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The clock read around 8:30 PM on a Thursday when I returned home in Gaza City. The wind howled, forcing me inside any longer, leaving me to walk. Initially, it was just a gentle sprinkle, but a short distance later the rain suddenly grew heavier. That wasn’t surprising. I stopped near a tent, clapping my hands to fight off the chill. A young boy had positioned himself selling sweet treats. We exchanged a few words while I stood there, although he appeared disengaged. I observed the cookies were poorly packaged in plastic, already soggy from the drizzle, and I wondered if he’d have enough to sell before the night ended. A deep chill permeated the air.

A Journey Through a Place of Tents

As I walked along al-Wehda Street in Gaza City, makeshift shelters crowded both sides of the road. No sounds of conversation came from inside them, merely the din of falling water and the whistle of the wind. Quickening my pace, attempting to avoid the rain, I turned on my mobile phone's torch to illuminate the path. My thoughts kept returning to those sheltering inside: What occupies them now? What is their state of mind? What are they experiencing? The cold was piercing. I envisioned children huddled under wet blankets, parents adjusting repeatedly 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 severe cold season. I entered my apartment and felt consumed by the guilt of enjoying a dry home when countless others faced exposure to the storm.

The Darkness Worsens

During the darkest hours, the storm grew stronger. Outside, plastic sheeting on broken panes billowed and tore, while corrugated metal tore loose and slammed down. Above it all came the desperate, terrified shouts of children, shattering the darkness. I felt completely helpless.

For the last fortnight, the rain has been relentless. Chilly, dense, and propelled by strong winds, it has drenched shelters, flooded makeshift camps and turned open ground into mud. In other places, this might be called “bad weather”. In Gaza, it is endured in a state of exposure and abandonment.

The Harshest Days

Palestinians know this time of year as al-Arba’iniya; the most bitter forty days of winter, commencing in late December and continuing through the end of January. It is the true beginning of winter, the moment when the season shows its true power. Normally, it is weathered through preparation and shelter. Now, Gaza has neither. The frost seeps through homes, streets are deserted and people simply endure.

But the peril of the season is no longer abstract. In the early hours of Sunday before Christmas, civil defense teams 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 have not been found. Such collapses are not new attacks, but the consequence of homes compromised after months of bombardment and finally undone by winter rain. Not long ago, an infant in Khan Younis died of exposure to the cold.

Fragile Shelters

Walking past the camp nearest my home, I saw the consequences up close. Inadequate coverings sagged under the weight of water, mattresses bobbed in water and clothes were perpetually moist, incapable of drying. Each step reinforced how fragile these shelters were and how close the rain and cold threatened life and health for hundreds of thousands living in tents and cramped refuges.

A great number of these residents have already been uprooted, many several times over. Homes are destroyed. Neighbourhoods flattened. Winter has descended upon Gaza, but shelter from its fury has not. It has come devoid of safe refuge, with no power, devoid of warmth.

The Weight on Education

Being an educator in Gaza, this weather is a heavy burden. My students are not distant names; they are young people I speak to; smart, persistent, but deeply weary. Most attend online classes from tents; others from cramped quarters where privacy is impossible and connectivity unreliable. Countless learners have already lost family members. Most have lost their homes. Yet they still try to study. Their perseverance is astounding, but it should not be required in this way.

In Gaza, what would typically constitute routine academic practices—assignments, deadlines—become questions of conscience, shaped each day by concern for students’ well-being, comfort and access to shelter.

When the storm rages, I find myself thinking about them. Is their shelter holding? Is there heat? Did the wind tear through their shelter during the night? For those residing in apartments, or damaged structures, there is an absence of warmth. With electricity scarce and fuel scarce, warmth comes mostly via donning extra clothing and using the few bedding items available. Even so, cold nights are excruciating. What, then those living in tents?

Aid and Abandonment

Agencies state that more than a million people in Gaza exist in makeshift accommodations. Aid supplies, including insulated tents, have been inadequate. During the recent storm, humanitarian partners reported distributing plastic sheets, tents and mattresses to a multitude of people. For those affected, however, this assistance was frequently felt to be inconsistent and lacking, limited to band-aid measures that were largely ineffective against ongoing suffering to cold, wind and rain. Shelters fail. Sicknesses, hypothermia, and infections caused by damp conditions are rising.

This cannot be described as an surprise calamity. Winter is an annual event. People in Gaza understand this failure not as bad luck, but as neglect. People speak of how critical supplies are hindered or postponed, while attempts to reinforce weakened structures are repeatedly obstructed. Local initiatives have tried to improvise, to distribute plastic sheeting, yet they are still constrained by restrictions on imports. The culpability lies in political and humanitarian. Answers are available, but are withheld.

An Unnecessary Pain

The factor that intensifies this hardship especially heartbreaking is how avoidable it could have been. No individual ought to study, raise children, or fight illness standing surrounded by cold water inside a tent. No student should fear the rain ruining their last notebook. Rain lays bare just how vulnerable survival is. It challenges health worn down by stress, exhaustion, and grief.

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