal space doesn't exist and connectivity sporadic. A significant number of pupils have already experienced bereavement. Most have lost their homes. Yet they still try to study. Their resilience is extraordinary, but it should not be required in this way.

In Gaza, what would normally count as routine academic practices—projects, due dates—become ethical dilemmas, shaped each day by concern for students’ well-being, comfort and access to shelter.

On evenings such as this, I find myself thinking about them. Do they have dryness? Is there heat? Did the wind tear through their shelter during the night? For those still living in apartments, or damaged structures, there is an absence of warmth. With electricity scarce and fuel in short supply, warmth comes primarily through donning extra clothing and using whatever blankets are left. Even so, cold nights are unbearable. What about those living in tents?

Aid and Abandonment

Agencies state that over a million people in Gaza exist in makeshift accommodations. Humanitarian assistance, including weatherproof shelters, have been far from enough. When the cyclone hit, aid organizations reported distributing tarpaulins, tents and bedding to thousands of families. On the ground, however, this assistance was widely experienced as uneven and inadequate, limited to temporary solutions that did little against prolonged exposure to cold, wind and rain. Shelters fail. Respiratory illnesses, hypothermia, and infections linked to damp conditions are rising.

This goes beyond an unexpected catastrophe. Winter comes every year. People in Gaza interpret this shortcoming not as fate, but as abandonment. People speak of how necessary items are restricted or delayed, while attempts to fix broken houses are consistently hampered. Local initiatives have tried to find solutions, to hand out tarps, yet they are still constrained by bureaucratic barriers. The culpability lies in political and humanitarian. Solutions exist, but are kept out.

An Unnecessary Pain

What makes this suffering especially agonizing is how avoidable it could have been. No one should have to study, raise children, or fight illness standing ankle-deep in cold water inside a tent. It is wrong for a pupil to worry about the rain ruining their last notebook. Rain reveals just how precarious existence is. It tests bodies worn down by pressure, weariness, and sorrow.

The current cold season aligns with the Christmas season that, for millions, symbolises warmth, refuge and care for the disadvantaged. In Palestine, that {symbolism