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The clock read around 8:30 PM on a Thursday when I made my way home in Gaza City. The wind howled, making it impossible to remain any longer, leaving me to walk. At first, it was only a light drizzle, but following a brief walk the rain became a downpour. That wasn’t surprising. I took shelter by a tent, rubbing my palms together to fight off the chill. A young boy had positioned himself selling sweet treats. We shared brief remarks as I waited, although he appeared disengaged. I noticed the cookies were hastily covered in plastic, already soggy from the drizzle, and I wondered if he’d find buyers before the night ended. The freezing temperature invaded every space.

A Trek Through a Landscape 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, just the noise of falling water and the moan of the wind. Rushing forward, trying to dodge the rain, I turned on my mobile phone's torch to light my way. My thoughts kept returning to those taking refuge within: What are they doing now? What thoughts fill their minds? How do they feel? The cold was piercing. I envisioned children curled under damp covers, parents adjusting repeatedly to keep them warm.

As I unlocked the door to my apartment, the cold metal served as a subtle yet haunting reminder of the hardships endured across Gaza in these severe cold season. I entered my apartment and felt consumed by the guilt of enjoying a dry home when so many were exposed to the storm.

The Midnight Hour Intensifies

During the darkest hours, the storm intensified. Outside, makeshift covers on shattered windows sagged and flapped violently, while corrugated metal ripped free and crashed to the ground. Above it all came the desperate, terrified shouts of children, piercing the darkness. I felt utterly powerless.

During recent days, the rain has been relentless. Freezing, pouring, and carried by strong winds, it has flooded makeshift homes, flooded makeshift camps and turned the soil into mud. Elsewhere, 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, beginning in late December and lasting until 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. Currently, Gaza has neither. The chill penetrates through homes, streets are vacant and people just persevere.

But the danger of winter is far from theoretical. Early on the Sunday before Christmas, recovery efforts recovered the bodies 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 caused by ongoing hostilities, but the consequence of homes weakened by months of bombardment and finally undone by winter rain. In recent days, an eight-month-old baby girl in Khan Younis succumbed to exposure to the cold.

Precarious Existence

Passing by the camp nearest my home, I observed the results up close. Flimsy tarpaulins buckled beneath the weight of water, mattresses floated and clothes remained wet, 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 countless individuals living in tents and cramped refuges.

A great number of these residents have already been displaced, many several times over. Homes are gone. Neighbourhoods leveled. Winter has descended upon Gaza, but protection from it has not. It has come lacking adequate housing, without electricity, lacking heat.

The Weight on Education

As a university lecturer in Gaza, this weather weighs heavily on me. My students are not mere statistics; they are faces I recognize; smart, persistent, but deeply weary. Most participate in digital sessions from tents; others from packed rooms where personal space doesn't exist and connectivity sporadic. Countless learners have already lost family members. Most have been rendered homeless. Yet they continue their education. 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—turn into ethical dilemmas, influenced daily by uncertainty about students’ well-being, comfort 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 still living in apartments, or damaged structures, there is a lack of heat. With electricity scarce and fuel rare, warmth comes mainly from donning extra clothing and using whatever blankets are left. Nonetheless, cold nights are unbearable. What about those living in tents?

Political Failure

Agencies state that over a million people in Gaza reside in temporary housing. Aid supplies, including thermal blankets, have been inadequate. When the cyclone hit, humanitarian partners reported distributing coverings, shelters and sleeping materials to a multitude of people. In reality, however, this assistance was often perceived as uneven and inadequate, limited to band-aid measures that did little against extended hardship to cold, wind and rain. Tents collapse. Respiratory illnesses, hypothermia, and infections associated with damp conditions are increasing.

This goes beyond an unexpected catastrophe. Winter is an annual event. People in Gaza view this crisis not as bad luck, but as neglect. People speak of how critical supplies are blocked or slowed, while attempts to fix broken houses are consistently hampered. Local initiatives have tried to improvise, to distribute plastic sheeting, yet they continue to be hampered by restrictions on imports. The root cause is political and humanitarian. Answers are available, but are prevented from arriving.

A Symbolic Season

What makes this suffering especially heartbreaking is how avoidable it could have been. It is unconscionable to study, raise children, or fight illness standing surrounded by cold water inside a tent. It is wrong for a pupil to worry about the rain ruining their last notebook. Rain reveals just how fragile life has become. It strains physiques worn down by anxiety, fatigue, and loss.

This winter occurs alongside the Christmas season that, for millions, represents warmth, refuge and care for the disadvantaged. In Palestine, that {symbolism