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It was about 8:30 PM on a weekday evening when I made my way home in Gaza City. The wind howled, making it impossible to remain any longer, so walking was my only option. Initially, it was only a light drizzle, but after about 200 metres the rain suddenly grew heavier. That wasn’t surprising. I took shelter by a tent, rubbing my palms together to draw some warmth. A young boy was sitting outside selling baked goods. We spoke briefly while I stood there, although he appeared disengaged. I saw the cookies were poorly packaged in plastic, already soggy from the drizzle, and I wondered if he’d have enough to sell before the night ended. The freezing temperature invaded every space.

A Journey Through a Landscape of Tents

Walking down al-Wehda Street in Gaza City, canvas structures flanked 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. Quickening my pace, attempting to avoid the rain, I activated my mobile phone's torch to illuminate the path. I couldn't stop thinking to those huddled within: What are they doing now? What are they thinking? How do they feel? The cold was piercing. I pictured children nestled under wet blankets, parents shifting constantly to keep them warm.

As I unlocked the door to my apartment, the freezing handle served as a subtle yet haunting reminder of the struggles borne across Gaza in these harsh winter conditions. I entered my apartment and felt consumed by the guilt of having a roof when countless others faced exposure to the storm.

The Darkness Worsens

During the darkest hours, the storm reached its peak. Outside, plastic sheeting on broken panes whipped and strained, while tin roofing tore loose and fell with a clatter. Cutting through the chaos came the sharp, panicked screams of children, piercing the darkness. I felt completely helpless.

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 other places, this might be called “inclement weather”. In Gaza, it is lived with 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 lasting until the end of January. It is the definite start of winter, the moment when the season shows its true power. Ordinarily, it is weathered through preparation and shelter. Currently, Gaza has neither. The frost seeps through homes, streets are deserted and people just persevere.

But the threat posed by the cold is far from theoretical. Early on the Sunday before Christmas, rescue operations recovered the bodies of two children after the roof of a shelled home collapsed in northern Gaza, rescuing five others, including a child and two women. Two people remain missing. These structural failures are not the result of fresh strikes, but the consequence of homes compromised after months of bombardment and succumbing to winter rain. In recent days, an infant in Khan Younis passed away from exposure to the cold.

Fragile Shelters

Passing by the camp nearest my home, I observed the results up close. Thin plastic sheets sagged under the weight of water, mattresses bobbed in water and clothes were perpetually moist, never fully drying. Each step reinforced how fragile these shelters were and how close the rain and cold came to claiming life and health for hundreds of thousands living in tents and overcrowded shelters.

A great number of these residents have already been forced from their homes, many repeatedly. Homes are lost. Neighbourhoods flattened. Winter has arrived in Gaza, but protection from it has not. It has come devoid of safe refuge, with no power, without heating.

Students in the Storm

Being an educator in Gaza, this weather causes deep concern. My students are not figures in a report; they are faces I recognize; smart, persistent, but profoundly exhausted. Most join virtual lessons from tents; others from overcrowded shelters where privacy is impossible and connectivity intermittent. Countless learners have already suffered personal loss. Most have lost their homes. Yet they still try to study. Their fortitude is remarkable, but it should not be required in this way.

In Gaza, what would usually be routine academic practices—assignments, deadlines—turn into questions of conscience, dictated every moment by anxiety over students’ security, heat and ability to find refuge.

When the storm rages, I cannot help but wonder 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 the shells that are left, there is no heating. With electricity largely unavailable and fuel rare, warmth comes mostly via wearing multiple layers and using any remaining covers. Even so, cold nights are unbearable. How then those living in tents?

The Humanitarian Shortfall

Reports indicate that more than a million people in Gaza reside in temporary housing. Relief items, including insulated tents, have been far from enough. When the cyclone hit, aid organizations reported delivering plastic sheets, tents and mattresses to numerous households. On the ground, however, this assistance was frequently felt to be inconsistent and lacking, limited to temporary solutions that were largely ineffective against prolonged exposure to cold, wind and rain. Shelters fail. Respiratory illnesses, hypothermia, and infections linked to damp conditions are on the upswing.

This cannot be described as an unforeseen disaster. Winter arrives cyclically. People in Gaza interpret this shortcoming not as fate, but as neglect. People speak of how necessary items are restricted or delayed, while attempts to reinforce weakened structures are repeatedly obstructed. Local initiatives have tried to make do, to provide coverings, yet they continue to be hampered by what is allowed to enter. The culpability lies in political and humanitarian. Answers are available, but are kept out.

An Unnecessary Pain

The factor that intensifies this hardship especially heartbreaking is how avoidable it could have been. No individual ought to study, raise children, or combat disease standing ankle-deep in cold water inside a tent. No learner should dread the rain destroying their final textbook. Rain lays bare just how precarious existence is. It tests bodies worn down by pressure, weariness, and sorrow.

This winter aligns with the Christmas season that, for millions, epitomizes warmth, refuge and care for the disadvantaged. In Palestine, that {symbolism