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The clock read about 8:30 PM on a weekday evening when I returned home in Gaza City. A strong wind was blowing, making it impossible to remain any longer, leaving me to walk. Initially, it was merely a soft rain, but a short distance later the rain suddenly grew heavier. That wasn’t surprising. I took shelter by a tent, rubbing my palms together to generate a little heat. A young boy had positioned himself selling sweet treats. We shared brief remarks while I stood there, although he appeared disengaged. I observed the cookies were hastily covered in plastic, already soggy from the drizzle, and I pondered if he’d have enough to sell before the night ended. The cold seeped into everything.

A Walk Through a Place of Tents

As I walked along al-Wehda Street in Gaza City, tents lined both sides of the road. There were no voices from inside them, just the noise of falling water and the moan of the wind. As I hurried on, seeking escape from the rain, I switched on my mobile phone's torch to see the road ahead. I couldn't stop thinking to those sheltering inside: What are they doing now? What thoughts fill their minds? What emotions do they hold? The cold was piercing. I imagined children huddled under wet blankets, parents shifting constantly to keep them warm.

When I opened the door to my apartment, the cold metal served as a subtle yet haunting reminder of the hardships endured across Gaza in these brutal winter climate. I walked into my apartment and was overwhelmed by the guilt of enjoying a dry home when countless others faced exposure to the storm.

The Night Worsens

As midnight passed, the storm grew stronger. Outside, makeshift covers on broken panes sagged and flapped violently, while metal sheets tore loose and fell with a clatter. Cutting through the chaos came the desperate, terrified shouts of children, cutting through the darkness. I felt totally incapable.

During recent days, the rain has been incessant. Freezing, pouring, and carried by strong winds, it has soaked tents, swamped refugee areas and turned bare earth into mud. In other places, this might be called “bad weather”. In Gaza, it is experienced amidst exposure and abandonment.

Al-Arba’iniya

Residents refer to 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. Ordinarily, it is weathered through preparation and shelter. This year, Gaza has neither. The frost seeps through homes, streets are empty and people just persevere.

But the threat posed by the cold is now very real. Early on the Sunday before Christmas, recovery efforts retrieved the remains of two children after the roof of a war-damaged building collapsed in northern Gaza, freeing five additional individuals, including a child and two women. Two people have not been found. Such collapses are not caused by ongoing hostilities, but the outcome of homes damaged from months of bombardment and finally undone by winter rain. Not long ago, an infant in Khan Younis passed away from exposure to the cold.

A Life in Tents

Observing the camp nearest my home, I saw the consequences up close. Inadequate coverings strained under the weight of water, mattresses bobbed in water and clothes remained wet, never fully drying. Each step highlighted 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 packed sanctuaries.

A great number of these residents have already been displaced, many several times over. Homes are lost. Neighbourhoods flattened. Winter has come to Gaza, but protection from it has not. It has come devoid of safe refuge, with no power, without heating.

A Teacher's Anguish

Being an educator in Gaza, this weather causes deep concern. My students are not distant names; they are faces I recognize; bright, resilient, but extremely fatigued. Most attend online classes from tents; others from overcrowded shelters where solitude is unattainable and connectivity sporadic. A significant number of pupils have already experienced bereavement. Most have been rendered homeless. Yet they still try to study. Their perseverance is astounding, but it should not be required in this way.

In Gaza, what would typically constitute routine academic practices—projects, due dates—become questions of conscience, dictated every moment by anxiety over students’ security, heat and access to shelter.

When the storm rages, I cannot help but wonder about them. Is their shelter holding? Is there heat? Could the storm have shredded through their shelter as they attempted to rest? For those remaining in apartments, or what remains of them, there is no heating. With electricity largely unavailable and fuel scarce, warmth comes mainly from wearing multiple layers and using the few bedding items available. Despite this, cold nights are excruciating. How then those living in tents?

The Humanitarian Shortfall

Reports indicate that well over a million people in Gaza reside in temporary housing. Humanitarian assistance, including insulated tents, have been far from enough. During the recent storm, aid organizations reported providing coverings, shelters and sleeping materials to thousands of families. For those affected, however, this assistance was often perceived as patchy and insufficient, limited to temporary solutions that did little against prolonged exposure to cold, wind and rain. Structures give way. Chest infections, hypothermia, and infections linked to damp conditions are rising.

This cannot be described as an unforeseen disaster. 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 repair damaged homes are repeatedly obstructed. Community efforts have tried to find solutions, to hand out tarps, yet they are still constrained by bureaucratic barriers. The culpability lies in political and humanitarian. Remedies are known, but are kept out.

A Preventable Suffering

What makes this suffering especially agonizing is how unnecessary it should be. No individual ought to study, raise children, or fight illness standing surrounded by cold water inside a tent. No student should fear the rain ruining their last notebook. Rain lays bare just how fragile life has become. It challenges health worn down by stress, exhaustion, and grief.

This year's chill coincides with the Christmas season that, for millions, symbolises warmth, refuge and care for the most vulnerable. In Palestine, that {symbolism