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The clock read around 8:30 PM on a weekday evening when I returned home in Gaza City. Gusts of wind blew, and I couldn’t stay out any longer, so walking was my only option. At first, it was just a gentle sprinkle, but following a brief walk the rain suddenly grew heavier. This was expected. I stopped near a tent, rubbing my palms together to fight off the chill. A young boy had positioned himself selling homemade cookies. We spoke briefly while I stood there, but his attention was elsewhere. I observed the cookies were hastily covered in plastic, moist from the drizzle, and I pondered if he’d manage to sell them all before the night ended. The freezing temperature invaded every space.

A Trek Through a City of Tents

Walking down al-Wehda Street in Gaza City, canvas structures flanked both sides of the road. An eerie silence replaced voices from inside them, only the sound of torrential rain and the roar of the wind. Rushing forward, attempting to avoid the rain, I switched on my mobile phone's torch to see the road ahead. My thoughts kept returning to those sheltering inside: What are they doing now? What is their state of mind? How do they feel? A severe chill gripped the air. I envisioned children huddled under wet blankets, parents moving restlessly to keep them warm.

When I opened the door to my apartment, the cold metal served as a understated yet stark reminder of the struggles borne across Gaza in these brutal winter climate. I entered my apartment and was overwhelmed by the guilt of enjoying a dry home when a multitude remained unprotected to the storm.

The Darkness Escalates

During the darkest hours, the storm reached its peak. Outside, tarps on damaged glass billowed and tore, while tin roofing tore loose and slammed down. Above it all came the desperate, terrified shouts of children, shattering the darkness. I felt utterly powerless.

During recent days, the rain has been relentless. Chilly, dense, and propelled by strong winds, it has flooded makeshift homes, flooded makeshift camps and turned bare earth into mud. In other places, this might be called “poor conditions”. In Gaza, it is endured in a state of exposure and abandonment.

The Harshest Days

Locals call this time of year as al-Arba’iniya; the 40 coldest and harshest days of winter, starting from late December and continuing through 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. This year, Gaza has no such defenses. The chill penetrates through homes, streets are empty and people just persevere.

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 incidents are not caused by ongoing hostilities, but the result of homes damaged from months of bombardment and ultimately defeated by winter rain. In recent days, an infant in Khan Younis passed away from exposure to the cold.

Precarious Existence

Passing by the camp nearest my home, I witnessed the impact up close. Thin plastic sheets buckled beneath the weight of water, mattresses were adrift and clothes remained wet, incapable of drying. Each step highlighted how fragile these shelters were and how close the rain and cold came to taking life and health for hundreds of thousands living in tents and packed sanctuaries.

Most of these people have already been uprooted, many on multiple occasions. Homes are lost. Neighbourhoods razed. Winter has come to Gaza, but defense against it has not. It has come without proper shelter, in darkness, lacking heat.

Students in the Storm

In my role as a professor in Gaza, this weather weighs heavily on me. My students are not distant names; they are faces I recognize; bright, resilient, but deeply weary. Most participate in digital sessions from tents; others from packed rooms where personal space doesn't exist and connectivity intermittent. Countless learners have already suffered personal loss. Most have lost their homes. Yet they still try to study. Their fortitude is remarkable, but it ought not be necessary in this way.

In Gaza, what would typically constitute routine academic practices—tasks, schedules—turn into questions of conscience, dictated every moment by uncertainty about students’ safety, warmth and proximity to protection.

On evenings such as this, I find myself thinking about them. Is their shelter holding? Are they warm? Has the gale ripped through their shelter while they were trying to sleep? For those residing in apartments, or what remains of them, there is a lack of heat. With electricity mostly absent and fuel rare, warmth comes mainly from donning extra clothing and using any remaining covers. Even so, cold nights are unbearable. What about those living in tents?

The Humanitarian Shortfall

Figures show that more than a million people in Gaza reside in temporary housing. Relief items, including insulated tents, have been insufficient. During the recent storm, relief groups reported delivering coverings, shelters and sleeping materials to a multitude of people. In reality, however, this assistance was often perceived as uneven and inadequate, limited to short-term fixes that offered scant protection against prolonged exposure to cold, wind and rain. Tents collapse. Chest infections, hypothermia, and infections linked to damp conditions are increasing.

This is not an surprise calamity. Winter comes every year. People in Gaza view this crisis not as fate, but as being forsaken. People speak of how necessary items are blocked or slowed, while attempts to fix broken houses are consistently hampered. Grassroots projects have tried to make do, to distribute plastic sheeting, yet they are still constrained by what is allowed to enter. The root cause is political and humanitarian. Remedies are known, but are withheld.

An Unnecessary Pain

What makes this suffering especially agonizing is how unnecessary it should be. No individual ought to study, raise children, or fight illness 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 vulnerable survival is. It tests bodies worn down by anxiety, fatigue, and loss.

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