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The clock read around 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, so I had to walk. Initially, it was only a light drizzle, but after about 200 metres the rain became a downpour. This was expected. I took shelter by a tent, clapping my hands to generate a little heat. A young boy sat nearby selling homemade cookies. We spoke briefly during my pause, although he appeared disengaged. I saw the cookies were hastily covered in plastic, already soggy from the drizzle, and I questioned if he’d find buyers before the night ended. The cold seeped into everything.

A Journey Through a Place of Tents

Walking down 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. Rushing forward, trying to dodge the rain, I switched on my mobile phone's torch to illuminate the path. I couldn't stop thinking to those huddled within: How are they passing the time now? What thoughts fill their minds? How do they feel? It was bitterly cold. I pictured children curled under soaked bedding, parents adjusting repeatedly to keep them warm.

When I opened the door to my apartment, the freezing handle served as a understated yet stark 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 Darkness Worsens

During the darkest hours, the storm intensified. Outside, plastic sheeting on damaged glass billowed and tore, while tin roofing ripped free and slammed down. Cutting through the chaos came the piercing, fearful cries of children, piercing the darkness. I felt utterly powerless.

For the last fortnight, the rain has been incessant. Freezing, pouring, and carried by strong winds, it has drenched shelters, flooded makeshift camps and turned open ground into mud. Elsewhere, this might be called “inclement weather”. In Gaza, it is lived with exposure and abandonment.

Al-Arba’iniya

Residents refer to this time of year as al-Arba’iniya; the 40 coldest and harshest days of winter, beginning in late December and persisting to the end of January. It is the true beginning of winter, the moment when the season unleashes its intensity. Typically, it is weathered through preparation and shelter. Now, Gaza has none of these. The cold bites through homes, streets are vacant and people merely survive.

But the danger of winter is far from theoretical. Early on the Sunday before Christmas, civil defense teams 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 incidents are not new attacks, but the result of homes compromised after months of bombardment and finally undone by winter rain. Earlier this month, an infant in Khan Younis died of exposure to the cold.

Fragile Shelters

Passing by the camp nearest my home, I observed the results up close. Thin plastic sheets sagged under the weight of water, mattresses floated and clothes were perpetually moist, never fully drying. Each step reinforced how precarious these dwellings are and how close the rain and cold threatened life and health for hundreds of thousands living in tents and packed sanctuaries.

Most of these people have already been uprooted, many on multiple occasions. Homes are gone. Neighbourhoods leveled. Winter has come to Gaza, but defense against it has not. It has come devoid of safe refuge, in darkness, devoid of warmth.

The Weight on Education

Being an educator in Gaza, this weather weighs heavily on me. My students are not distant names; they are faces I recognize; bright, resilient, but extremely fatigued. Most participate in digital sessions from tents; others from overcrowded shelters where privacy is impossible and connectivity sporadic. Many of my students have already suffered personal loss. Most have been rendered homeless. Yet they still try to study. Their resilience is extraordinary, but it ought not be necessary in this way.

In Gaza, what would normally count as routine academic practices—tasks, schedules—transform into ethical dilemmas, shaped each day by uncertainty about students’ well-being, comfort and proximity to protection.

When the storm rages, I find myself thinking about them. Do they have dryness? Do they feel any warmth? Could the storm have shredded through their shelter while they were trying to sleep? For those residing in apartments, or the shells that are left, there is a lack of heat. With electricity largely unavailable and fuel in short supply, warmth comes mostly via bundling up and using the few bedding items available. Even so, cold nights are intolerable. What, then those living in tents?

Aid and Abandonment

Agencies state that well over a million people in Gaza live in shelters. Humanitarian assistance, including thermal blankets, have been inadequate. During the recent storm, relief groups reported distributing plastic sheets, tents and mattresses to numerous households. In reality, however, this assistance was often perceived as uneven and inadequate, limited to temporary solutions that did little against prolonged exposure to cold, wind and rain. Structures give way. Sicknesses, hypothermia, and infections linked to damp conditions are increasing.

This is not an surprise calamity. Winter arrives cyclically. People in Gaza interpret this shortcoming not as bad luck, but as being forsaken. People speak of how necessary items are restricted or delayed, while attempts to fix broken houses are consistently hampered. Local initiatives have tried to make do, to hand out tarps, yet they continue to be hampered by what is allowed to enter. The root cause is political and humanitarian. Remedies are known, but are kept out.

A Preventable Suffering

The factor that intensifies this hardship especially heartbreaking is how avoidable it could have been. No one should have to study, raise children, or fight illness standing surrounded by cold water inside a tent. It is wrong for a pupil to worry about the rain ruining their last notebook. Rain exposes just how vulnerable survival is. It challenges health worn down by anxiety, fatigue, and loss.

This winter coincides with the Christmas season that, for millions, represents warmth, refuge and care for the disadvantaged. In Palestine, that {symbolism