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It was about 8:30 PM on a Thursday when I headed back home in Gaza City. Gusts of wind blew, making it impossible to remain any longer, so walking was my only option. In the beginning, it was merely a soft rain, but after about 200 metres the rain intensified abruptly. It came as no shock. I took shelter by a tent, clapping my hands to draw some warmth. A young boy had positioned himself selling baked goods. We shared brief remarks while I stood there, though he didn’t seem interested. I saw the cookies were hastily covered in plastic, dampened from the drizzle, and I wondered if he’d have enough to sell before the night ended. The freezing temperature invaded every space.

A Walk Through a City of Tents

While traversing al-Wehda Street in Gaza City, tents lined both sides of the road. There were no voices from inside them, just the noise of torrential rain and the moan of the wind. As I hurried on, trying to dodge the rain, I turned on my mobile phone's torch to see the road ahead. My mind continually drifted to those taking refuge within: What are they doing now? What is their state of mind? How do they feel? It was bitterly cold. I pictured children curled under wet blankets, parents shifting constantly to keep them warm.

Upon opening the door to my apartment, the freezing handle served as a quiet but powerful reminder of the hardships endured across Gaza in these severe cold season. I stepped inside my apartment and was overwhelmed by the guilt of enjoying a dry home when a multitude remained unprotected to the storm.

The Darkness Escalates

As midnight passed, the storm grew stronger. Outside, makeshift covers on damaged glass billowed and tore, while tin roofing broke away and fell with a clatter. Above it all came the sharp, panicked screams of children, cutting through the darkness. I felt utterly powerless.

For the last fortnight, the rain has been incessant. Freezing, pouring, and carried by strong winds, it has flooded makeshift homes, flooded makeshift camps and turned bare earth into mud. In different contexts, this might be called “inclement weather”. In Gaza, it is experienced amidst exposure and abandonment.

Al-Arba’iniya

Palestinians know this time of year as al-Arba’iniya; the most bitter forty days of winter, commencing in late December and continuing through the end of January. It is the real onset of winter, the moment when the season unleashes its intensity. Ordinarily, it is endured with preparation and shelter. This year, Gaza has no such defenses. The chill penetrates through homes, streets are deserted and people just persevere.

But the danger of winter is far from theoretical. On the Sunday morning before Christmas, recovery efforts found the victims 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 remain missing. Such collapses are not new attacks, but the result of homes damaged from months of bombardment and ultimately defeated by winter rain. Not long ago, an eight-month-old baby girl in Khan Younis passed away from exposure to the cold.

Fragile Shelters

Passing by the camp nearest my home, I saw the consequences up close. Flimsy tarpaulins strained under the weight of water, mattresses bobbed in water and clothes were perpetually moist, never fully drying. Each step highlighted how fragile these shelters were and how close the rain and cold threatened life and health for a vast population living in tents and cramped refuges.

The majority of these individuals have already been forced from their homes, many repeatedly. Homes are lost. Neighbourhoods flattened. Winter has come to Gaza, but defense against it has not. It has come without proper shelter, with no power, devoid of warmth.

Students in the Storm

In my role as a professor in Gaza, this weather causes deep concern. My students are not mere statistics; they are young people I speak to; smart, persistent, but deeply weary. Most attend online classes from tents; others from cramped quarters where personal space doesn't exist and connectivity unreliable. A significant number of pupils have already lost family members. Most have lost their homes. Yet they continue their education. Their perseverance is astounding, but it ought not be necessary in this way.

In Gaza, what would usually be routine academic practices—assignments, deadlines—transform into moral negotiations, shaped each day by concern for students’ security, heat and ability to find refuge.

During nights like these, I cannot help but wonder about them. Are they dry? Is there heat? Has the gale ripped through their shelter while they were trying to sleep? For those remaining in apartments, or damaged structures, there is an absence of warmth. With electricity mostly absent and fuel scarce, warmth comes mostly via bundling up and using the few bedding items available. Despite this, cold nights are excruciating. What about those living in tents?

Political Failure

Figures show that well over a million people in Gaza reside in temporary housing. Relief items, including insulated tents, have been insufficient. When the cyclone hit, humanitarian partners reported delivering coverings, shelters and sleeping materials to thousands of families. In reality, however, this assistance was widely experienced as uneven and inadequate, limited to temporary solutions that did little against ongoing suffering to cold, wind and rain. Structures give way. Respiratory illnesses, hypothermia, and infections linked to damp conditions are on the upswing.

This is not an unexpected catastrophe. Winter arrives cyclically. People in Gaza understand this failure not as fate, but as neglect. People speak of how essential materials are restricted or delayed, while attempts to fix broken houses are repeatedly obstructed. Local initiatives have tried to find solutions, to hand out tarps, yet they continue to be hampered by bureaucratic barriers. The failure is political and humanitarian. Solutions exist, but are prevented from arriving.

An Unnecessary Pain

The factor that intensifies this hardship especially agonizing is how preventable it is. No one should have to study, raise children, or battle sickness standing ankle-deep in cold water inside a tent. It is wrong for a pupil to worry about the rain ruining their last notebook. Rain lays bare just how vulnerable survival is. It tests bodies worn down by pressure, weariness, and sorrow.

The current cold season occurs alongside the Christmas season that, for millions, symbolises warmth, refuge and care for the neediest. In Palestine, that {symbolism