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The clock read around 8:30 PM on a weekday evening when I made my way home in Gaza City. Gusts of wind blew, making it impossible to remain any longer, so walking was my only option. Initially, it was just a gentle sprinkle, but a short distance later the rain suddenly grew heavier. That wasn’t surprising. I took shelter by a tent, clapping my hands to draw some warmth. A young boy sat nearby selling sweet treats. We shared brief remarks while I stood there, but his attention was elsewhere. I observed the cookies were hastily covered in plastic, moist from the drizzle, and I pondered if he’d have enough to sell before the night ended. The cold seeped into everything.

A Journey Through a City 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 torrential rain and the moan of the wind. Rushing forward, trying to dodge the rain, I turned on my mobile phone's torch to see the road ahead. I couldn't stop thinking to those taking refuge within: How are they passing the time now? What are they thinking? How do they feel? It was bitterly cold. I pictured children curled under wet blankets, parents moving restlessly to keep them warm.

As I unlocked the door to my apartment, the cold metal served as a subtle yet haunting reminder of the struggles borne across Gaza in these harsh winter conditions. I stepped inside my apartment and was overwhelmed by the guilt of possessing shelter when a multitude remained unprotected to the storm.

The Night Escalates

During the darkest hours, the storm intensified. Outside, plastic sheeting on shattered windows billowed and tore, while corrugated metal ripped free and crashed to the ground. Above it all came the piercing, fearful cries of children, cutting through the darkness. I felt utterly powerless.

Over the past two weeks, the rain has been relentless. Cold, heavy, and driven by strong winds, it has flooded makeshift homes, swamped refugee areas and turned open ground into mud. Elsewhere, this might be called “poor conditions”. In Gaza, it is lived with exposure and abandonment.

The Harshest Days

Palestinians know this time of year as al-Arba’iniya; the 40 coldest and harshest days of winter, starting from late December and lasting until the end of January. It is the definite start of winter, the moment when the season shows its true power. Normally, it is endured with preparation and shelter. This year, Gaza has none of these. The chill penetrates through homes, streets are deserted and people merely survive.

But the threat posed by the cold is no longer abstract. In the early hours of Sunday before Christmas, civil defense teams retrieved the remains 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 are still unaccounted for. These structural failures are not the result of fresh strikes, but the consequence of homes weakened by months of bombardment and finally undone by winter rain. Not long ago, a young child in Khan Younis passed away from exposure to the cold.

A Life in Tents

Observing the camp nearest my home, I witnessed the impact up close. Flimsy tarpaulins buckled beneath the weight of water, mattresses were adrift and clothes hung damply, incapable of drying. Each step highlighted how fragile these shelters were and how close the rain and cold came to claiming life and health for countless individuals living in tents and cramped refuges.

Most of these people have already been uprooted, many on multiple occasions. Homes are lost. Neighbourhoods razed. Winter has descended upon Gaza, but defense against it has not. It has come lacking adequate housing, in darkness, without heating.

A Teacher's Anguish

Being an educator in Gaza, this weather weighs heavily on me. My students are not distant names; they are individuals I know; intelligent, determined, but profoundly exhausted. Most join virtual lessons from tents; others from overcrowded shelters where solitude is unattainable and connectivity intermittent. Countless learners have already experienced bereavement. Most have been rendered homeless. Yet they continue their education. Their resilience is extraordinary, but it should not be required in this way.

In Gaza, what would typically constitute routine academic practices—projects, due dates—turn into moral negotiations, shaped each day by concern for students’ security, heat and access to shelter.

During nights like these, I cannot help but wonder about them. Is their shelter holding? Are they warm? Has the gale ripped through their shelter during the night? For those remaining in apartments, or damaged structures, there is an absence of warmth. With electricity mostly absent and fuel rare, warmth comes mainly from donning extra clothing and using any remaining covers. Despite this, cold nights are excruciating. What about those living in tents?

The Humanitarian Shortfall

Agencies state 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 providing coverings, shelters and sleeping materials to thousands of families. On the ground, however, this assistance was widely experienced as uneven and inadequate, limited to band-aid measures that offered scant protection against ongoing suffering to cold, wind and rain. Structures give way. Chest infections, hypothermia, and infections associated with damp conditions are increasing.

This is not an surprise calamity. Winter comes every year. People in Gaza understand this failure not as bad luck, but as being forsaken. People speak of how critical supplies are blocked or slowed, while attempts to repair damaged homes are frequently blocked. Community efforts have tried to find solutions, to distribute plastic sheeting, yet they continue to be hampered by what is allowed to enter. The culpability lies in political and humanitarian. Answers are available, but are withheld.

A Preventable Suffering

The aspect that renders this pain especially painful is how unnecessary it should be. No one should have to study, raise children, or combat disease standing ankle-deep in cold water inside a tent. No learner should dread the rain destroying their final textbook. Rain exposes just how precarious existence is. It challenges health worn down by anxiety, fatigue, and loss.

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