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It was about 8:30 PM on a Thursday when I made my way home in Gaza City. The wind howled, forcing me inside any longer, so walking was my only option. In the beginning, it was just a gentle sprinkle, but following a brief walk the rain suddenly grew heavier. This was expected. I paused beside a tent, clapping my hands to fight off the chill. A young boy sat nearby selling sweet treats. We exchanged a few words as I waited, though he didn’t seem interested. I observed the cookies were poorly packaged in plastic, already soggy from the drizzle, and I wondered if he’d manage to sell them all before the night ended. A deep chill permeated the air.

A Trek Through a Landscape of Tents

Walking down al-Wehda Street in Gaza City, tents lined both sides of the road. An eerie silence replaced voices from inside them, merely the din of falling water and the moan of the wind. As I hurried on, attempting to avoid the rain, I turned on my mobile phone's torch to light my way. My thoughts kept returning to those taking refuge within: What occupies them now? What is their state of mind? What emotions do they hold? The cold was piercing. I pictured children curled under soaked bedding, parents adjusting repeatedly 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 brutal winter climate. I entered my apartment and couldn't shake the guilt of having a roof when countless others faced exposure to the storm.

The Night Worsens

As midnight passed, the storm reached its peak. Outside, makeshift covers on damaged glass billowed and tore, while metal sheets broke away and slammed down. Above it all came the sharp, panicked screams of children, piercing the darkness. I felt utterly powerless.

During recent days, the rain has been incessant. Chilly, dense, and propelled by strong winds, it has soaked tents, swamped refugee areas and turned open ground into mud. In different contexts, this might be called “bad weather”. In Gaza, it is endured in a state of exposure and abandonment.

Al-Arba’iniya

Residents refer to this time of year as al-Arba’iniya; the fourty most severe days of winter, commencing in late December and persisting to the end of January. It is the real onset of winter, the moment when the season unleashes its intensity. Typically, it is endured with preparation and shelter. This year, Gaza has neither. The cold bites through homes, streets are empty and people just persevere.

But the peril of the season is far from theoretical. On the Sunday morning before Christmas, rescue operations recovered the bodies 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 are still unaccounted for. These incidents are not new attacks, but the result of homes compromised after months of bombardment and ultimately defeated by winter rain. Earlier this month, an eight-month-old baby girl in Khan Younis succumbed to exposure to the cold.

A Life in Tents

Walking past the camp nearest my home, I saw the consequences up close. Flimsy tarpaulins sagged under 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 threatened life and health for countless individuals living in tents and overcrowded shelters.

A great number of these residents have already been forced from their homes, many several times over. Homes are lost. Neighbourhoods leveled. Winter has arrived in Gaza, but protection from it has not. It has come devoid of safe refuge, in darkness, without heating.

A Teacher's Anguish

Being an educator in Gaza, this weather causes deep concern. My students are not mere statistics; they are young people I speak to; smart, persistent, but extremely fatigued. Most join virtual lessons from tents; others from packed rooms where personal space doesn't exist and connectivity intermittent. Countless learners have already experienced bereavement. Most have lost their homes. Yet they continue their education. Their resilience is extraordinary, but it must not be demanded in this way.

In Gaza, what would typically constitute routine academic practices—assignments, deadlines—become ethical dilemmas, shaped each day by uncertainty about students’ security, heat and access to shelter.

When the storm rages, I am constantly preoccupied about them. Do they have dryness? Are they warm? Did the wind tear through their shelter while they were trying to sleep? For those residing in apartments, or what remains of them, there is an absence of warmth. With electricity largely unavailable and fuel scarce, warmth comes mostly via bundling up and using the few bedding items available. Despite this, cold nights are excruciating. How then those living in tents?

Aid and Abandonment

Reports indicate that well over a million people in Gaza reside in temporary housing. Humanitarian assistance, including weatherproof shelters, have been far from enough. Amid the last tempest, aid organizations reported delivering tarpaulins, tents and bedding to numerous households. For those affected, however, this assistance was often perceived as uneven and inadequate, 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 rising.

This is not an unexpected catastrophe. Winter comes every year. People in Gaza understand this failure not as bad luck, but as being forsaken. People speak of how essential materials are hindered or postponed, while attempts to reinforce weakened structures are frequently blocked. Grassroots projects have tried to make do, to hand out tarps, yet they continue to be hampered by restrictions on imports. The culpability lies in political and humanitarian. Answers are available, but are prevented from arriving.

An Unnecessary Pain

What makes this suffering especially agonizing is how unnecessary it should be. No individual ought 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 vulnerable survival is. It tests bodies worn down by anxiety, fatigue, and loss.

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