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It was approximately 8:30 PM on a weekday evening when I headed back home in Gaza City. The wind howled, forcing me inside any longer, leaving me to walk. Initially, it was merely a soft rain, but following a brief walk the rain intensified abruptly. This was expected. I stopped near a tent, trying to warm my hands to draw some warmth. A young boy sat nearby selling sweet treats. We shared brief remarks while I stood there, although he appeared disengaged. I noticed the cookies were hastily covered in plastic, moist from the drizzle, and I questioned if he’d find buyers before the night ended. The freezing temperature invaded every space.

A Trek Through a Landscape of Tents

While traversing al-Wehda Street in Gaza City, canvas structures flanked both sides of the road. No sounds of conversation came from inside them, just the noise of torrential rain and the whistle of the wind. As I hurried on, trying to dodge the rain, I turned on my mobile phone's torch to light my way. My mind continually drifted to those huddled within: How are they passing the time now? What are they thinking? What are they experiencing? The cold was piercing. I imagined children huddled under damp covers, parents moving restlessly 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 stepped inside my apartment and was overwhelmed by the guilt of having a roof when so many were exposed to the storm.

The Night Intensifies

During the darkest hours, the storm intensified. Outside, plastic sheeting on shattered windows billowed and tore, while corrugated metal tore loose and fell with a clatter. Cutting through the chaos came the piercing, fearful cries of children, cutting through the darkness. I felt utterly powerless.

For the last fortnight, the rain has been unending. Freezing, pouring, and carried by strong winds, it has soaked tents, swamped refugee areas and turned bare earth into mud. Elsewhere, this might be called “bad weather”. In Gaza, it is endured in a state of exposure and abandonment.

Al-Arba’iniya

Locals call this time of year as al-Arba’iniya; the most bitter forty days of winter, beginning in late December and persisting to the end of January. It is the definite start of winter, the moment when the season unleashes its intensity. Normally, it is endured with preparation and shelter. Now, Gaza has neither. The cold bites through homes, streets are empty and people merely survive.

But the threat posed by the cold is no longer abstract. On the Sunday morning before Christmas, rescue operations recovered the bodies 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 are still unaccounted for. These incidents are not the result of fresh strikes, but the result of homes compromised after months of bombardment and succumbing to winter rain. Earlier this month, an eight-month-old baby girl in Khan Younis passed away from exposure to the cold.

A Life in Tents

Passing by the camp nearest my home, I witnessed the impact up close. Flimsy tarpaulins strained under the weight of water, mattresses floated and clothes remained wet, incapable of drying. Each step highlighted how precarious these dwellings are and how close the rain and cold came to taking life and health for hundreds of thousands living in tents and packed sanctuaries.

The majority of these individuals have already been uprooted, many several times over. Homes are lost. Neighbourhoods razed. Winter has descended upon Gaza, but defense against it has not. It has come devoid of safe refuge, in darkness, without heating.

Students in the Storm

As a university lecturer in Gaza, this weather weighs heavily on me. My students are not mere statistics; they are young people I speak to; smart, persistent, but profoundly exhausted. Most join virtual lessons from tents; others from overcrowded shelters where privacy is impossible and connectivity sporadic. Countless learners have already suffered personal loss. Most have lost their homes. Yet they persist in learning. Their perseverance is astounding, but it must not be demanded in this way.

In Gaza, what would usually be routine academic practices—assignments, deadlines—become ethical dilemmas, dictated every moment by anxiety over students’ well-being, comfort and ability to find refuge.

On evenings such as this, I cannot help but wonder about them. Are they dry? Do they feel any warmth? Has the gale ripped through their shelter during the night? For those still living in apartments, or the shells that are left, there is an absence of warmth. With electricity mostly absent and fuel in short supply, warmth comes primarily through donning extra clothing and using the few bedding items available. Even so, cold nights are excruciating. What about those living in tents?

The Humanitarian Shortfall

Figures show that more than a million people in Gaza reside in temporary housing. Aid supplies, including weatherproof shelters, have been far from enough. Amid the last tempest, aid organizations reported distributing 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 temporary solutions that did little against ongoing suffering to cold, wind and rain. Shelters fail. Chest infections, hypothermia, and infections associated with damp conditions are increasing.

This goes beyond an unforeseen disaster. Winter is an annual event. People in Gaza view this crisis not as bad luck, but as being forsaken. People speak of how critical supplies are hindered or postponed, while attempts to repair damaged homes are frequently blocked. Local initiatives have tried to improvise, to provide coverings, yet they are still constrained by bureaucratic barriers. The root cause is political and humanitarian. Remedies are known, but are withheld.

A Symbolic Season

The factor that intensifies this hardship especially agonizing is how avoidable it could have been. No individual ought 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 exposes just how fragile life has become. It strains physiques worn down by pressure, weariness, and sorrow.

The current cold season aligns with the Christmas season that, for millions, symbolises warmth, refuge and care for the disadvantaged. In Palestine, that {symbolism