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It was around 8:30 PM on a weekday evening when I made my way home in Gaza City. A strong wind was blowing, 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. This was expected. I paused beside a tent, clapping my hands to draw some warmth. A young boy was sitting outside selling sweet treats. We shared brief remarks during my pause, but his attention was elsewhere. I observed the cookies were hastily covered in plastic, dampened from the drizzle, and I wondered if he’d find buyers before the night ended. A deep chill permeated the air.

A Trek Through a City of Tents

While traversing al-Wehda Street in Gaza City, canvas structures flanked both sides of the road. No sounds of conversation came from inside them, only the sound of torrential rain and the roar of the wind. As I hurried on, seeking escape from the rain, I turned on my mobile phone's torch to see the road ahead. My thoughts kept returning to those huddled within: What occupies them now? What thoughts fill their minds? How do they feel? The cold was piercing. I imagined children nestled under wet blankets, parents moving restlessly to keep them warm.

When I opened 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 felt consumed by the guilt of possessing shelter when countless others faced exposure to the storm.

The Night Worsens

In the middle of the night, the storm intensified. Outside, plastic sheeting on shattered windows sagged and flapped violently, while metal sheets ripped free and slammed down. Above it all came the sharp, panicked screams of children, cutting through the darkness. I felt completely helpless.

Over the past two weeks, the rain has been relentless. Freezing, pouring, and carried by strong winds, it has soaked tents, flooded makeshift camps and turned the soil into mud. Elsewhere, this might be called “poor conditions”. In Gaza, it is lived with exposure and abandonment.

Al-Arba’iniya

Residents refer to this time of year as al-Arba’iniya; the most bitter forty days of winter, beginning in late December and persisting to the end of January. It is the real onset of winter, the moment when the season shows its true power. Typically, it is faced with preparation and shelter. Currently, Gaza has none of these. The cold bites through homes, streets are empty and people just persevere.

But the threat posed by the cold is no longer abstract. Early on the Sunday before Christmas, civil defense teams 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 are still unaccounted for. Such collapses are not new attacks, but the result of homes weakened by months of bombardment and finally undone by winter rain. In recent days, an eight-month-old baby girl in Khan Younis succumbed to exposure to the cold.

A Life in Tents

Passing by the camp nearest my home, I witnessed the impact up close. Flimsy tarpaulins buckled beneath the weight of water, mattresses floated and clothes were perpetually moist, incapable of drying. Each step highlighted how vulnerable these tents are and how close the rain and cold came to taking life and health for a vast population living in tents and packed sanctuaries.

The majority of these individuals have already been displaced, many repeatedly. Homes are lost. Neighbourhoods razed. Winter has descended upon Gaza, but shelter from its fury has not. It has come without proper shelter, in darkness, without heating.

A Teacher's Anguish

Being an educator in Gaza, this weather weighs heavily on me. My students are not figures in a report; they are individuals I know; intelligent, determined, but deeply weary. Most participate in digital sessions from tents; others from packed rooms where solitude is unattainable and connectivity sporadic. A significant number of pupils have already lost family members. Most have seen their houses destroyed. Yet they continue their education. Their fortitude is remarkable, but it should not be required in this way.

In Gaza, what would normally count as routine academic practices—tasks, schedules—turn into ethical dilemmas, dictated every moment by anxiety over students’ well-being, comfort and proximity to protection.

On evenings such as this, I am constantly preoccupied about them. Is their shelter holding? Is there heat? Has the gale ripped through their shelter during the night? For those residing in apartments, or damaged structures, there is no heating. With electricity mostly absent and fuel scarce, warmth comes primarily through donning extra clothing and using whatever blankets are left. Despite this, cold nights are unbearable. How then those living in tents?

Aid and Abandonment

Reports indicate that over a million people in Gaza live in shelters. Relief items, including thermal blankets, have been insufficient. During the recent storm, aid organizations reported delivering plastic sheets, tents and mattresses to thousands of families. For those affected, however, this assistance was frequently felt to be inconsistent and lacking, limited to band-aid measures that did little against extended hardship to cold, wind and rain. Tents collapse. Respiratory illnesses, hypothermia, and infections caused by damp conditions are increasing.

This goes beyond an unforeseen disaster. Winter comes every year. People in Gaza understand this failure not as bad luck, but as being forsaken. People speak of how necessary items are restricted or delayed, while attempts to reinforce weakened structures are consistently hampered. Local initiatives have tried to find solutions, to provide coverings, yet they remain limited by bureaucratic barriers. The culpability lies in political and humanitarian. Solutions exist, but are kept out.

A Preventable Suffering

What makes this suffering especially agonizing is how avoidable it could have been. No one should have to study, raise children, or fight illness standing ankle-deep in cold water inside a tent. No student should fear the rain ruining their last notebook. Rain exposes just how precarious existence is. It strains physiques worn down by anxiety, fatigue, and loss.

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