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The clock read approximately 8:30 PM on a Thursday when I headed back home in Gaza City. Gusts of wind blew, forcing me inside any longer, leaving me to walk. At first, it was only a light drizzle, but following a brief walk the rain suddenly grew heavier. It came as no shock. I stopped near a tent, clapping my hands to generate a little heat. A young boy sat nearby selling sweet treats. We shared brief remarks while I stood there, though he didn’t seem interested. I noticed the cookies were hastily covered in plastic, moist from the drizzle, and I pondered if he’d manage to sell them all before the night ended. The cold seeped into everything.

A Trek Through a Landscape of Tents

Walking down al-Wehda Street in Gaza City, tents lined both sides of the road. There were no voices from inside them, just the noise of rain pouring down and the moan of the wind. Quickening my pace, seeking escape from the rain, I switched on my mobile phone's torch to see the road ahead. My mind continually drifted to those sheltering inside: What are they doing now? What are they thinking? What are they experiencing? It was bitterly cold. I imagined children curled under soaked bedding, 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 harsh winter conditions. I stepped inside my apartment and was overwhelmed by the guilt of enjoying a dry home when a multitude remained unprotected to the storm.

The Midnight Hour Worsens

In the middle of the night, the storm reached its peak. Outside, tarps on broken panes sagged and flapped violently, while tin roofing ripped free and fell with a clatter. Overriding the noise came the sharp, panicked screams of children, shattering the darkness. I felt completely helpless.

During recent days, the rain has been unending. Cold, heavy, and driven by strong winds, it has soaked tents, inundated temporary settlements and turned open ground into mud. In other places, this might be called “poor conditions”. 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, beginning in late December and lasting until the end of January. It is the definite start of winter, the moment when the season unleashes its intensity. Typically, it is faced with preparation and shelter. Now, Gaza has neither. The chill penetrates through homes, streets are empty and people simply endure.

But the threat posed by the cold is no longer abstract. Early on the Sunday before Christmas, recovery efforts retrieved the remains of two children after the roof of a bombarded structure collapsed in northern Gaza, rescuing five others, including a child and two women. Two people have not been found. These incidents are not caused by ongoing hostilities, but the consequence of homes damaged from months of bombardment and ultimately defeated by winter rain. Earlier this month, an infant in Khan Younis died of exposure to the cold.

A Life in Tents

Passing by the camp nearest my home, I observed the results up close. Flimsy tarpaulins sagged under the weight of water, mattresses floated and clothes were perpetually moist, always damp. Each step reminded me 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.

A great number of these residents have already been displaced, many on multiple occasions. Homes are lost. Neighbourhoods razed. Winter has descended upon Gaza, but protection from it has not. It has come without proper shelter, with no power, without heating.

Students in the Storm

Being an educator in Gaza, this weather weighs heavily on me. My students are not mere statistics; they are individuals I know; bright, resilient, but profoundly exhausted. Most attend online classes from tents; others from cramped quarters where personal space doesn't exist and connectivity intermittent. Many of my students have already suffered personal loss. Most have been rendered homeless. Yet they continue their education. Their fortitude is remarkable, but it must not be demanded in this way.

In Gaza, what would usually be routine academic practices—tasks, schedules—turn into questions of conscience, dictated every moment by concern for students’ safety, warmth and ability to find refuge.

On evenings such as this, I find myself thinking about them. Is their shelter holding? Is there heat? Could the storm have shredded through their shelter during the night? For those residing in apartments, or damaged structures, there is an absence of warmth. With electricity scarce and fuel rare, warmth comes mainly from wearing multiple layers and using any remaining covers. Despite this, cold nights are intolerable. What, then those living in tents?

Political Failure

Agencies state that more than a million people in Gaza reside in temporary housing. Humanitarian assistance, including thermal blankets, have been far from enough. When the cyclone hit, relief groups reported providing plastic sheets, tents and mattresses 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 prolonged exposure to cold, wind and rain. Shelters fail. Sicknesses, hypothermia, and infections linked to damp conditions are on the upswing.

This is not an surprise calamity. Winter comes every year. People in Gaza view this crisis not as bad luck, but as being forsaken. People speak of how necessary items are restricted or delayed, while attempts to reinforce weakened structures are frequently blocked. Local initiatives have tried to find solutions, to distribute plastic sheeting, yet they remain limited by what is allowed to enter. The root cause is political and humanitarian. Solutions exist, but are kept out.

A Symbolic Season

What makes this suffering especially heartbreaking is how unnecessary it should be. It is unconscionable to study, raise children, or combat disease standing knee-high in cold water inside a tent. No student should fear the rain damaging their precious phone. Rain reveals just how fragile life has become. It strains physiques 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