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The clock read about 8:30 PM on a weekday evening when I headed back home in Gaza City. Gusts of wind blew, making it impossible to remain any longer, leaving me to walk. Initially, it was just a gentle sprinkle, but a short distance later the rain became a downpour. It came as no shock. I took shelter by a tent, clapping my hands to draw some warmth. A young boy was sitting outside selling sweet treats. We exchanged a few words while I stood there, but his attention was elsewhere. I observed the cookies were loosely wrapped in plastic, already soggy from the drizzle, and I questioned if he’d have enough to sell before the night ended. The freezing temperature invaded every space.

A Walk Through a Place of Tents

While traversing al-Wehda Street in Gaza City, makeshift shelters crowded both sides of the road. There were no voices from inside them, just the noise of rain pouring down and the whistle of the wind. Rushing forward, attempting to avoid the rain, I activated my mobile phone's torch to illuminate the path. My mind continually drifted to those sheltering inside: How are they passing the time now? What thoughts fill their minds? What emotions do they hold? It was bitterly cold. I pictured children nestled under soaked bedding, parents adjusting repeatedly to keep them warm.

When I opened the door to my apartment, the icy doorknob served as a understated yet stark reminder of the suffering faced across Gaza in these brutal winter climate. I entered my apartment and was overwhelmed by the guilt of possessing shelter when countless others faced exposure to the storm.

The Midnight Hour Worsens

In the middle of the night, the storm grew stronger. Outside, tarps on shattered windows sagged and flapped violently, while corrugated metal tore loose and slammed down. Overriding the noise came the desperate, terrified shouts of children, cutting through the darkness. I felt utterly powerless.

During recent days, the rain has been incessant. Chilly, dense, and propelled by strong winds, it has flooded makeshift homes, flooded makeshift camps and turned the soil into mud. In different contexts, this might be called “inclement weather”. In Gaza, it is lived with exposure and abandonment.

The Harshest Days

Residents refer to this time of year as al-Arba’iniya; the fourty most severe days of winter, commencing in late December and lasting until the end of January. It is the true beginning of winter, the moment when the season unleashes its intensity. Normally, it is faced with preparation and shelter. This year, Gaza has neither. The frost seeps through homes, streets are vacant and people simply endure.

But the danger of winter is no longer abstract. In the early hours of Sunday before Christmas, recovery efforts found the victims of two children after the roof of a war-damaged building collapsed in northern Gaza, saving five more people, including a child and two women. Two people have not been found. Such collapses are not new attacks, but the consequence of homes compromised after months of bombardment and succumbing to winter rain. In recent days, an eight-month-old baby girl 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. Flimsy tarpaulins sagged under the weight of water, mattresses floated and clothes hung damply, incapable of drying. Each step highlighted how fragile these shelters were and how close the rain and cold came to taking life and health for countless individuals living in tents and packed sanctuaries.

The majority of these individuals have already been uprooted, many on multiple occasions. Homes are lost. Neighbourhoods leveled. Winter has descended upon Gaza, but defense against it has not. It has come without proper shelter, with no power, devoid of warmth.

Students in the Storm

As a university lecturer in Gaza, this weather is a heavy burden. My students are not mere statistics; they are faces I recognize; bright, resilient, but deeply weary. Most attend online classes from tents; others from overcrowded shelters where privacy is impossible and connectivity sporadic. A significant number of pupils have already suffered personal loss. Most have seen their houses destroyed. Yet they still try to study. Their fortitude is remarkable, but it should not be required in this way.

In Gaza, what would typically constitute routine academic practices—projects, due dates—transform into moral negotiations, shaped each day by anxiety over students’ safety, warmth and ability to find refuge.

On evenings such as this, I find myself thinking about them. Do they have dryness? Are they warm? Could the storm have shredded through their shelter as they attempted to rest? For those still living in apartments, or what remains of them, there is an absence of warmth. With electricity mostly absent and fuel in short supply, warmth comes primarily through donning extra clothing and using any remaining covers. Nonetheless, cold nights are intolerable. How then those living in tents?

Political Failure

Agencies state that over a million people in Gaza exist in makeshift accommodations. Aid supplies, including insulated tents, have been inadequate. During the recent storm, relief groups reported providing coverings, shelters and sleeping materials to numerous households. On the ground, however, this assistance was often perceived as inconsistent and lacking, limited to short-term fixes that offered scant protection against prolonged exposure to cold, wind and rain. Shelters fail. Chest infections, hypothermia, and infections caused by damp conditions are increasing.

This goes beyond an unexpected catastrophe. Winter is an annual event. People in Gaza interpret this shortcoming not as fate, but as being forsaken. People speak of how necessary items are blocked or slowed, while attempts to repair damaged homes are consistently hampered. Grassroots projects 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

What makes this suffering especially heartbreaking is how unnecessary it should be. No one should have to study, raise children, or fight illness standing knee-high in cold water inside a tent. No learner should dread the rain destroying their final textbook. Rain reveals just how fragile life has become. It tests bodies worn down by pressure, weariness, and sorrow.

This year's chill aligns with the Christmas season that, for millions, represents warmth, refuge and care for the disadvantaged. In Palestine, that {symbolism