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It was approximately 8:30 PM on a Thursday when I returned home in Gaza City. Gusts of wind blew, forcing me inside any longer, so I had to walk. In the beginning, it was merely a soft rain, but a short distance later the rain intensified abruptly. It came as no shock. I paused beside a tent, clapping my hands to generate a little heat. A young boy was sitting outside selling baked goods. We shared brief remarks during my pause, although he appeared disengaged. I noticed the cookies were hastily covered in plastic, dampened from the drizzle, and I wondered if he’d manage to sell them all before the night ended. A deep chill permeated the air.

A Trek Through a Place of Tents

While traversing al-Wehda Street in Gaza City, canvas structures flanked both sides of the road. There were no voices from inside them, only the sound of rain pouring down and the whistle of the wind. Quickening my pace, trying to dodge the rain, I switched on my mobile phone's torch to illuminate the path. I couldn't stop thinking to those sheltering inside: What are they doing now? What thoughts fill their minds? How do they feel? A severe chill gripped the air. I envisioned children nestled under soaked bedding, parents adjusting repeatedly to keep them warm.

Upon opening the door to my apartment, the icy doorknob served as a understated yet stark reminder of the struggles borne across Gaza in these brutal winter climate. I stepped inside my apartment and was overwhelmed by the guilt of enjoying a dry home when so many were exposed to the storm.

The Darkness Worsens

During the darkest hours, the storm intensified. Outside, plastic sheeting on broken panes sagged and flapped violently, while corrugated metal tore loose and slammed down. Above it all came the sharp, panicked screams of children, cutting through the darkness. I felt totally incapable.

During recent days, the rain has been relentless. Freezing, pouring, and carried by strong winds, it has flooded makeshift homes, swamped refugee areas and turned the soil into mud. Elsewhere, this might be called “inclement weather”. In Gaza, it is experienced amidst exposure and abandonment.

The Harshest Days

Locals call this time of year as al-Arba’iniya; the most bitter forty days of winter, commencing in 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. Normally, it is weathered through preparation and shelter. This year, Gaza has no such defenses. The chill penetrates through homes, streets are deserted and people simply endure.

But the peril of the season is now very real. Early on the Sunday before Christmas, rescue operations recovered the bodies of two children after the roof of a war-damaged building collapsed in northern Gaza, saving five more people, including a child and two women. Two people remain missing. These structural failures are not caused by ongoing hostilities, but the outcome of homes damaged from months of bombardment and ultimately defeated by winter rain. Not long ago, an infant in Khan Younis passed away from exposure to the cold.

A Life in Tents

Passing by the camp nearest my home, I observed the results up close. Inadequate coverings buckled beneath the weight of water, mattresses floated and clothes hung damply, never fully drying. Each step reminded me how fragile these shelters were and how close the rain and cold threatened life and health for countless individuals living in tents and cramped refuges.

A great number of these residents have already been displaced, many several times over. Homes are lost. Neighbourhoods leveled. Winter has come to Gaza, but defense against it has not. It has come devoid of safe refuge, without electricity, lacking heat.

Students in the Storm

In my role as a professor in Gaza, this weather causes deep concern. My students are not mere statistics; they are faces I recognize; bright, resilient, but deeply weary. Most join virtual lessons from tents; others from packed rooms where solitude is unattainable and connectivity unreliable. Countless learners have already lost family members. Most have been rendered homeless. Yet they persist in learning. Their perseverance is astounding, but it ought not be necessary in this way.

In Gaza, what would normally count as routine academic practices—projects, due dates—become moral negotiations, shaped each day by anxiety over students’ well-being, comfort and access to shelter.

When the storm rages, I find myself thinking about them. Are they dry? Are they warm? Could the storm have shredded through their shelter during the night? For those still living in apartments, or what remains of them, there is no heating. With electricity largely unavailable and fuel scarce, warmth comes primarily through donning extra clothing and using whatever blankets are left. Nonetheless, cold nights are intolerable. What about those living in tents?

Political Failure

Agencies state that over a million people in Gaza reside in temporary housing. Aid supplies, including insulated tents, have been insufficient. When the cyclone hit, relief groups reported delivering coverings, shelters and sleeping materials to numerous households. On the ground, however, this assistance was frequently felt to be uneven and inadequate, limited to temporary solutions that did little against prolonged exposure to cold, wind and rain. Tents collapse. Sicknesses, hypothermia, and infections caused by damp conditions are rising.

This cannot be described as an unforeseen disaster. Winter arrives cyclically. People in Gaza understand this failure not as misfortune, but as neglect. People speak of how necessary items are hindered or postponed, while attempts to repair damaged homes are frequently blocked. Community efforts have tried to improvise, to provide coverings, yet they are still constrained by bureaucratic barriers. The failure is political and humanitarian. Answers are available, but are prevented from arriving.

A Symbolic Season

The factor that intensifies this hardship especially painful is how avoidable it could have been. It is unconscionable to study, raise children, or combat disease standing knee-high in cold water inside a tent. It is wrong for a pupil to worry about the rain destroying their final textbook. Rain exposes just how fragile life has become. It challenges health worn down by stress, exhaustion, and grief.

The current cold season aligns with the Christmas season that, for millions, symbolises warmth, refuge and care for the neediest. In Palestine, that {symbolism