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The clock read approximately 8:30 PM on a weekday evening when I made my way home in Gaza City. Gusts of wind blew, making it impossible to remain any longer, so I had to walk. At first, it was only a light drizzle, but following a brief walk the rain intensified abruptly. This was expected. I stopped near a tent, trying to warm my hands to fight off the chill. A young boy was sitting outside selling baked goods. We shared brief remarks as I waited, though he didn’t seem interested. I saw the cookies were loosely wrapped in plastic, moist from the drizzle, and I questioned if he’d find buyers before the night ended. The cold seeped into everything.

A Walk Through a Landscape of Tents

Walking down al-Wehda Street in Gaza City, canvas structures flanked both sides of the road. No sounds of conversation came from inside them, just the noise of rain pouring down and the roar of the wind. As I hurried on, attempting to avoid the rain, I activated my mobile phone's torch to illuminate the path. My mind continually drifted to those huddled within: What are they doing now? What is their state of mind? What emotions do they hold? The cold was piercing. I envisioned children nestled under soaked bedding, parents moving restlessly to keep them warm.

Upon opening the door to my apartment, the icy doorknob served as a subtle yet haunting reminder of the struggles borne across Gaza in these severe cold season. I stepped inside my apartment and was overwhelmed by the guilt of enjoying a dry home when countless others faced exposure to the storm.

The Darkness Escalates

In the middle of the night, the storm grew stronger. Outside, tarps on shattered windows sagged and flapped violently, while tin roofing ripped free and fell with a clatter. Overriding the noise came the piercing, fearful cries of children, cutting through the darkness. I felt utterly powerless.

For the last fortnight, the rain has been incessant. Cold, heavy, and driven by strong winds, it has flooded makeshift homes, flooded makeshift camps and turned bare earth into mud. Elsewhere, this might be called “inclement weather”. In Gaza, it is lived with exposure and abandonment.

The Harshest Days

Residents refer to this time of year as al-Arba’iniya; the most bitter forty days of winter, commencing in late December and lasting until the end of January. It is the true beginning of winter, the moment when the season reveals its full force. Ordinarily, it is endured with preparation and shelter. This year, Gaza has neither. The frost seeps through homes, streets are deserted and people merely survive.

But the danger of winter is now very real. On the Sunday morning before Christmas, recovery efforts retrieved the remains 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 are still unaccounted for. Such collapses are not new attacks, but the consequence of homes weakened by months of bombardment and succumbing to winter rain. Earlier this month, a young child in Khan Younis passed away from exposure to the cold.

Fragile Shelters

Walking past the camp nearest my home, I observed the results up close. Flimsy tarpaulins sagged under the weight of water, mattresses floated and clothes remained wet, never fully drying. Each step reminded me how vulnerable these tents are and how close the rain and cold threatened life and health for hundreds of thousands living in tents and packed sanctuaries.

Most of these people have already been displaced, many on multiple occasions. Homes are lost. Neighbourhoods razed. Winter has come to Gaza, but protection from it has not. It has come without proper shelter, in darkness, without heating.

The Weight on Education

Being an educator in Gaza, this weather is a heavy burden. My students are not distant names; they are individuals I know; intelligent, determined, but profoundly exhausted. Most attend online classes from tents; others from overcrowded shelters where solitude is unattainable and connectivity sporadic. Many of my students have already suffered personal loss. Most have lost their homes. Yet they continue their education. Their fortitude is remarkable, but it ought not be necessary in this way.

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

During nights like these, I cannot help but wonder about them. Do they have dryness? Is there heat? Could the storm have shredded through their shelter while they were trying to sleep? For those remaining in apartments, or damaged structures, there is no heating. With electricity mostly absent and fuel scarce, warmth comes primarily through wearing multiple layers and using any remaining covers. Even so, cold nights are intolerable. What, then those living in tents?

Political Failure

Agencies state that well over a million people in Gaza exist in makeshift accommodations. Humanitarian assistance, including insulated tents, have been far from enough. During the recent storm, relief groups reported delivering plastic sheets, tents and mattresses to numerous households. On the ground, however, this assistance was frequently felt to be uneven and inadequate, limited to band-aid measures that did little against extended hardship to cold, wind and rain. Structures give way. Chest infections, hypothermia, and infections caused by damp conditions are on the upswing.

This cannot be described as an unexpected catastrophe. Winter arrives cyclically. People in Gaza interpret this shortcoming 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 hand out tarps, yet they continue to be hampered by restrictions on imports. The root cause is political and humanitarian. Remedies are known, but are withheld.

A Symbolic Season

The aspect that renders this pain especially agonizing is how unnecessary it should be. It is unconscionable to study, raise children, or fight illness standing ankle-deep in cold water inside a tent. No learner should dread the rain damaging their precious phone. Rain lays bare just how fragile life has become. It strains physiques worn down by stress, exhaustion, and grief.

This year's chill coincides with the Christmas season that, for millions, symbolises warmth, refuge and care for the disadvantaged. In Palestine, that {symbolism