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The clock read around 8:30 PM on a weekday evening when I headed back home in Gaza City. The wind howled, forcing me inside any longer, so walking was my only option. In the beginning, it was only a light drizzle, but a short distance later the rain became a downpour. 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 homemade cookies. We spoke briefly while I stood there, though he didn’t seem interested. I saw the cookies were loosely wrapped in plastic, already soggy from the drizzle, and I wondered if he’d manage to sell them all before the night ended. The freezing temperature invaded every space.

A Journey Through a Landscape of Tents

While traversing al-Wehda Street in Gaza City, makeshift shelters crowded both sides of the road. No sounds of conversation came from inside them, only the sound of rain pouring down and the moan of the wind. Quickening my pace, seeking escape from the rain, I activated my mobile phone's torch to see the road ahead. My thoughts kept returning to those taking refuge within: What occupies them now? What is their state of mind? How do they feel? It was bitterly cold. I envisioned children curled under damp covers, parents shifting constantly to keep them warm.

When I opened the door to my apartment, the icy doorknob served as a understated yet stark reminder of the suffering faced across Gaza in these brutal winter climate. I stepped inside my apartment and couldn't shake the guilt of enjoying a dry home when a multitude remained unprotected to the storm.

The Night Intensifies

In the middle of the night, the storm intensified. Outside, tarps on shattered windows billowed and tore, while metal sheets broke away 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 unending. Chilly, dense, and propelled by strong winds, it has flooded makeshift homes, inundated temporary settlements and turned bare earth into mud. In other places, this might be called “poor conditions”. In Gaza, it is endured in a state of exposure and abandonment.

The Harshest Days

Locals call 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 definite start of winter, the moment when the season shows its true power. Typically, it is weathered through preparation and shelter. Now, Gaza has no such defenses. The chill penetrates through homes, streets are deserted and people simply endure.

But the threat posed by the cold is far from theoretical. Early on the Sunday before Christmas, rescue operations retrieved the remains of two children after the roof of a war-damaged building collapsed in northern Gaza, saving five more people, including a child and two women. Two people have not been found. These structural failures are not new attacks, but the outcome of homes damaged from months of bombardment and finally undone by winter rain. Not long ago, an infant in Khan Younis died of exposure to the cold.

Precarious Existence

Walking past the camp nearest my home, I witnessed the impact up close. Inadequate coverings buckled beneath the weight of water, mattresses bobbed in water and clothes remained wet, never fully drying. Each step reinforced how precarious these dwellings are and how close the rain and cold came to claiming life and health for countless individuals living in tents and packed sanctuaries.

Most of these people have already been displaced, many on multiple occasions. Homes are gone. Neighbourhoods flattened. Winter has descended upon Gaza, but protection from it has not. It has come without proper shelter, in darkness, without heating.

A Teacher's Anguish

In my role as a professor in Gaza, this weather causes deep concern. My students are not mere statistics; they are faces I recognize; bright, resilient, but deeply weary. Most join virtual lessons from tents; others from packed rooms where solitude is unattainable and connectivity sporadic. Many of my students have already suffered personal loss. Most have been rendered homeless. Yet they continue their education. Their resilience is extraordinary, but it ought not be necessary in this way.

In Gaza, what would normally count as routine academic practices—projects, due dates—become questions of conscience, dictated every moment by anxiety over students’ safety, warmth and access to shelter.

During nights like these, I cannot help but wonder about them. Is their shelter holding? Is there heat? Could the storm have shredded through their shelter while they were trying to sleep? For those residing in apartments, or what remains of them, there is a lack of heat. With electricity scarce and fuel scarce, warmth comes mainly from wearing multiple layers and using the few bedding items available. Even so, cold nights are excruciating. What about those living in tents?

The Humanitarian Shortfall

Agencies state that more than a million people in Gaza live in shelters. Humanitarian assistance, including weatherproof shelters, have been insufficient. When the cyclone hit, relief groups reported providing coverings, shelters and sleeping materials to thousands of families. On the ground, however, this assistance was often perceived as patchy and insufficient, limited to temporary solutions that were largely ineffective against prolonged exposure to cold, wind and rain. Tents collapse. Chest infections, hypothermia, and infections linked to damp conditions are increasing.

This goes beyond an unforeseen disaster. Winter is an annual event. People in Gaza view this crisis not as bad luck, but as abandonment. People speak of how critical supplies are blocked or slowed, while attempts to reinforce weakened structures are frequently blocked. Grassroots projects have tried to improvise, to provide coverings, yet they remain limited by restrictions on imports. The failure is political and humanitarian. Solutions exist, but are prevented from arriving.

An Unnecessary Pain

The aspect that renders this pain especially heartbreaking is how preventable it is. It is unconscionable to study, raise children, or battle sickness standing surrounded by cold water inside a tent. No student should fear the rain ruining their last notebook. Rain reveals just how precarious existence is. It tests bodies worn down by anxiety, fatigue, and loss.

This year's chill aligns with the Christmas season that, for millions, epitomizes warmth, refuge and care for the neediest. In Palestine, that {symbolism