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It was approximately 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, so walking was my only option. At first, it was just a gentle sprinkle, but after about 200 metres the rain became a downpour. This was expected. I stopped near a tent, trying to warm my hands to draw some warmth. A young boy was sitting outside selling homemade cookies. We shared brief remarks during my pause, although he appeared disengaged. I observed the cookies were loosely wrapped in plastic, moist from the drizzle, and I wondered if he’d manage to sell them all before the night ended. The freezing temperature invaded every space.

A Walk Through a Landscape 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 torrential rain and the roar of the wind. Quickening my pace, attempting to avoid the rain, I turned on my mobile phone's torch to see the road ahead. My mind continually drifted to those taking refuge within: How are they passing the time now? What is their state of mind? How do they feel? The cold was piercing. I pictured children nestled under wet blankets, parents adjusting repeatedly to keep them warm.

When I opened the door to my apartment, the cold metal served as a subtle yet haunting reminder of the suffering faced across Gaza in these brutal winter climate. I entered my apartment and couldn't shake the guilt of enjoying a dry home when so many were exposed to the storm.

The Night Worsens

During the darkest hours, the storm intensified. Outside, plastic sheeting on shattered windows sagged and flapped violently, while metal sheets ripped free and fell with a clatter. Cutting through the chaos came the piercing, fearful cries of children, piercing the darkness. I felt completely helpless.

During recent days, the rain has been relentless. Cold, heavy, and driven by strong winds, it has soaked tents, swamped refugee areas and turned open ground into mud. In different contexts, this might be called “inclement weather”. In Gaza, it is lived with exposure and abandonment.

Al-Arba’iniya

Locals call this time of year as al-Arba’iniya; the most bitter forty days of winter, starting from late December and lasting until the end of January. It is the true beginning of winter, the moment when the season unleashes its intensity. Normally, it is faced with preparation and shelter. This year, Gaza has none of these. The cold bites through homes, streets are deserted and people just persevere.

But the danger of winter is no longer abstract. On the Sunday morning before Christmas, civil defense teams 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. Such collapses are not new attacks, but the consequence of homes compromised after months of bombardment and succumbing to winter rain. Not long ago, a young child in Khan Younis succumbed to exposure to the cold.

Precarious Existence

Passing by the camp nearest my home, I observed the results up close. Inadequate coverings sagged under the weight of water, mattresses were adrift and clothes hung damply, incapable of drying. Each step highlighted how vulnerable these tents are and how close the rain and cold came to taking life and health for a vast population living in tents and overcrowded shelters.

A great number of these residents have already been uprooted, many on multiple occasions. Homes are destroyed. Neighbourhoods leveled. Winter has arrived in Gaza, but shelter from its fury has not. It has come lacking adequate housing, without electricity, lacking heat.

A Teacher's Anguish

In my role as a professor in Gaza, this weather is a heavy burden. My students are not distant names; they are young people I speak to; bright, resilient, but deeply weary. Most participate in digital sessions from tents; others from overcrowded shelters where privacy is impossible and connectivity intermittent. A significant number of pupils have already experienced bereavement. Most have been rendered homeless. Yet they persist in learning. Their fortitude is remarkable, but it ought not be necessary in this way.

In Gaza, what would usually be routine academic practices—tasks, schedules—transform into questions of conscience, influenced daily by anxiety over students’ security, heat and access to shelter.

On evenings such as this, I am constantly preoccupied about them. Do they have dryness? Are they warm? Could the storm have shredded through their shelter during the night? For those remaining in apartments, or what remains of them, there is no heating. With electricity largely unavailable and fuel rare, warmth comes mainly from wearing multiple layers and using any remaining covers. Nonetheless, cold nights are excruciating. What, then those living in tents?

Political Failure

Figures show that over a million people in Gaza reside in temporary housing. Relief items, including thermal blankets, have been insufficient. When the cyclone hit, humanitarian partners reported delivering tarpaulins, tents and bedding to thousands of families. On the ground, however, this assistance was often perceived as patchy and insufficient, limited to short-term fixes that were largely ineffective against ongoing suffering to cold, wind and rain. Shelters fail. Sicknesses, hypothermia, and infections caused by damp conditions are increasing.

This cannot be described as an surprise calamity. Winter comes every year. People in Gaza understand this failure not as bad luck, but as neglect. People speak of how critical supplies are restricted or delayed, while attempts to repair damaged homes are repeatedly obstructed. Community efforts have tried to find solutions, to hand out tarps, yet they continue to be hampered by what is allowed to enter. The root cause is political and humanitarian. Solutions exist, 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 combat disease standing ankle-deep in cold water inside a tent. No learner should dread the rain ruining their last notebook. Rain reveals just how precarious existence is. It tests bodies worn down by stress, exhaustion, and grief.

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