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It was around 8:30 PM on a weekday evening when I headed back home in Gaza City. A strong wind was blowing, forcing me inside any longer, leaving me to walk. At first, it was merely a soft rain, but following a brief walk the rain became a downpour. It came as no shock. I paused beside a tent, trying to warm my hands to generate a little heat. A young boy had positioned himself selling baked goods. We exchanged a few words as I waited, but his attention was elsewhere. I observed the cookies were loosely wrapped in plastic, already soggy from the drizzle, and I wondered if he’d have enough to sell before the night ended. The cold seeped into everything.

A Trek Through a Place of Tents

Walking down al-Wehda Street in Gaza City, canvas structures flanked both sides of the road. There were no voices from inside them, merely the din of rain pouring down and the whistle of the wind. As I hurried on, seeking escape from the rain, I switched on my mobile phone's torch to light my way. I couldn't stop thinking to those huddled within: What occupies them now? What thoughts fill their minds? What are they experiencing? The cold was piercing. I envisioned children huddled under wet blankets, 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 struggles borne across Gaza in these harsh winter conditions. I entered my apartment and couldn't shake the guilt of having a roof when so many were exposed to the storm.

The Midnight Hour Worsens

In the middle of the night, the storm grew stronger. Outside, tarps on damaged glass sagged and flapped violently, while metal sheets broke away and crashed to the ground. Cutting through the chaos came the piercing, fearful cries of children, cutting through the darkness. I felt totally incapable.

During recent days, the rain has been incessant. Freezing, pouring, and carried by strong winds, it has flooded makeshift homes, 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 Cruelest Season

Palestinians know this time of year as al-Arba’iniya; the fourty most severe days of winter, beginning in late December and persisting to the end of January. It is the definite start of winter, the moment when the season unleashes its intensity. Normally, it is faced with preparation and shelter. Currently, Gaza has none of these. The frost seeps through homes, streets are vacant and people simply endure.

But the danger of winter is far from theoretical. In the early hours of Sunday before Christmas, recovery efforts recovered the bodies 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 are still unaccounted for. Such collapses are not the result of fresh strikes, but the consequence of homes weakened by months of bombardment and finally undone by winter rain. Not long ago, a young child in Khan Younis died of exposure to the cold.

Fragile Shelters

Passing by the camp nearest my home, I observed the results up close. Thin plastic sheets buckled beneath the weight of water, mattresses floated and clothes were perpetually moist, always damp. Each step reinforced how vulnerable these tents are and how close the rain and cold came to claiming life and health for a vast population living in tents and overcrowded shelters.

Most of these people have already been forced from their homes, many repeatedly. Homes are lost. Neighbourhoods leveled. Winter has descended upon Gaza, but shelter from its fury has not. It has come lacking adequate housing, in darkness, lacking heat.

The Weight on Education

Being an educator in Gaza, this weather is a heavy burden. My students are not distant names; they are individuals I know; smart, persistent, but deeply weary. Most join virtual lessons from tents; others from overcrowded shelters where solitude is unattainable and connectivity sporadic. Countless learners have already experienced bereavement. Most have lost their homes. Yet they still try to study. Their resilience is extraordinary, but it must not be demanded in this way.

In Gaza, what would usually be routine academic practices—assignments, deadlines—turn into questions of conscience, influenced daily by concern for students’ well-being, comfort and ability to find refuge.

When the storm rages, I am constantly preoccupied about them. Do they have dryness? Are they warm? Could the storm have shredded through their shelter during the night? For those remaining in apartments, or the shells that are left, there is a lack of heat. With electricity scarce and fuel scarce, warmth comes mostly via donning extra clothing and using the few bedding items available. Nonetheless, cold nights are unbearable. What, then those living in tents?

Aid and Abandonment

Agencies state that more than a million people in Gaza live in shelters. Relief items, including insulated tents, have been insufficient. Amid the last tempest, aid organizations reported providing plastic sheets, tents and mattresses to numerous households. For those affected, however, this assistance was widely experienced as uneven and inadequate, limited to short-term fixes that offered scant protection against prolonged exposure to cold, wind and rain. Structures give way. Sicknesses, hypothermia, and infections linked to damp conditions are rising.

This is not an unforeseen disaster. Winter is an annual event. People in Gaza interpret this shortcoming not as misfortune, but as abandonment. People speak of how necessary items are blocked or slowed, while attempts to repair damaged homes are consistently hampered. Community efforts have tried to find solutions, to distribute plastic sheeting, yet they are still constrained by restrictions on imports. The failure is political and humanitarian. Solutions exist, but are withheld.

A Symbolic Season

What makes this suffering especially heartbreaking is how preventable it is. It is unconscionable to study, raise children, or combat disease standing surrounded by cold water inside a tent. No student should fear the rain ruining their last notebook. Rain exposes just how precarious existence is. It strains physiques worn down by stress, exhaustion, and grief.

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