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The clock read around 8:30 PM on a Thursday when I made my way home in Gaza City. A strong wind was blowing, forcing me inside any longer, so I had to walk. In the beginning, it was just a gentle sprinkle, but after about 200 metres the rain suddenly grew heavier. That wasn’t surprising. I took shelter by a tent, trying to warm my hands to generate a little heat. A young boy had positioned himself selling homemade cookies. We spoke briefly while I stood there, though he didn’t seem interested. I saw the cookies were hastily covered in plastic, already soggy from the drizzle, and I questioned if he’d find buyers before the night ended. A deep chill permeated the air.

A Walk Through a Place of Tents

As I walked along al-Wehda Street in Gaza City, canvas structures flanked both sides of the road. An eerie silence replaced voices from inside them, merely the din of falling water and the roar of the wind. Rushing forward, seeking escape from the rain, I activated my mobile phone's torch to illuminate the path. My thoughts kept returning to those huddled within: What occupies them now? What is their state of mind? How do they feel? The cold was piercing. I pictured children nestled under damp covers, parents shifting constantly to keep them warm.

Upon opening the door to my apartment, the cold metal served as a subtle yet haunting reminder of the suffering faced across Gaza in these harsh winter conditions. I entered my apartment and felt consumed by the guilt of enjoying a dry home when a multitude remained unprotected to the storm.

The Night Worsens

As midnight passed, the storm intensified. Outside, plastic sheeting on broken panes sagged and flapped violently, while tin roofing tore loose and fell with a clatter. Cutting through the chaos came the piercing, fearful cries of children, piercing the darkness. I felt totally incapable.

During recent days, the rain has been relentless. Chilly, dense, and propelled by strong winds, it has drenched shelters, swamped refugee areas and turned the soil into mud. In other places, this might be called “bad weather”. In Gaza, it is experienced amidst exposure and abandonment.

The Harshest Days

Residents refer to this time of year as al-Arba’iniya; the most bitter forty days of winter, starting from late December and persisting to the end of January. It is the real onset of winter, the moment when the season shows its true power. Typically, it is weathered through preparation and shelter. Now, Gaza has neither. The frost seeps through homes, streets are vacant and people just persevere.

But the peril of the season is now very real. In the early hours of Sunday before Christmas, civil defense teams found the victims 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 are still unaccounted for. These structural failures are not caused by ongoing hostilities, but the result of homes compromised after months of bombardment and finally undone by winter rain. In recent days, an infant in Khan Younis passed away from exposure to the cold.

Fragile Shelters

Passing by the camp nearest my home, I saw the consequences up close. Thin plastic sheets sagged under the weight of water, mattresses floated and clothes were perpetually moist, incapable of drying. Each step highlighted how fragile these shelters were and how close the rain and cold threatened life and health for countless individuals living in tents and packed sanctuaries.

A great number of these residents have already been displaced, many repeatedly. Homes are destroyed. Neighbourhoods leveled. Winter has come to Gaza, but shelter from its fury has not. It has come without proper shelter, with no power, without heating.

A Teacher's Anguish

As a university lecturer in Gaza, this weather is a heavy burden. My students are not figures in a report; they are faces I recognize; intelligent, determined, but extremely fatigued. Most join virtual lessons from tents; others from overcrowded shelters where privacy is impossible and connectivity intermittent. Countless learners have already suffered personal loss. Most have seen their houses destroyed. Yet they still try to study. Their perseverance is astounding, but it should not be required in this way.

In Gaza, what would normally count as routine academic practices—projects, due dates—turn 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. Is their shelter holding? Are they warm? Did the wind tear through their shelter while they were trying to sleep? For those still living in apartments, or what remains of them, there is no heating. With electricity largely unavailable and fuel in short supply, warmth comes primarily through bundling up and using any remaining covers. Nonetheless, cold nights are unbearable. What, then those living in tents?

The Humanitarian Shortfall

Figures show that well over a million people in Gaza exist in makeshift accommodations. Aid supplies, including weatherproof shelters, have been insufficient. When the cyclone hit, aid organizations reported distributing tarpaulins, tents and bedding to a multitude of people. On the ground, however, this assistance was often perceived as inconsistent and lacking, limited to temporary solutions that were largely ineffective against ongoing suffering to cold, wind and rain. Structures give way. Chest infections, hypothermia, and infections caused by damp conditions are on the upswing.

This is not an unexpected catastrophe. Winter comes every year. People in Gaza understand this failure not as bad luck, but as neglect. People speak of how essential materials are restricted or delayed, while attempts to fix broken houses are repeatedly obstructed. Grassroots projects have tried to make do, to hand out tarps, yet they remain limited by bureaucratic barriers. The culpability lies in political and humanitarian. Remedies are known, but are prevented from arriving.

An Unnecessary Pain

The aspect that renders this pain especially painful is how avoidable it could have been. No individual ought to study, raise children, or fight illness standing ankle-deep in cold water inside a tent. No learner should dread the rain destroying their final textbook. Rain lays bare just how fragile life has become. It challenges health worn down by anxiety, fatigue, and loss.

The current cold season occurs alongside the Christmas season that, for millions, epitomizes warmth, refuge and care for the most vulnerable. In Palestine, that {symbolism