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The time was approximately 8:30 PM on a Thursday when I headed back home in Gaza City. A strong wind was blowing, forcing me inside any longer, so walking was my only option. At first, it was merely a soft rain, but after about 200 metres the rain intensified abruptly. It came as no shock. I stopped near a tent, trying to warm my hands to draw some warmth. A young boy was sitting outside selling homemade cookies. We shared brief remarks during my pause, though he didn’t seem interested. I observed the cookies were poorly packaged in plastic, already soggy from the drizzle, and I wondered if he’d manage to sell them all before the night ended. The freezing temperature invaded every space.

A Journey Through a City 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. Rushing forward, trying to dodge the rain, I switched on my mobile phone's torch to light my way. I couldn't stop thinking to those taking refuge within: What occupies them now? What is their state of mind? What are they experiencing? A severe chill gripped the air. I envisioned children huddled under wet blankets, parents adjusting repeatedly to keep them warm.

As I unlocked 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 entered my apartment and was overwhelmed by the guilt of possessing shelter when so many were exposed to the storm.

The Night Worsens

As midnight passed, the storm grew stronger. Outside, tarps on shattered windows sagged and flapped violently, while metal sheets ripped free and crashed to the ground. Overriding the noise came the sharp, panicked screams of children, piercing the darkness. I felt utterly powerless.

Over the past two weeks, the rain has been incessant. Freezing, pouring, and carried by strong winds, it has drenched shelters, inundated temporary settlements and turned open ground into mud. Elsewhere, this might be called “poor conditions”. In Gaza, it is experienced amidst exposure and abandonment.

The Cruelest Season

Locals call this time of year as al-Arba’iniya; the most bitter forty days of winter, starting from late December and lasting until the end of January. It is the definite start of winter, the moment when the season shows its true power. Normally, it is faced with preparation and shelter. Now, Gaza has no such defenses. The cold bites through homes, streets are deserted and people simply endure.

But the peril of the season is far from theoretical. On the Sunday morning before Christmas, rescue operations recovered the bodies of two children after the roof of a shelled home collapsed in northern Gaza, freeing five additional individuals, including a child and two women. Two people remain missing. Such collapses are not new attacks, but the consequence of homes damaged from months of bombardment and succumbing to winter rain. Not long ago, an infant in Khan Younis passed away from exposure to the cold.

A Life in Tents

Walking past the camp nearest my home, I witnessed the impact up close. Flimsy tarpaulins strained under the weight of water, mattresses bobbed in water and clothes hung damply, never fully drying. Each step reinforced how precarious these dwellings are and how close the rain and cold threatened life and health for hundreds of thousands living in tents and overcrowded shelters.

The majority of these individuals have already been uprooted, many repeatedly. Homes are destroyed. Neighbourhoods flattened. Winter has descended upon Gaza, but protection from it has not. It has come lacking adequate housing, without electricity, devoid of warmth.

A Teacher's Anguish

Being an educator in Gaza, this weather is a heavy burden. My students are not mere statistics; they are faces I recognize; smart, persistent, but deeply weary. Most participate in digital sessions from tents; others from packed rooms where solitude is unattainable and connectivity intermittent. Countless learners have already suffered personal loss. Most have been rendered homeless. Yet they still try to study. Their perseverance is astounding, but it ought not be necessary in this way.

In Gaza, what would typically constitute routine academic practices—tasks, schedules—turn into moral negotiations, influenced daily by concern for students’ safety, warmth and access to shelter.

During nights like these, I cannot help but wonder about them. Are they dry? Do they feel any warmth? Could the storm have shredded through their shelter during the night? For those still living in apartments, or what remains of them, there is no heating. With electricity scarce and fuel rare, warmth comes mostly via bundling up and using the few bedding items available. Even so, cold nights are intolerable. What about those living in tents?

Aid and Abandonment

Agencies state that more than a million people in Gaza live in shelters. Humanitarian assistance, including insulated tents, have been inadequate. Amid the last tempest, relief groups reported providing tarpaulins, tents and bedding to numerous households. For those affected, however, this assistance was widely experienced as uneven and inadequate, limited to band-aid measures that offered scant protection against extended hardship to cold, wind and rain. Tents collapse. Respiratory illnesses, hypothermia, and infections caused by damp conditions are rising.

This goes beyond an unexpected catastrophe. Winter arrives cyclically. People in Gaza interpret this shortcoming not as misfortune, but as abandonment. People speak of how essential materials are blocked or slowed, while attempts to fix broken houses are frequently blocked. Local initiatives have tried to make do, to distribute plastic sheeting, yet they remain limited by bureaucratic barriers. The root cause is political and humanitarian. Remedies are known, but are prevented from arriving.

An Unnecessary Pain

The factor that intensifies this hardship especially heartbreaking is how preventable it is. No one should have 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 exposes just how vulnerable survival is. It challenges health worn down by stress, exhaustion, and grief.

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