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It was around 8:30 PM on a Thursday when I made my way home in Gaza City. Gusts of wind blew, and I couldn’t stay out any longer, so I had to walk. Initially, it was just a gentle sprinkle, but a short distance later the rain suddenly grew heavier. It came as no shock. I took shelter by a tent, clapping my hands to fight off the chill. A young boy sat nearby selling baked goods. We exchanged a few words while I stood there, but his attention was elsewhere. I observed the cookies were poorly packaged in plastic, moist from the drizzle, and I pondered if he’d have enough to sell before the night ended. The freezing temperature invaded every space.

A Walk Through a Place 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, just the noise of torrential rain and the whistle of the wind. Quickening my pace, attempting to avoid the rain, I activated my mobile phone's torch to illuminate the path. My mind continually drifted to those huddled within: What occupies them now? What are they thinking? What are they experiencing? The cold was piercing. I imagined children nestled under damp covers, parents moving restlessly to keep them warm.

As I unlocked the door to my apartment, the freezing handle served as a understated yet stark reminder of the hardships endured across Gaza in these harsh winter conditions. I walked into my apartment and couldn't shake the guilt of possessing shelter when a multitude remained unprotected to the storm.

The Midnight Hour Escalates

During the darkest hours, the storm reached its peak. Outside, tarps on shattered windows billowed and tore, while metal sheets broke away and fell with a clatter. Above it all came the piercing, fearful cries of children, shattering the darkness. I felt completely helpless.

Over the past two weeks, the rain has been unending. Chilly, dense, and propelled by strong winds, it has drenched shelters, flooded makeshift camps and turned bare earth into mud. Elsewhere, this might be called “poor conditions”. In Gaza, it is lived with exposure and abandonment.

Al-Arba’iniya

Palestinians know this time of year as al-Arba’iniya; the 40 coldest and harshest days of winter, beginning in late December and continuing through the end of January. It is the definite start of winter, the moment when the season shows its true power. Ordinarily, it is endured with preparation and shelter. Now, Gaza has neither. The chill penetrates through homes, streets are empty and people merely survive.

But the threat posed by the cold is now very real. On the Sunday morning before Christmas, civil defense teams retrieved the remains of two children after the roof of a bombarded structure collapsed in northern Gaza, saving five more people, including a child and two women. Two people have not been found. These incidents are not new attacks, but the consequence of homes compromised after months of bombardment and finally undone by winter rain. In recent days, an eight-month-old baby girl in Khan Younis passed away from exposure to the cold.

Precarious Existence

Observing the camp nearest my home, I witnessed the impact up close. Thin plastic sheets strained under the weight of water, mattresses floated and clothes remained wet, always damp. Each step reminded me how fragile these shelters were and how close the rain and cold came to taking life and health for a vast population living in tents and cramped refuges.

Most of these people have already been displaced, many repeatedly. Homes are gone. Neighbourhoods flattened. Winter has descended upon Gaza, but shelter from its fury has not. It has come lacking adequate housing, without electricity, lacking heat.

The Weight on Education

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 attend online classes from tents; others from overcrowded shelters where privacy is impossible and connectivity sporadic. Countless learners have already experienced bereavement. Most have seen their houses destroyed. Yet they continue their education. Their fortitude is remarkable, but it ought not be necessary in this way.

In Gaza, what would usually be routine academic practices—tasks, schedules—transform into moral negotiations, influenced daily by anxiety over students’ well-being, comfort and proximity to protection.

When the storm rages, I find myself thinking about them. Are they dry? Are they warm? Could the storm have shredded through their shelter during the night? For those still living in apartments, or what remains of them, there is an absence of warmth. With electricity mostly absent and fuel scarce, warmth comes primarily through wearing multiple layers and using any remaining covers. Despite this, cold nights are intolerable. How then those living in tents?

Political Failure

Agencies state that more than a million people in Gaza reside in temporary housing. Humanitarian assistance, including insulated tents, have been insufficient. When the cyclone hit, humanitarian partners reported distributing tarpaulins, tents and bedding to thousands of families. In reality, however, this assistance was often perceived as inconsistent and lacking, limited to band-aid measures that were largely ineffective against extended hardship to cold, wind and rain. Structures give way. Respiratory illnesses, hypothermia, and infections linked to damp conditions are increasing.

This cannot be described as an unexpected catastrophe. Winter is an annual event. People in Gaza interpret this shortcoming not as fate, but as being forsaken. People speak of how necessary items are restricted or delayed, while attempts to repair damaged homes are repeatedly obstructed. Community efforts have tried to make do, to hand out tarps, yet they remain limited by what is allowed to enter. The root cause is political and humanitarian. Answers are available, but are withheld.

An Unnecessary Pain

What makes this suffering especially agonizing 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. No student should fear the rain damaging their precious phone. Rain reveals just how vulnerable survival is. It challenges health worn down by anxiety, fatigue, and loss.

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