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The time was approximately 8:30 PM on a Thursday when I returned home in Gaza City. A strong wind was blowing, making it impossible to remain any longer, so walking was my only option. In the beginning, it was merely a soft rain, but a short distance later the rain became a downpour. It came as no shock. I stopped near a tent, clapping my hands to generate a little heat. A young boy sat nearby selling sweet treats. We shared brief remarks while I stood there, although he appeared disengaged. I noticed the cookies were loosely wrapped in plastic, moist from the drizzle, and I pondered if he’d have enough to sell before the night ended. The freezing temperature invaded every space.

A Journey Through a Landscape 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, just the noise of falling water and the moan of the wind. Quickening my pace, trying to dodge the rain, I activated my mobile phone's torch to illuminate the path. I couldn't stop thinking to those taking refuge within: What are they doing now? What is their state of mind? What emotions do they hold? It was bitterly cold. I pictured children nestled under damp covers, parents shifting constantly to keep them warm.

When I opened the door to my apartment, the cold metal served as a understated yet stark reminder of the struggles borne across Gaza in these brutal winter climate. I walked into my apartment and felt consumed by the guilt of possessing shelter when so many were exposed to the storm.

The Midnight Hour Escalates

During the darkest hours, the storm grew stronger. Outside, tarps on shattered windows billowed and tore, while metal sheets broke away and fell with a clatter. Overriding the noise came the sharp, panicked screams of children, cutting through the darkness. I felt completely helpless.

During recent days, the rain has been unending. Cold, heavy, and driven by strong winds, it has soaked tents, inundated temporary settlements and turned open ground into mud. Elsewhere, this might be called “inclement weather”. In Gaza, it is endured in a state of exposure and abandonment.

Al-Arba’iniya

Palestinians know this time of year as al-Arba’iniya; the most bitter forty days of winter, commencing in late December and continuing through the end of January. It is the real onset of winter, the moment when the season reveals its full force. Typically, it is weathered through preparation and shelter. Now, Gaza has no such defenses. The chill penetrates through homes, streets are vacant and people merely survive.

But the peril of the season is now very real. In the early hours of Sunday before Christmas, recovery efforts retrieved the remains 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. These structural failures are not new attacks, but the consequence of homes damaged from months of bombardment and ultimately defeated by winter rain. In recent days, an infant in Khan Younis passed away from exposure to the cold.

A Life in Tents

Passing by the camp nearest my home, I witnessed the impact up close. Inadequate coverings buckled beneath the weight of water, mattresses bobbed in water and clothes hung damply, incapable of drying. Each step reinforced how fragile these shelters were and how close the rain and cold came to claiming life and health for hundreds of thousands living in tents and packed sanctuaries.

Most of these people have already been displaced, many repeatedly. Homes are lost. Neighbourhoods leveled. Winter has descended upon Gaza, but shelter from its fury has not. It has come devoid of safe refuge, with no power, 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 deeply weary. Most participate in digital sessions from tents; others from overcrowded shelters where privacy is impossible and connectivity sporadic. Many of my students have already experienced bereavement. Most have seen their houses destroyed. Yet they continue their education. Their resilience is extraordinary, but it ought not be necessary in this way.

In Gaza, what would typically constitute routine academic practices—projects, due dates—transform into questions of conscience, influenced daily by concern for students’ well-being, comfort and ability to find refuge.

On evenings such as this, I am constantly preoccupied about them. Are they dry? Do they feel any warmth? Has the gale ripped through their shelter as they attempted to rest? For those residing in apartments, or what remains of them, there is a lack of heat. With electricity scarce and fuel in short supply, warmth comes mostly via wearing multiple layers and using any remaining covers. Even so, cold nights are unbearable. How then those living in tents?

Aid and Abandonment

Reports indicate that over a million people in Gaza live in shelters. Humanitarian assistance, including weatherproof shelters, have been insufficient. Amid the last tempest, relief groups reported delivering plastic sheets, tents and mattresses to thousands of families. In reality, however, this assistance was frequently felt to be uneven and inadequate, limited to band-aid measures that were largely ineffective against ongoing suffering to cold, wind and rain. Shelters fail. Chest infections, hypothermia, and infections linked to damp conditions are on the upswing.

This cannot be described as an unexpected catastrophe. Winter arrives cyclically. People in Gaza view this crisis not as fate, but as abandonment. People speak of how essential materials are blocked or slowed, while attempts to repair damaged homes are frequently blocked. Local initiatives have tried to find solutions, to distribute plastic sheeting, yet they are still constrained by restrictions on imports. The root cause is political and humanitarian. Solutions exist, but are prevented from arriving.

A Preventable Suffering

The factor that intensifies this hardship especially heartbreaking is how preventable it is. No individual ought to study, raise children, or combat disease standing surrounded by cold water inside a tent. No student should fear the rain destroying their final textbook. Rain exposes just how fragile life has become. It tests bodies worn down by pressure, weariness, and sorrow.

This year's chill aligns with the Christmas season that, for millions, represents warmth, refuge and care for the most vulnerable. In Palestine, that {symbolism