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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. Initially, it was merely a soft rain, but after about 200 metres the rain suddenly grew heavier. That wasn’t surprising. I stopped near a tent, rubbing my palms together to draw some warmth. A young boy had positioned himself selling baked goods. We spoke briefly while I stood there, although he appeared disengaged. I saw the cookies were hastily covered in plastic, dampened from the drizzle, and I questioned if he’d manage to sell them all before the night ended. The freezing temperature invaded every space.

A Trek Through a Landscape of Tents

As I walked along al-Wehda Street in Gaza City, canvas structures flanked both sides of the road. No sounds of conversation came from inside them, just the noise of rain pouring down and the whistle of the wind. As I hurried on, trying to dodge the rain, I turned on my mobile phone's torch to light my way. I couldn't stop thinking to those taking refuge within: What are they doing now? What are they thinking? What are they experiencing? A severe chill gripped the air. I envisioned children nestled under wet blankets, parents moving restlessly to keep them warm.

As I unlocked the door to my apartment, the cold metal served as a quiet but powerful reminder of the struggles borne across Gaza in these brutal winter climate. I entered my apartment and was overwhelmed by the guilt of having a roof when so many were exposed to the storm.

The Midnight Hour Worsens

As midnight passed, the storm intensified. Outside, plastic sheeting on broken panes sagged and flapped violently, while metal sheets ripped free and slammed down. Overriding the noise 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 soaked tents, inundated temporary settlements and turned open ground into mud. In other places, this might be called “bad weather”. In Gaza, it is lived with exposure and abandonment.

Al-Arba’iniya

Locals call this time of year as al-Arba’iniya; the 40 coldest and harshest days of winter, beginning in late December and persisting to the end of January. It is the definite start of winter, the moment when the season unleashes its intensity. Ordinarily, it is faced with preparation and shelter. Currently, Gaza has none of these. The chill penetrates through homes, streets are empty and people simply endure.

But the danger of winter is no longer abstract. Early on the Sunday before Christmas, recovery efforts found the victims of two children after the roof of a shelled home collapsed in northern Gaza, saving five more people, including a child and two women. Two people have not been found. These structural failures are not new attacks, but the consequence of homes damaged from months of bombardment and finally undone by winter rain. Not long ago, an eight-month-old baby girl in Khan Younis passed away from exposure to the cold.

Fragile Shelters

Walking past the camp nearest my home, I saw the consequences up close. Inadequate coverings strained under the weight of water, mattresses floated and clothes hung damply, never fully drying. Each step reinforced how precarious these dwellings are and how close the rain and cold came to taking life and health for hundreds of thousands living in tents and packed sanctuaries.

The majority of these individuals have already been forced from their homes, many on multiple occasions. Homes are gone. Neighbourhoods flattened. Winter has come to Gaza, but shelter from its fury has not. It has come without proper shelter, without electricity, without heating.

A Teacher's Anguish

In my role as a professor in Gaza, this weather is a heavy burden. My students are not figures in a report; they are young people I speak to; bright, resilient, but deeply weary. Most participate in digital sessions from tents; others from packed rooms where privacy is impossible and connectivity sporadic. Countless learners have already suffered personal loss. Most have been rendered homeless. Yet they still try to study. Their resilience is extraordinary, but it must not be demanded in this way.

In Gaza, what would usually be routine academic practices—projects, due dates—become ethical dilemmas, dictated every moment by concern for students’ security, heat and ability to find refuge.

During nights like these, I am constantly preoccupied about them. Are they dry? Is there heat? Could the storm have shredded through their shelter during the night? For those residing in apartments, or damaged structures, there is no heating. With electricity mostly absent and fuel in short supply, warmth comes primarily through donning extra clothing and using whatever blankets are left. Even so, cold nights are unbearable. How then those living in tents?

Aid and Abandonment

Reports indicate that well over a million people in Gaza exist in makeshift accommodations. Aid supplies, including thermal blankets, have been inadequate. During the recent storm, relief groups reported providing coverings, shelters and sleeping materials to a multitude of people. For those affected, however, this assistance was frequently felt to be patchy and insufficient, limited to band-aid measures that offered scant protection against prolonged exposure to cold, wind and rain. Shelters fail. Respiratory illnesses, hypothermia, and infections associated with damp conditions are on the upswing.

This is not an surprise calamity. Winter is an annual event. People in Gaza understand this failure not as misfortune, but as being forsaken. People speak of how critical supplies are hindered or postponed, while attempts to fix broken houses are repeatedly obstructed. Community efforts have tried to make do, to hand out tarps, yet they are still constrained by what is allowed to enter. The failure is political and humanitarian. Answers are available, but are prevented from arriving.

An Unnecessary Pain

The factor that intensifies this hardship especially painful is how preventable it is. It is unconscionable to study, raise children, or fight illness standing ankle-deep in cold water inside a tent. No student should fear the rain ruining their last notebook. Rain reveals just how vulnerable survival is. It tests bodies worn down by pressure, weariness, and sorrow.

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