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The clock read approximately 8:30 PM on a weekday evening when I returned home in Gaza City. The wind howled, and I couldn’t stay out any longer, so I had to walk. At first, it was just a gentle sprinkle, but after about 200 metres the rain suddenly grew heavier. This was expected. I took shelter by a tent, clapping my hands to draw some warmth. A young boy sat nearby selling baked goods. We spoke briefly while I stood there, but his attention was elsewhere. I observed the cookies were poorly packaged in plastic, dampened from the drizzle, and I questioned if he’d manage to sell them all before the night ended. The freezing temperature invaded every space.

A Journey Through a Landscape of Tents

As I walked along al-Wehda Street in Gaza City, tents lined both sides of the road. There were no voices from inside them, just the noise of falling water and the roar of the wind. Quickening my pace, trying to dodge the rain, I turned on my mobile phone's torch to see the road ahead. My thoughts kept returning to those sheltering inside: What are they doing now? What thoughts fill their minds? How do they feel? A severe chill gripped the air. I envisioned children huddled under wet blankets, parents shifting constantly to keep them warm.

As I unlocked the door to my apartment, the cold metal served as a understated yet stark reminder of the hardships endured across Gaza in these harsh winter conditions. I stepped inside my apartment and felt consumed by the guilt of possessing shelter when a multitude remained unprotected to the storm.

The Darkness Intensifies

As midnight passed, the storm grew stronger. Outside, plastic sheeting on damaged glass sagged and flapped violently, while metal sheets tore loose and fell with a clatter. Overriding the noise came the piercing, fearful cries of children, shattering the darkness. I felt completely helpless.

For the last fortnight, the rain has been unending. Freezing, pouring, and carried by strong winds, it has drenched shelters, swamped refugee areas and turned bare earth into mud. Elsewhere, this might be called “bad weather”. In Gaza, it is experienced amidst exposure and abandonment.

The Harshest Days

Locals call this time of year as al-Arba’iniya; the 40 coldest and harshest days of winter, beginning in 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. Typically, it is weathered through preparation and shelter. Currently, Gaza has none of these. The frost seeps through homes, streets are vacant and people just persevere.

But the peril of the season is far from theoretical. Early on the Sunday before Christmas, rescue operations 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 remain missing. Such collapses are not the result of fresh strikes, but the result of homes compromised after months of bombardment and finally undone by winter rain. Earlier this month, an infant in Khan Younis passed away from exposure to the cold.

Fragile Shelters

Walking past the camp nearest my home, I witnessed the impact up close. Flimsy tarpaulins buckled beneath the weight of water, mattresses bobbed in water 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 uprooted, many repeatedly. Homes are lost. Neighbourhoods leveled. Winter has arrived in Gaza, but shelter from its fury has not. It has come without proper shelter, without electricity, lacking heat.

Students in the Storm

Being an educator in Gaza, this weather weighs heavily on me. My students are not figures in a report; they are young people I speak to; smart, persistent, but extremely fatigued. Most attend online classes from tents; others from cramped quarters where personal space doesn't exist and connectivity intermittent. Many of my students have already experienced bereavement. 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 typically constitute routine academic practices—tasks, schedules—transform into ethical dilemmas, dictated every moment by concern for students’ security, heat and access to shelter.

When the storm rages, I am constantly preoccupied about them. Do they have dryness? Is there heat? Has the gale ripped through their shelter as they attempted to rest? For those still living in apartments, or damaged structures, there is no heating. With electricity mostly absent and fuel in short supply, warmth comes primarily through bundling up and using whatever blankets are left. Despite this, cold nights are intolerable. How then those living in tents?

The Humanitarian Shortfall

Agencies state that well over a million people in Gaza live in shelters. Humanitarian assistance, including insulated tents, have been inadequate. When the cyclone hit, humanitarian partners reported providing tarpaulins, tents and bedding to a multitude of people. On the ground, however, this assistance was widely experienced as patchy and insufficient, limited to short-term fixes that offered scant protection against ongoing suffering to cold, wind and rain. Shelters fail. Chest infections, hypothermia, and infections caused by damp conditions are rising.

This cannot be described as an unforeseen disaster. Winter arrives cyclically. People in Gaza understand this failure not as misfortune, but as being forsaken. People speak of how essential materials are hindered or postponed, while attempts to repair damaged homes are frequently blocked. Local initiatives have tried to make do, to hand out tarps, yet they remain limited by what is allowed to enter. The culpability lies in political and humanitarian. Remedies are known, but are prevented from arriving.

An Unnecessary Pain

What makes this suffering especially agonizing 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 student should fear the rain destroying their final textbook. Rain reveals just how fragile life has become. It challenges health worn down by pressure, weariness, and sorrow.

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