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The clock read around 8:30 PM on a weekday evening when I headed back home in Gaza City. A strong wind was blowing, making it impossible to remain 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, clapping my hands to draw some warmth. A young boy was sitting outside selling sweet treats. We shared brief remarks as I waited, although he appeared disengaged. I observed the cookies were loosely wrapped in plastic, moist from the drizzle, and I questioned if he’d find buyers before the night ended. The freezing temperature invaded every space.

A Journey Through a City of Tents

While traversing al-Wehda Street in Gaza City, tents lined both sides of the road. No sounds of conversation came from inside them, merely the din of rain pouring down and the moan of the wind. Quickening my pace, attempting to avoid the rain, I switched on my mobile phone's torch to illuminate the path. I couldn't stop thinking to those huddled within: What occupies them now? What are they thinking? What are they experiencing? The cold was piercing. I imagined children huddled under soaked bedding, parents adjusting repeatedly to keep them warm.

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

The Midnight Hour Worsens

In the middle of the night, the storm reached its peak. Outside, makeshift covers on damaged glass whipped and strained, while tin roofing broke away and crashed to the ground. Overriding the noise came the piercing, fearful cries of children, piercing the darkness. I felt utterly powerless.

For the last fortnight, 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 “bad weather”. In Gaza, it is experienced amidst exposure and abandonment.

Al-Arba’iniya

Locals call this time of year as al-Arba’iniya; the most bitter forty days of winter, commencing in late December and continuing through the end of January. It is the true beginning of winter, the moment when the season reveals its full force. Ordinarily, it is faced with preparation and shelter. This year, Gaza has no such defenses. The chill penetrates through homes, streets are empty and people simply endure.

But the threat posed by the cold is no longer abstract. In the early hours of Sunday before Christmas, recovery efforts found the victims of two children after the roof of a war-damaged building collapsed in northern Gaza, freeing five additional individuals, including a child and two women. Two people remain missing. These structural failures are not the result of fresh strikes, but the outcome of homes damaged from months of bombardment and succumbing to winter rain. In recent days, an infant in Khan Younis died of exposure to the cold.

Fragile Shelters

Observing the camp nearest my home, I witnessed the impact up close. Thin plastic sheets sagged under the weight of water, mattresses were adrift and clothes remained wet, never fully drying. Each step reinforced how precarious these dwellings are and how close the rain and cold came to claiming life and health for countless individuals living in tents and cramped refuges.

The majority of these individuals have already been uprooted, many repeatedly. Homes are gone. Neighbourhoods razed. Winter has descended upon Gaza, but protection from it has not. It has come without proper shelter, without electricity, lacking heat.

A Teacher's Anguish

Being an educator in Gaza, this weather causes deep concern. My students are not distant names; they are young people I speak to; bright, resilient, but extremely fatigued. Most join virtual lessons from tents; others from cramped quarters where privacy is impossible and connectivity intermittent. A significant number of pupils have already experienced bereavement. Most have been rendered homeless. Yet they still try to study. Their resilience is extraordinary, but it should not be required in this way.

In Gaza, what would usually be routine academic practices—projects, due dates—turn into ethical dilemmas, influenced daily by concern for students’ security, heat and access to shelter.

During nights like these, I am constantly preoccupied about them. Are they dry? Are they warm? Did the wind tear through their shelter during the night? For those remaining in apartments, or the shells that are left, there is no heating. With electricity scarce and fuel rare, warmth comes mostly via bundling up and using the few bedding items available. Nonetheless, cold nights are intolerable. What about those living in tents?

Political Failure

Figures show that more than a million people in Gaza reside in temporary housing. Aid supplies, including insulated tents, have been far from enough. When the cyclone hit, humanitarian partners reported distributing coverings, shelters and sleeping materials to a multitude of people. For those affected, however, this assistance was widely experienced as patchy and insufficient, limited to band-aid measures that offered scant protection against prolonged exposure to cold, wind and rain. Shelters fail. Chest infections, hypothermia, and infections associated with damp conditions are on the upswing.

This is not an unforeseen disaster. Winter arrives cyclically. People in Gaza view this crisis not as misfortune, but as abandonment. People speak of how critical supplies are blocked or slowed, while attempts to repair damaged homes are repeatedly obstructed. Community efforts have tried to find solutions, 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.

An Unnecessary Pain

What makes this suffering especially painful is how preventable it is. It is unconscionable to study, raise children, or combat disease standing knee-high in cold water inside a tent. No student should fear the rain destroying their final textbook. Rain reveals just how fragile life has become. It challenges health worn down by stress, exhaustion, and grief.

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