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The clock read around 8:30 PM on a Thursday when I made my way home in Gaza City. The wind howled, forcing me inside any longer, so I had to walk. Initially, it was only a light drizzle, but after about 200 metres the rain intensified abruptly. This was expected. I stopped near a tent, clapping my hands to draw some warmth. A young boy was sitting outside selling homemade cookies. We exchanged a few words as I waited, but his attention was elsewhere. I saw the cookies were hastily covered in plastic, moist from the drizzle, and I questioned if he’d manage to sell them all before the night ended. A deep chill permeated the air.

A Walk Through a City of Tents

As I walked along al-Wehda Street in Gaza City, canvas structures flanked both sides of the road. No sounds of conversation came from inside them, only the sound of torrential rain 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. My mind continually drifted to those sheltering inside: What are they doing now? What is their state of mind? How do they feel? It was bitterly cold. I envisioned children nestled under soaked bedding, parents adjusting repeatedly to keep them warm.

When I opened the door to my apartment, the freezing handle served as a understated yet stark reminder of the hardships endured across Gaza in these harsh winter conditions. I entered my apartment and felt consumed by the guilt of having a roof when so many were exposed to the storm.

The Darkness Escalates

During the darkest hours, the storm intensified. Outside, plastic sheeting on shattered windows billowed and tore, while tin roofing broke away and crashed to the ground. Above it all came the desperate, terrified shouts of children, cutting through the darkness. I felt utterly powerless.

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

Al-Arba’iniya

Residents refer to this time of year as al-Arba’iniya; the fourty most severe days of winter, beginning in late December and lasting until the end of January. It is the definite start of winter, the moment when the season unleashes its intensity. Typically, it is endured with preparation and shelter. This year, Gaza has none of these. The chill penetrates through homes, streets are deserted and people merely survive.

But the peril of the season is now very real. In the early hours of Sunday before Christmas, rescue operations found the victims of two children after the roof of a shelled home collapsed in northern Gaza, saving five more people, including a child and two women. Two people remain missing. These incidents are not new attacks, but the outcome of homes compromised after months of bombardment and ultimately defeated by winter rain. Not long ago, an infant in Khan Younis succumbed to exposure to the cold.

Fragile Shelters

Passing by the camp nearest my home, I saw the consequences up close. Inadequate coverings buckled beneath the weight of water, mattresses bobbed in water and clothes hung damply, incapable of drying. Each step highlighted how fragile these shelters were and how close the rain and cold came to claiming life and health for a vast population living in tents and overcrowded shelters.

A great number of these residents have already been displaced, many several times over. Homes are destroyed. Neighbourhoods flattened. Winter has descended upon Gaza, but protection from it has not. It has come devoid of safe refuge, with no power, lacking heat.

A Teacher's Anguish

In my role as a professor in Gaza, this weather is a heavy burden. My students are not mere statistics; they are faces I recognize; bright, resilient, but deeply weary. Most participate in digital sessions from tents; others from overcrowded shelters where solitude is unattainable and connectivity unreliable. Many of my students have already lost family members. Most have lost their homes. Yet they continue their education. Their perseverance is astounding, but it must not be demanded in this way.

In Gaza, what would normally count as routine academic practices—tasks, schedules—become ethical dilemmas, shaped each day by uncertainty about students’ well-being, comfort and proximity to protection.

On evenings such as this, I cannot help but wonder about them. Do they have dryness? Is there heat? Did the wind tear through their shelter during the night? For those remaining in apartments, or damaged structures, there is no heating. With electricity scarce and fuel scarce, warmth comes mostly via wearing multiple layers and using any remaining covers. Nonetheless, cold nights are excruciating. What about those living in tents?

Political Failure

Figures show that over a million people in Gaza exist in makeshift accommodations. Aid supplies, including thermal blankets, have been inadequate. Amid the last tempest, relief groups reported delivering tarpaulins, tents and bedding to thousands of families. On the ground, however, this assistance was widely experienced as inconsistent and lacking, limited to temporary solutions that offered scant protection against prolonged exposure to cold, wind and rain. Structures give way. Sicknesses, hypothermia, and infections linked to damp conditions are rising.

This is not an unforeseen disaster. Winter arrives cyclically. People in Gaza understand this failure not as fate, but as being forsaken. People speak of how critical supplies are restricted or delayed, while attempts to reinforce weakened structures are frequently blocked. Grassroots projects have tried to make do, to distribute plastic sheeting, yet they are still constrained by what is allowed to enter. The root cause is political and humanitarian. Remedies are known, but are prevented from arriving.

A Preventable Suffering

The aspect that renders this pain especially heartbreaking is how avoidable it could have been. No individual ought to study, raise children, or battle sickness standing surrounded by cold water inside a tent. No learner should dread the rain ruining their last notebook. Rain exposes just how fragile life has become. It tests bodies worn down by stress, exhaustion, and grief.

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