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It was around 8:30 PM on a Thursday when I returned home in Gaza City. Gusts of wind blew, making it impossible to remain any longer, leaving me to walk. Initially, it was only a light drizzle, but after about 200 metres the rain intensified abruptly. This was expected. I took shelter by a tent, trying to warm my hands to fight off the chill. A young boy had positioned himself selling sweet treats. We shared brief remarks while I stood there, although he appeared disengaged. I noticed the cookies were poorly packaged in plastic, already soggy from the drizzle, and I pondered if he’d have enough to sell before the night ended. The freezing temperature invaded every space.

A Walk Through a Landscape 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 rain pouring down and the whistle of the wind. As I hurried on, attempting to avoid the rain, I switched on my mobile phone's torch to illuminate the path. My mind continually drifted to those taking refuge within: How are they passing the time now? What are they thinking? What emotions do they hold? It was bitterly cold. I envisioned children huddled under wet blankets, parents moving restlessly to keep them warm.

Upon opening the door to my apartment, the icy doorknob served as a understated yet stark reminder of the hardships endured across Gaza in these severe cold season. I walked into my apartment and couldn't shake the guilt of possessing shelter when a multitude remained unprotected to the storm.

The Darkness Intensifies

In the middle of the night, the storm reached its peak. Outside, plastic sheeting on shattered windows billowed and tore, while metal sheets tore loose and fell with a clatter. Cutting through the chaos came the desperate, terrified shouts of children, piercing the darkness. I felt totally incapable.

Over the past two weeks, the rain has been incessant. Chilly, dense, and propelled by strong winds, it has drenched shelters, swamped refugee areas and turned open ground into mud. Elsewhere, this might be called “bad weather”. In Gaza, it is experienced amidst exposure and abandonment.

Al-Arba’iniya

Locals call this time of year as al-Arba’iniya; the most bitter forty days of winter, starting from late December and persisting to the end of January. It is the definite start of winter, the moment when the season shows its true power. Ordinarily, it is faced with preparation and shelter. Currently, Gaza has no such defenses. The chill penetrates through homes, streets are deserted and people merely survive.

But the peril of the season is no longer abstract. Early on the Sunday before Christmas, civil defense teams recovered the bodies 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. Such collapses are not new attacks, but the consequence of homes damaged from months of bombardment and finally undone by winter rain. Earlier this month, a young child in Khan Younis passed away from exposure to the cold.

Precarious Existence

Observing the camp nearest my home, I saw the consequences up close. Thin plastic sheets strained under the weight of water, mattresses bobbed in water and clothes were perpetually moist, never fully drying. Each step reinforced how vulnerable these tents are and how close the rain and cold came to claiming life and health for hundreds of thousands living in tents and overcrowded shelters.

Most of these people have already been displaced, many on multiple occasions. Homes are lost. Neighbourhoods razed. Winter has descended upon Gaza, but shelter from its fury has not. It has come without proper shelter, without electricity, lacking heat.

The Weight on Education

In my role as a professor in Gaza, this weather is a heavy burden. My students are not distant names; they are faces I recognize; smart, persistent, but deeply weary. Most join virtual lessons from tents; others from overcrowded shelters where privacy is impossible and connectivity intermittent. Countless learners have already experienced bereavement. Most have lost their homes. Yet they persist in learning. Their perseverance is astounding, but it ought not be necessary in this way.

In Gaza, what would typically constitute routine academic practices—tasks, schedules—transform into ethical dilemmas, influenced daily by anxiety over students’ security, heat and ability to find refuge.

When the storm rages, I find myself thinking about them. Are they dry? Is there heat? Has the gale ripped through their shelter during the night? For those still living in apartments, or the shells that are left, there is no heating. With electricity scarce and fuel in short supply, warmth comes mainly from bundling up and using any remaining covers. Despite this, cold nights are excruciating. How then those living in tents?

Aid and Abandonment

Figures show that over a million people in Gaza reside in temporary housing. Humanitarian assistance, including insulated tents, have been inadequate. During the recent storm, relief groups reported distributing tarpaulins, tents and bedding to numerous households. In reality, however, this assistance was frequently felt to be inconsistent and lacking, limited to temporary solutions that did little against ongoing suffering to cold, wind and rain. Shelters fail. Respiratory illnesses, hypothermia, and infections caused by damp conditions are increasing.

This cannot be described as an unexpected catastrophe. Winter comes every year. People in Gaza view this crisis not as fate, but as abandonment. People speak of how necessary items are restricted or delayed, while attempts to reinforce weakened structures are consistently hampered. Local initiatives have tried to make do, to distribute plastic sheeting, yet they remain limited by restrictions on imports. The culpability lies in political and humanitarian. Solutions exist, but are prevented from arriving.

A Symbolic Season

The factor that intensifies this hardship especially agonizing is how avoidable it could have been. It is unconscionable to study, raise children, or combat disease standing surrounded by cold water inside a tent. No student should fear the rain damaging their precious phone. Rain reveals just how vulnerable survival is. It tests bodies worn down by anxiety, fatigue, and loss.

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