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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, and I couldn’t stay out any longer, so I had to walk. At first, it was merely a soft rain, but after about 200 metres the rain intensified abruptly. That wasn’t surprising. I paused beside a tent, trying to warm my hands to generate a little heat. A young boy had positioned himself selling baked goods. We exchanged a few words during my pause, but his attention was elsewhere. I observed the cookies were loosely wrapped in plastic, dampened from the drizzle, and I questioned if he’d have enough to sell before the night ended. The freezing temperature invaded every space.

A Journey Through a City of Tents

As I walked along al-Wehda Street in Gaza City, makeshift shelters crowded both sides of the road. An eerie silence replaced voices from inside them, merely the din of falling water and the whistle of the wind. As I hurried on, seeking escape from the rain, I activated my mobile phone's torch to illuminate the path. My mind continually drifted to those huddled within: How are they passing the time now? What are they thinking? How do they feel? It was bitterly cold. I pictured children curled under wet blankets, parents adjusting repeatedly to keep them warm.

As I unlocked the door to my apartment, the cold metal served as a understated yet stark reminder of the hardships endured across Gaza in these brutal winter climate. I stepped inside my apartment and couldn't shake the guilt of enjoying a dry home when so many were exposed to the storm.

The Night Worsens

In the middle of the night, the storm grew stronger. Outside, makeshift covers on shattered windows sagged and flapped violently, while corrugated metal ripped free and fell with a clatter. Above it all came the desperate, terrified shouts of children, shattering the darkness. I felt completely helpless.

Over the past two weeks, the rain has been unending. Chilly, dense, and propelled by strong winds, it has flooded makeshift homes, inundated temporary settlements and turned the soil into mud. In other places, this might be called “inclement weather”. In Gaza, it is experienced amidst exposure and abandonment.

Al-Arba’iniya

Palestinians know 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 definite start of winter, the moment when the season unleashes its intensity. Typically, it is faced with preparation and shelter. Now, Gaza has no such defenses. The frost seeps through homes, streets are vacant and people merely survive.

But the threat posed by the cold is far from theoretical. Early on the Sunday 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 caused by ongoing hostilities, but the result of homes weakened by months of bombardment and ultimately defeated by winter rain. Earlier this month, an infant in Khan Younis succumbed to exposure to the cold.

Precarious Existence

Walking past the camp nearest my home, I saw the consequences up close. Inadequate coverings sagged under the weight of water, mattresses bobbed in water and clothes were perpetually moist, incapable of drying. Each step highlighted 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 cramped refuges.

A great number of these residents have already been uprooted, many several times over. Homes are gone. Neighbourhoods leveled. Winter has come to Gaza, but shelter from its fury has not. It has come devoid of safe refuge, in darkness, devoid of warmth.

Students in the Storm

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 deeply weary. Most join virtual lessons from tents; others from overcrowded shelters where personal space doesn't exist and connectivity intermittent. A significant number of pupils have already suffered personal loss. Most have lost their homes. Yet they persist in learning. Their perseverance is astounding, but it must not be demanded in this way.

In Gaza, what would normally count as routine academic practices—tasks, schedules—transform into questions of conscience, shaped each day by anxiety over students’ security, heat and ability to find refuge.

On evenings such as this, I cannot help but wonder about them. Is their shelter holding? Are they warm? Has the gale ripped through their shelter during the night? For those remaining in apartments, or damaged structures, there is no heating. With electricity scarce and fuel scarce, warmth comes primarily through wearing multiple layers and using whatever blankets are left. Despite this, cold nights are intolerable. What about those living in tents?

Political Failure

Figures show that over a million people in Gaza reside in temporary housing. Humanitarian assistance, including insulated tents, have been far from enough. During the recent storm, relief groups reported delivering tarpaulins, tents and bedding to a multitude of people. For those affected, however, this assistance was frequently felt to be uneven and inadequate, limited to band-aid measures that offered scant protection against ongoing suffering to cold, wind and rain. Tents collapse. Chest infections, hypothermia, and infections associated with damp conditions are on the upswing.

This cannot be described as an surprise calamity. Winter is an annual event. People in Gaza view this crisis not as fate, but as abandonment. People speak of how necessary items are restricted or delayed, while attempts to reinforce weakened structures are repeatedly obstructed. Community efforts have tried to improvise, to distribute plastic sheeting, yet they are still constrained by what is allowed to enter. The culpability lies in political and humanitarian. Remedies are known, but are withheld.

A Preventable Suffering

The factor that intensifies this hardship especially agonizing is how unnecessary it should be. It is unconscionable to study, raise children, or combat disease standing surrounded by cold water inside a tent. It is wrong for a pupil to worry about the rain destroying their final textbook. Rain exposes just how vulnerable survival is. It tests bodies worn down by stress, exhaustion, and grief.

This year's chill coincides with the Christmas season that, for millions, epitomizes warmth, refuge and care for the disadvantaged. In Palestine, that {symbolism