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The time was about 8:30 PM on a Thursday when I returned home in Gaza City. Gusts of wind blew, and I couldn’t stay out any longer, so walking was my only option. At first, it was only a light drizzle, but a short distance later the rain became a downpour. This was expected. I stopped near a tent, rubbing my palms together to draw some warmth. A young boy was sitting outside selling baked goods. We spoke briefly during my pause, although he appeared disengaged. I saw the cookies were hastily covered in plastic, already soggy from the drizzle, and I pondered if he’d manage to sell them all before the night ended. The cold seeped into everything.

A Journey Through a City of Tents

As I walked along al-Wehda Street in Gaza City, makeshift shelters crowded both sides of the road. An eerie silence replaced voices from inside them, just the noise of falling water and the whistle of the wind. Rushing forward, trying to dodge the rain, I turned on my mobile phone's torch to light my way. I couldn't stop thinking to those taking refuge within: What occupies them now? What thoughts fill their minds? What emotions do they hold? It was bitterly cold. I envisioned children curled under wet blankets, parents moving restlessly 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 harsh winter conditions. I walked into my apartment and was overwhelmed by the guilt of having a roof when countless others faced exposure to the storm.

The Midnight Hour Intensifies

As midnight passed, the storm reached its peak. Outside, plastic sheeting on shattered windows billowed and tore, while tin roofing tore loose and slammed down. Above it all came the piercing, fearful cries of children, cutting through the darkness. I felt completely helpless.

For the last fortnight, the rain has been relentless. Freezing, pouring, and carried by strong winds, it has flooded makeshift homes, swamped refugee areas and turned bare earth into mud. In other places, this might be called “bad weather”. In Gaza, it is lived with exposure and abandonment.

Al-Arba’iniya

Palestinians know 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 true beginning 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 frost seeps through homes, streets are deserted and people simply endure.

But the threat posed by the cold is far from theoretical. In the early hours of Sunday before Christmas, rescue operations found the victims of two children after the roof of a bombarded structure collapsed in northern Gaza, rescuing five others, including a child and two women. Two people remain missing. These incidents are not caused by ongoing hostilities, but the outcome of homes compromised after months of bombardment and ultimately defeated by winter rain. Not long ago, a young child in Khan Younis died of exposure to the cold.

Fragile Shelters

Observing the camp nearest my home, I witnessed the impact up close. Flimsy tarpaulins sagged under the weight of water, mattresses were adrift and clothes remained wet, 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 countless individuals living in tents and packed sanctuaries.

A great number of these residents have already been displaced, many on multiple occasions. Homes are gone. Neighbourhoods leveled. Winter has arrived in Gaza, but defense against it has not. It has come lacking adequate housing, in darkness, lacking heat.

Students in the Storm

Being an educator in Gaza, this weather is a heavy burden. My students are not figures in a report; 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 lost family members. Most have lost their homes. Yet they still try to study. Their resilience is extraordinary, but it must not be demanded in this way.

In Gaza, what would usually be routine academic practices—projects, due dates—become ethical dilemmas, influenced daily by anxiety over students’ safety, warmth and proximity to protection.

During nights like these, I find myself thinking about them. Is their shelter holding? Do they feel any warmth? Did the wind tear through their shelter during the night? For those residing in apartments, or the shells that are left, there is an absence of warmth. With electricity mostly absent and fuel scarce, warmth comes primarily through bundling up and using any remaining covers. Despite this, cold nights are excruciating. How then those living in tents?

Political Failure

Agencies state that over a million people in Gaza reside in temporary housing. Humanitarian assistance, including thermal blankets, have been inadequate. Amid the last tempest, humanitarian partners reported delivering plastic sheets, tents and mattresses to thousands of families. On the ground, however, this assistance was frequently felt to be inconsistent and lacking, limited to band-aid measures that were largely ineffective against prolonged exposure to cold, wind and rain. Tents collapse. Respiratory illnesses, hypothermia, and infections associated with damp conditions are on the upswing.

This goes beyond an unforeseen disaster. Winter comes every year. People in Gaza interpret this shortcoming not as fate, but as abandonment. People speak of how critical supplies are hindered or postponed, while attempts to fix broken houses are repeatedly obstructed. Grassroots projects have tried to find solutions, to provide coverings, yet they continue to be hampered by restrictions on imports. The failure is political and humanitarian. Remedies are known, but are withheld.

An Unnecessary Pain

The factor that intensifies this hardship especially painful is how preventable it is. No individual ought to study, raise children, or battle sickness standing surrounded by cold water inside a tent. No learner should dread the rain damaging their precious phone. Rain lays bare just how precarious existence is. It challenges health 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