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It was around 8:30 PM on a Thursday when I returned home in Gaza City. The wind howled, forcing me inside any longer, leaving me to walk. Initially, it was only a light drizzle, but following a brief walk the rain suddenly grew heavier. That wasn’t surprising. I took shelter by a tent, clapping my hands to generate a little heat. A young boy was sitting outside selling homemade cookies. We spoke briefly while I stood there, though he didn’t seem interested. I observed the cookies were loosely wrapped in plastic, dampened from the drizzle, and I questioned if he’d find buyers before the night ended. A deep chill permeated the air.

A Walk Through a Place of Tents

As I walked along al-Wehda Street in Gaza City, canvas structures flanked both sides of the road. No sounds of conversation came from inside them, merely the din 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 thoughts kept returning to those huddled within: What are they doing now? What are they thinking? What are they experiencing? The cold was piercing. I envisioned children nestled under damp covers, parents shifting constantly to keep them warm.

As I unlocked the door to my apartment, the freezing handle served as a understated yet stark reminder of the struggles borne across Gaza in these severe cold season. I entered my apartment and was overwhelmed by the guilt of possessing shelter when a multitude remained unprotected to the storm.

The Midnight Hour Escalates

As midnight passed, the storm grew stronger. Outside, makeshift covers on shattered windows whipped and strained, while tin roofing ripped free and crashed to the ground. Above it all came the desperate, terrified shouts of children, cutting through the darkness. I felt utterly powerless.

During recent days, the rain has been relentless. Chilly, dense, and propelled by strong winds, it has drenched shelters, flooded makeshift camps and turned the soil into mud. In other places, this might be called “bad weather”. In Gaza, it is lived with exposure and abandonment.

Al-Arba’iniya

Palestinians know this time of year as al-Arba’iniya; the fourty most severe days of winter, beginning in late December and continuing through the end of January. It is the true beginning of winter, the moment when the season unleashes its intensity. Normally, it is weathered through preparation and shelter. Now, Gaza has no such defenses. The cold bites through homes, streets are empty and people merely survive.

But the danger of winter is no longer abstract. In the early hours of Sunday before Christmas, rescue operations retrieved the remains of two children after the roof of a shelled home collapsed in northern Gaza, freeing five additional individuals, including a child and two women. Two people remain missing. Such collapses are not caused by ongoing hostilities, but the consequence of homes compromised after months of bombardment and ultimately defeated by winter rain. Earlier this month, 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. Inadequate coverings sagged under the weight of water, mattresses were adrift and clothes were perpetually moist, never fully drying. Each step highlighted 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 several times over. Homes are gone. Neighbourhoods flattened. Winter has descended upon Gaza, but defense against it has not. It has come lacking adequate housing, with no power, devoid of warmth.

Students in the Storm

In my role as a professor in Gaza, this weather is a heavy burden. My students are not distant names; they are faces I recognize; smart, persistent, but deeply weary. Most attend online classes from tents; others from overcrowded shelters where privacy is impossible and connectivity sporadic. A significant number of pupils have already suffered personal loss. Most have lost their homes. Yet they continue their education. Their fortitude is remarkable, but it must not be demanded in this way.

In Gaza, what would typically constitute routine academic practices—projects, due dates—become moral negotiations, shaped each day by anxiety over students’ safety, warmth and access to shelter.

When the storm rages, I cannot help but wonder about them. Are they dry? Is there heat? Did the wind tear through their shelter during the night? For those still living in apartments, or what remains of them, there is a lack of heat. With electricity scarce and fuel rare, warmth comes mostly via donning extra clothing and using the few bedding items available. Despite this, cold nights are unbearable. What, then those living in tents?

The Humanitarian Shortfall

Figures show that well over a million people in Gaza live in shelters. Aid supplies, including thermal blankets, have been far from enough. During the recent storm, humanitarian partners reported delivering coverings, shelters and sleeping materials to numerous households. On the ground, however, this assistance was widely experienced as uneven and inadequate, limited to short-term fixes that were largely ineffective against prolonged exposure 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 arrives cyclically. People in Gaza view this crisis not as misfortune, but as abandonment. People speak of how essential materials are blocked or slowed, while attempts to reinforce weakened structures are repeatedly obstructed. Grassroots projects have tried to make do, to distribute plastic sheeting, yet they continue to be hampered by what is allowed to enter. The failure is political and humanitarian. Solutions exist, but are withheld.

A Preventable Suffering

The factor that intensifies this hardship especially agonizing is how preventable it is. No one should have to study, raise children, or battle sickness standing surrounded by cold water inside a tent. No student should fear the rain destroying their final textbook. Rain lays bare just how vulnerable survival is. It challenges health worn down by pressure, weariness, and sorrow.

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