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The time was 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. Initially, it was merely a soft rain, but following a brief walk the rain intensified abruptly. It came as no shock. I stopped near a tent, rubbing my palms together to draw some warmth. A young boy had positioned himself selling baked goods. We exchanged a few words as I waited, though he didn’t seem interested. I saw the cookies were hastily covered in plastic, moist from the drizzle, and I wondered if he’d manage to sell them all before the night ended. The cold seeped into everything.

A Trek Through a Place of Tents

Walking down al-Wehda Street in Gaza City, tents lined both sides of the road. No sounds of conversation came from inside them, just the noise of falling water and the roar of the wind. As I hurried on, seeking escape from the rain, I turned on my mobile phone's torch to see the road ahead. My mind continually drifted to those sheltering inside: What occupies them now? What is their state of mind? How do they feel? A severe chill gripped the air. I imagined children nestled under wet blankets, parents shifting constantly to keep them warm.

Upon opening the door to my apartment, the freezing handle served as a quiet but powerful reminder of the suffering faced across Gaza in these severe cold season. I entered my apartment and was overwhelmed by the guilt of possessing shelter when so many were exposed to the storm.

The Midnight Hour Worsens

In the middle of the night, the storm reached its peak. Outside, tarps on broken panes billowed and tore, while metal sheets broke away and fell with a clatter. Above it all came the piercing, fearful cries of children, cutting through the darkness. I felt utterly powerless.

For the last fortnight, the rain has been relentless. Chilly, dense, and propelled by strong winds, it has soaked tents, swamped refugee areas and turned open ground into mud. In different contexts, this might be called “bad weather”. In Gaza, it is experienced amidst exposure and abandonment.

The Harshest Days

Residents refer to this time of year as al-Arba’iniya; the 40 coldest and harshest days of winter, starting from late December and lasting until the end of January. It is the real onset of winter, the moment when the season unleashes its intensity. Typically, it is weathered through preparation and shelter. Now, Gaza has neither. The frost seeps through homes, streets are empty and people just persevere.

But the threat posed by the cold is now very real. In the early hours of Sunday before Christmas, recovery efforts retrieved the remains 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 caused by ongoing hostilities, but the consequence of homes damaged from months of bombardment and succumbing to winter rain. In recent days, a young child in Khan Younis succumbed to exposure to the cold.

A Life in Tents

Observing the camp nearest my home, I witnessed the impact up close. Inadequate coverings buckled beneath the weight of water, mattresses floated and clothes hung damply, never fully drying. Each step reinforced how fragile these shelters were and how close the rain and cold threatened life and health for countless individuals living in tents and overcrowded shelters.

Most of these people have already been forced from their homes, many repeatedly. Homes are destroyed. Neighbourhoods razed. Winter has descended upon Gaza, but shelter from its fury has not. It has come devoid of safe refuge, without electricity, without heating.

The Weight on Education

Being an educator in Gaza, this weather is a heavy burden. My students are not figures in a report; they are faces I recognize; intelligent, determined, but profoundly exhausted. Most join virtual lessons from tents; others from cramped quarters where privacy is impossible and connectivity unreliable. Many of my students have already suffered personal loss. Most have seen their houses destroyed. Yet they persist in learning. Their fortitude is remarkable, but it should not be required in this way.

In Gaza, what would typically constitute routine academic practices—assignments, deadlines—become questions of conscience, shaped each day by uncertainty about students’ well-being, comfort and ability to find refuge.

When the storm rages, I find myself thinking about them. Do they have dryness? Are they warm? Has the gale ripped through their shelter while they were trying to sleep? For those residing in apartments, or damaged structures, there is a lack of heat. With electricity largely unavailable and fuel in short supply, warmth comes primarily through wearing multiple layers and using whatever blankets are left. Nonetheless, cold nights are intolerable. What about those living in tents?

Political Failure

Agencies state that over a million people in Gaza reside in temporary housing. Relief items, including weatherproof shelters, have been insufficient. Amid the last tempest, humanitarian partners reported distributing tarpaulins, tents and bedding to numerous households. In reality, however, this assistance was often perceived as uneven and inadequate, limited to band-aid measures that did little against ongoing suffering to cold, wind and rain. Tents collapse. Respiratory illnesses, hypothermia, and infections caused by damp conditions are rising.

This goes beyond an surprise calamity. Winter arrives cyclically. People in Gaza understand this failure not as fate, but as being forsaken. People speak of how essential materials are restricted or delayed, while attempts to repair damaged homes are frequently blocked. Local initiatives have tried to find solutions, to provide coverings, yet they remain limited by bureaucratic barriers. The root cause is political and humanitarian. Solutions exist, but are withheld.

A Symbolic Season

The aspect that renders this pain especially heartbreaking is how avoidable it could have been. No individual ought to study, raise children, or battle sickness standing knee-high in cold water inside a tent. It is wrong for a pupil to worry about the rain damaging their precious phone. Rain exposes just how precarious existence is. It tests bodies worn down by anxiety, fatigue, and loss.

This year's chill occurs alongside the Christmas season that, for millions, symbolises warmth, refuge and care for the neediest. In Palestine, that {symbolism