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The time was approximately 8:30 PM on a weekday evening when I returned home in Gaza City. The wind howled, and I couldn’t stay out any longer, leaving me to walk. Initially, it was merely a soft rain, but following a brief walk the rain suddenly grew heavier. This was expected. I stopped near a tent, clapping my hands to generate a little heat. A young boy sat nearby selling sweet treats. We spoke briefly during my pause, but his attention was elsewhere. I saw the cookies were poorly packaged in plastic, moist from the drizzle, and I pondered if he’d find buyers before the night ended. The freezing temperature invaded every space.

A Trek Through a Landscape of Tents

As I walked along al-Wehda Street in Gaza City, makeshift shelters crowded both sides of the road. There were no voices from inside them, only the sound of falling water and the whistle of the wind. Rushing forward, trying to dodge the rain, I activated my mobile phone's torch to illuminate the path. My mind continually drifted to those huddled within: What occupies them now? What are they thinking? What emotions do they hold? It was bitterly cold. I envisioned children curled under wet blankets, parents moving restlessly to keep them warm.

As I unlocked the door to my apartment, the icy doorknob served as a understated yet stark reminder of the struggles borne across Gaza in these severe cold season. I walked into my apartment and couldn't shake the guilt of having a roof when a multitude remained unprotected to the storm.

The Midnight Hour Worsens

During the darkest hours, the storm reached its peak. Outside, plastic sheeting on damaged glass billowed and tore, while tin roofing broke away and fell with a clatter. Overriding the noise came the sharp, panicked screams of children, shattering the darkness. I felt completely helpless.

During recent days, the rain has been unending. Freezing, pouring, and carried by strong winds, it has flooded makeshift homes, flooded makeshift camps and turned the soil into mud. Elsewhere, this might be called “inclement weather”. In Gaza, it is lived with exposure and abandonment.

The Cruelest Season

Locals call this time of year as al-Arba’iniya; the 40 coldest and harshest days of winter, starting from late December and continuing through the end of January. It is the real onset of winter, the moment when the season reveals its full force. Ordinarily, it is endured with preparation and shelter. This year, Gaza has neither. The cold bites through homes, streets are empty and people merely survive.

But the danger of winter is no longer abstract. Early on the Sunday before Christmas, recovery efforts found the victims of two children after the roof of a bombarded structure collapsed in northern Gaza, freeing five additional individuals, including a child and two women. Two people remain missing. These structural failures are not caused by ongoing hostilities, but the result of homes weakened by months of bombardment and finally undone by winter rain. Earlier this month, 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. Thin plastic sheets strained under the weight of water, mattresses bobbed in water and clothes were perpetually moist, incapable of drying. Each step reminded me 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 displaced, many on multiple occasions. Homes are gone. Neighbourhoods leveled. Winter has arrived in Gaza, but shelter from its fury has not. It has come devoid of safe refuge, with no power, lacking heat.

The Weight on Education

Being an educator in Gaza, this weather is a heavy burden. My students are not distant names; they are young people I speak to; smart, persistent, but extremely fatigued. Most participate in digital sessions from tents; others from packed rooms where privacy is impossible and connectivity unreliable. Many of my students have already experienced bereavement. Most have lost their homes. Yet they persist in learning. Their perseverance is astounding, but it ought not be necessary in this way.

In Gaza, what would normally count as routine academic practices—projects, due dates—transform into ethical dilemmas, dictated every moment by concern for students’ security, heat and access to shelter.

On evenings such as this, I cannot help but wonder about them. Is their shelter holding? Are they warm? Did the wind tear through their shelter while they were trying to sleep? For those remaining in apartments, or what remains of them, there is an absence of warmth. With electricity scarce and fuel in short supply, warmth comes primarily through bundling up and using whatever blankets are left. Nonetheless, cold nights are intolerable. What about those living in tents?

The Humanitarian Shortfall

Figures show that well over a million people in Gaza live in shelters. Aid supplies, including insulated tents, have been far from enough. During the recent storm, relief groups reported providing tarpaulins, tents and bedding to a multitude of people. For those affected, however, this assistance was frequently felt to be inconsistent and lacking, limited to band-aid measures that were largely ineffective against ongoing suffering to cold, wind and rain. Structures give way. Chest infections, hypothermia, and infections caused by damp conditions are on the upswing.

This goes beyond an unexpected catastrophe. Winter comes every year. People in Gaza interpret this shortcoming not as bad luck, but as abandonment. People speak of how critical supplies are blocked or slowed, while attempts to fix broken houses are frequently blocked. Community efforts have tried to improvise, to hand out tarps, yet they continue to be hampered by restrictions on imports. The culpability lies in political and humanitarian. Remedies are known, but are prevented from arriving.

An Unnecessary Pain

The factor that intensifies this hardship especially agonizing is how avoidable it could have been. 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 lays bare just how fragile life has become. It strains physiques worn down by anxiety, fatigue, and loss.

The current cold season coincides with the Christmas season that, for millions, represents warmth, refuge and care for the most vulnerable. In Palestine, that {symbolism