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It was around 8:30 PM on a Thursday when I headed back home in Gaza City. The wind howled, forcing me inside any longer, so walking was my only option. In the beginning, it was only a light drizzle, but a short distance later the rain became a downpour. This was expected. I stopped near a tent, trying to warm my hands to generate a little heat. A young boy was sitting outside selling sweet treats. We exchanged a few words while I stood there, though he didn’t seem interested. I noticed the cookies were hastily covered in plastic, moist from the drizzle, and I pondered if he’d have enough to sell before the night ended. A deep chill permeated the air.

A Journey Through a Place of Tents

While traversing al-Wehda Street in Gaza City, tents lined both sides of the road. An eerie silence replaced voices from inside them, merely the din of rain pouring down and the moan of the wind. As I hurried on, attempting to avoid the rain, I activated my mobile phone's torch to see the road ahead. I couldn't stop thinking to those huddled within: What occupies them now? What are they thinking? What are they experiencing? The cold was piercing. I pictured children huddled under wet blankets, parents adjusting repeatedly to keep them warm.

When I opened the door to my apartment, the freezing handle served as a understated yet stark reminder of the suffering faced across Gaza in these brutal winter climate. I stepped inside my apartment and couldn't shake the guilt of having a roof when countless others faced exposure to the storm.

The Night Worsens

As midnight passed, the storm reached its peak. Outside, makeshift covers on damaged glass billowed and tore, while tin roofing tore loose and fell with a clatter. Cutting through the chaos came the sharp, panicked screams of children, piercing the darkness. I felt totally incapable.

For the last fortnight, the rain has been relentless. Freezing, pouring, and carried by strong winds, it has flooded makeshift homes, flooded makeshift camps and turned bare earth into mud. Elsewhere, this might be called “poor conditions”. In Gaza, it is lived with exposure and abandonment.

Al-Arba’iniya

Locals call this time of year as al-Arba’iniya; the 40 coldest and harshest days of winter, beginning in late December and lasting until the end of January. It is the true beginning 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 simply endure.

But the danger of winter is now very real. Early on the Sunday before Christmas, rescue operations 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 have not been found. These incidents are not caused by ongoing hostilities, but the result of homes damaged from months of bombardment and finally undone by winter rain. Not long ago, an eight-month-old baby girl in Khan Younis succumbed to exposure to the cold.

Precarious Existence

Observing the camp nearest my home, I saw the consequences up close. Inadequate coverings buckled beneath the weight of water, mattresses were adrift and clothes hung damply, always damp. Each step highlighted how precarious these dwellings are and how close the rain and cold came to taking life and health for hundreds of thousands living in tents and overcrowded shelters.

The majority of these individuals have already been forced from their homes, many several times over. Homes are destroyed. Neighbourhoods leveled. Winter has descended upon Gaza, but shelter from its fury has not. It has come lacking adequate housing, without electricity, devoid of warmth.

The Weight on Education

In my role as a professor in Gaza, this weather is a heavy burden. My students are not figures in a report; they are individuals I know; intelligent, determined, but profoundly exhausted. Most attend online classes from tents; others from overcrowded shelters where privacy is impossible and connectivity sporadic. Countless learners have already experienced bereavement. Most have seen their houses destroyed. Yet they continue their education. Their perseverance is astounding, but it should not be required in this way.

In Gaza, what would normally count as routine academic practices—tasks, schedules—transform into moral negotiations, dictated every moment by concern for students’ safety, warmth and proximity to protection.

When the storm rages, I cannot help but wonder about them. Are they dry? Do they feel any warmth? 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 in short supply, warmth comes mostly via bundling up and using the few bedding items available. Nonetheless, cold nights are excruciating. What, then those living in tents?

The Humanitarian Shortfall

Reports indicate that over a million people in Gaza reside in temporary housing. Relief items, including weatherproof shelters, have been insufficient. When the cyclone hit, aid organizations reported delivering tarpaulins, tents and bedding to a multitude of people. On the ground, however, this assistance was frequently felt to be uneven and inadequate, limited to short-term fixes that offered scant protection against extended hardship to cold, wind and rain. Shelters fail. Sicknesses, hypothermia, and infections linked to damp conditions are increasing.

This cannot be described as an unexpected catastrophe. Winter arrives cyclically. People in Gaza interpret this shortcoming not as misfortune, but as neglect. People speak of how necessary items are blocked or slowed, while attempts to fix broken houses are frequently blocked. Local initiatives have tried to make do, to provide coverings, yet they are still constrained by restrictions on imports. The failure is political and humanitarian. Remedies are known, but are prevented from arriving.

A Symbolic Season

The aspect that renders this pain especially painful is how preventable it is. It is unconscionable to study, raise children, or combat disease standing knee-high in cold water inside a tent. No learner should dread the rain damaging their precious phone. Rain reveals just how precarious existence is. It tests bodies worn down by anxiety, fatigue, and loss.

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