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The clock read about 8:30 PM on a weekday evening when I made my way home in Gaza City. Gusts of wind blew, forcing me inside any longer, so I had to walk. Initially, it was merely a soft rain, but a short distance later the rain became a downpour. It came as no shock. I paused beside a tent, rubbing my palms together to draw some warmth. A young boy had positioned himself selling baked goods. We spoke briefly while I stood there, though he didn’t seem interested. I saw the cookies were hastily covered in plastic, moist from the drizzle, and I questioned if he’d manage to sell them all 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. There were no voices from inside them, merely the din of rain pouring down and the moan of the wind. Quickening my pace, trying to dodge the rain, I turned on my mobile phone's torch to light my way. I couldn't stop thinking to those sheltering inside: How are they passing the time now? What thoughts fill their minds? What emotions do they hold? The cold was piercing. I pictured children huddled under wet blankets, parents adjusting repeatedly to keep them warm.

As I unlocked the door to my apartment, the freezing handle served as a subtle yet haunting reminder of the suffering faced across Gaza in these brutal winter climate. I stepped inside my apartment and felt consumed by the guilt of enjoying a dry home when so many were exposed to the storm.

The Night Intensifies

During the darkest hours, the storm grew stronger. Outside, tarps on shattered windows billowed and tore, while metal sheets tore loose and slammed down. Overriding the noise came the piercing, fearful cries of children, piercing the darkness. I felt totally incapable.

Over the past two weeks, the rain has been relentless. Freezing, pouring, and carried by strong winds, it has flooded makeshift homes, inundated temporary settlements and turned bare earth into mud. Elsewhere, this might be called “bad weather”. In Gaza, it is experienced amidst exposure and abandonment.

The Harshest Days

Locals call this time of year as al-Arba’iniya; the fourty most severe days of winter, starting from late December and continuing through the end of January. It is the true beginning 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 chill penetrates through homes, streets are empty and people just persevere.

But the peril of the season is far from theoretical. Early on the Sunday before Christmas, recovery efforts retrieved the remains of two children after the roof of a shelled home collapsed in northern Gaza, rescuing five others, including a child and two women. Two people are still unaccounted for. These structural failures are not caused by ongoing hostilities, but the consequence of homes compromised after months of bombardment and ultimately defeated by winter rain. In recent days, a young child in Khan Younis died of exposure to the cold.

Fragile Shelters

Passing by the camp nearest my home, I witnessed the impact up close. Flimsy tarpaulins sagged under the weight of water, mattresses floated and clothes were perpetually moist, never fully drying. Each step reinforced how fragile these shelters were and how close the rain and cold came to claiming 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 on multiple occasions. Homes are gone. Neighbourhoods leveled. Winter has arrived in Gaza, but shelter from its fury has not. It has come without proper shelter, without electricity, without heating.

Students in the Storm

As a university lecturer in Gaza, this weather is a heavy burden. My students are not distant names; they are young people I speak to; bright, resilient, but deeply weary. Most participate in digital sessions from tents; others from packed rooms where solitude is unattainable and connectivity sporadic. A significant number of pupils have already experienced bereavement. Most have seen their houses destroyed. Yet they continue their education. Their perseverance is astounding, but it ought not be necessary in this way.

In Gaza, what would normally count as routine academic practices—tasks, schedules—transform into moral negotiations, influenced daily by concern for students’ safety, warmth and ability to find refuge.

On evenings such as this, I am constantly preoccupied about them. Are they dry? Is there heat? Could the storm have shredded through their shelter during the night? For those remaining in apartments, or damaged structures, there is a lack of heat. With electricity mostly absent and fuel rare, warmth comes mostly via bundling up and using the few bedding items available. Nonetheless, cold nights are intolerable. What about those living in tents?

Aid and Abandonment

Reports indicate that over a million people in Gaza live in shelters. Relief items, including insulated tents, have been inadequate. Amid the last tempest, humanitarian partners reported providing plastic sheets, tents and mattresses to thousands of families. On the ground, however, this assistance was frequently felt to be uneven and inadequate, limited to short-term fixes that did little against ongoing suffering to cold, wind and rain. Tents collapse. Respiratory illnesses, hypothermia, and infections caused by damp conditions are increasing.

This cannot be described as an unexpected catastrophe. Winter comes every year. People in Gaza understand this failure not as fate, but as being forsaken. People speak of how critical supplies are hindered or postponed, while attempts to fix broken houses are consistently hampered. Local initiatives have tried to improvise, to provide coverings, yet they are still constrained by bureaucratic barriers. The failure is political and humanitarian. Answers are available, but are kept out.

A Preventable Suffering

The aspect that renders this pain especially painful is how avoidable it could have been. It is unconscionable to study, raise children, or combat disease standing ankle-deep in cold water inside a tent. No learner should dread the rain ruining their last notebook. Rain reveals just how vulnerable survival is. It tests bodies worn down by stress, exhaustion, and grief.

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