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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 I had to walk. Initially, it was just a gentle sprinkle, but following a brief walk the rain suddenly grew heavier. It came as no shock. I took shelter by a tent, rubbing my palms together to generate a little heat. A young boy was sitting outside selling baked goods. We shared brief remarks as I waited, but his attention was elsewhere. I saw the cookies were hastily covered in plastic, dampened from the drizzle, and I pondered if he’d have enough to sell before the night ended. A deep chill permeated the air.

A Journey Through a City of Tents

As I walked along 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 torrential rain and the moan of the wind. Rushing forward, trying to dodge the rain, I activated my mobile phone's torch to see the road ahead. My thoughts kept returning to those huddled within: How are they passing the time now? What is their state of mind? What are they experiencing? It was bitterly cold. I envisioned children nestled under soaked bedding, parents shifting constantly to keep them warm.

As I unlocked the door to my apartment, the freezing handle served as a quiet but powerful reminder of the struggles borne across Gaza in these harsh winter conditions. I entered my apartment and felt consumed by the guilt of possessing shelter when a multitude remained unprotected to the storm.

The Midnight Hour Intensifies

In the middle of the night, the storm grew stronger. Outside, plastic sheeting on shattered windows whipped and strained, while tin roofing broke away and crashed to the ground. Above it all came the desperate, terrified shouts of children, cutting through the darkness. I felt completely helpless.

For the last fortnight, the rain has been relentless. Freezing, pouring, and carried by strong winds, it has soaked tents, inundated temporary settlements and turned open ground into mud. In different contexts, this might be called “inclement weather”. In Gaza, it is lived with exposure and abandonment.

The Harshest Days

Palestinians know 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 shows its true power. Normally, it is endured with preparation and shelter. This year, Gaza has neither. The frost seeps through homes, streets are empty and people merely survive.

But the peril of the season is now very real. Early on the Sunday before Christmas, civil defense teams 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 have not been found. These incidents are not caused by ongoing hostilities, but the outcome of homes damaged from months of bombardment and ultimately defeated by winter rain. Not long ago, a young child in Khan Younis died of exposure to the cold.

Precarious Existence

Passing by the camp nearest my home, I observed the results up close. Inadequate coverings buckled beneath the weight of water, mattresses were adrift and clothes were perpetually moist, incapable of drying. Each step highlighted how vulnerable these tents are and how close the rain and cold came to taking life and health for a vast population living in tents and cramped refuges.

Most of these people have already been forced from their homes, many several times over. Homes are destroyed. Neighbourhoods leveled. Winter has descended upon Gaza, but protection from it has not. It has come without proper shelter, without electricity, lacking heat.

Students in the Storm

In my role as a professor in Gaza, this weather weighs heavily on me. My students are not figures in a report; they are individuals I know; intelligent, determined, but profoundly exhausted. Most participate in digital sessions from tents; others from packed rooms where personal space doesn't exist and connectivity unreliable. Many of my students have already experienced bereavement. 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 typically constitute routine academic practices—assignments, deadlines—transform into ethical dilemmas, dictated every moment by uncertainty about students’ well-being, comfort and access to shelter.

When the storm rages, I am constantly preoccupied about them. Are they dry? Are they warm? Has the gale ripped through their shelter as they attempted to rest? For those still living in apartments, or the shells that are left, there is no heating. With electricity mostly absent and fuel in short supply, warmth comes mainly from wearing multiple layers and using any remaining covers. Even so, cold nights are intolerable. How then those living in tents?

The Humanitarian Shortfall

Figures show that more than a million people in Gaza exist in makeshift accommodations. Aid supplies, including weatherproof shelters, have been insufficient. When the cyclone hit, relief groups reported distributing coverings, shelters and sleeping materials to thousands of families. For those affected, however, this assistance was frequently felt to be uneven and inadequate, limited to band-aid measures that did little against prolonged exposure to cold, wind and rain. Tents collapse. Chest infections, hypothermia, and infections linked to damp conditions are on the upswing.

This goes beyond an surprise calamity. Winter arrives cyclically. People in Gaza view this crisis not as bad luck, but as being forsaken. People speak of how critical supplies are blocked or slowed, while attempts to repair damaged homes are repeatedly obstructed. Local initiatives have tried to improvise, to provide coverings, yet they are still constrained by restrictions on imports. The failure is political and humanitarian. Solutions exist, but are withheld.

A Preventable Suffering

What makes this suffering especially agonizing is how preventable it is. 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 ruining their last notebook. Rain reveals just how vulnerable survival is. It strains physiques worn down by stress, exhaustion, and grief.

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