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It was about 8:30 PM on a Thursday when I returned home in Gaza City. The wind howled, making it impossible to remain any longer, leaving me to walk. Initially, 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 fight off the chill. A young boy had positioned himself selling sweet treats. We shared brief remarks during my pause, though he didn’t seem interested. I observed the cookies were poorly packaged in plastic, dampened from the drizzle, and I pondered if he’d find buyers before the night ended. A deep chill permeated the air.

A Journey Through a Landscape of Tents

As I walked along al-Wehda Street in Gaza City, canvas structures flanked both sides of the road. There were no voices from inside them, merely the din of rain pouring down and the moan of the wind. Quickening my pace, attempting to avoid the rain, I switched on my mobile phone's torch to see the road ahead. My mind continually drifted to those huddled within: How are they passing the time now? What are they thinking? How do they feel? A severe chill gripped the air. I envisioned children nestled under soaked bedding, parents adjusting repeatedly to keep them warm.

As I unlocked the door to my apartment, the icy doorknob served as a understated yet stark reminder of the struggles borne across Gaza in these harsh winter conditions. I entered my apartment and was overwhelmed by the guilt of possessing shelter when countless others faced exposure to the storm.

The Midnight Hour Escalates

As midnight passed, the storm intensified. Outside, plastic sheeting on broken panes sagged and flapped violently, while tin roofing tore loose and slammed down. Above it all came the desperate, terrified shouts of children, shattering the darkness. I felt utterly powerless.

During recent days, the rain has been relentless. Freezing, pouring, and carried by strong winds, it has soaked tents, inundated temporary settlements and turned bare earth into mud. In other places, this might be called “bad 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 fourty most severe days of winter, commencing 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 weathered through preparation and shelter. This year, Gaza has neither. The cold bites through homes, streets are vacant and people merely survive.

But the threat posed by the cold is now very real. On the Sunday morning before Christmas, rescue operations found the victims of two children after the roof of a bombarded structure collapsed in northern Gaza, rescuing five others, including a child and two women. Two people are still unaccounted for. These structural failures are not new attacks, but the outcome of homes weakened by 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.

Fragile Shelters

Walking past the camp nearest my home, I witnessed the impact up close. Thin plastic sheets sagged under 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 taking life and health for a vast population living in tents and packed sanctuaries.

The majority of these individuals have already been forced from their homes, many repeatedly. Homes are destroyed. Neighbourhoods flattened. Winter has arrived in Gaza, but defense against it has not. It has come without proper shelter, without electricity, lacking heat.

The Weight on Education

In my role as a professor in Gaza, this weather causes deep concern. My students are not distant names; they are young people I speak to; intelligent, determined, but extremely fatigued. Most attend online classes from tents; others from cramped quarters where personal space doesn't exist and connectivity unreliable. Countless learners have already experienced bereavement. Most have lost their homes. Yet they continue their education. Their resilience is extraordinary, but it ought not be necessary in this way.

In Gaza, what would normally count as routine academic practices—tasks, schedules—turn into ethical dilemmas, influenced daily by anxiety over students’ well-being, comfort and access to shelter.

When the storm rages, I cannot help but wonder about them. Are they dry? Do they feel any warmth? Did the wind tear through their shelter during the night? For those residing in apartments, or the shells that are left, there is an absence of warmth. With electricity mostly absent and fuel in short supply, warmth comes mostly via bundling up and using whatever blankets are left. Even so, cold nights are intolerable. How then those living in tents?

The Humanitarian Shortfall

Agencies state that more than a million people in Gaza live in shelters. Aid supplies, including insulated tents, have been insufficient. During the recent storm, humanitarian partners reported providing plastic sheets, tents and mattresses to numerous households. In reality, however, this assistance was often perceived as patchy and insufficient, limited to short-term fixes that offered scant protection against ongoing suffering to cold, wind and rain. Shelters fail. Sicknesses, hypothermia, and infections associated with damp conditions are on the upswing.

This goes beyond an unforeseen disaster. Winter arrives cyclically. People in Gaza interpret this shortcoming not as bad luck, but as abandonment. People speak of how essential materials are hindered or postponed, while attempts to reinforce weakened structures are frequently blocked. Local initiatives have tried to find solutions, to hand out tarps, yet they remain limited by restrictions on imports. The root cause is political and humanitarian. Answers are available, but are withheld.

An Unnecessary Pain

What makes this suffering especially painful is how preventable it is. No one should have to study, raise children, or combat disease standing surrounded by cold water inside a tent. No learner should dread the rain destroying their final textbook. Rain lays bare just how precarious existence is. It challenges health worn down by anxiety, fatigue, and loss.

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