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It was around 8:30 PM on a weekday evening when I returned home in Gaza City. Gusts of wind blew, making it impossible to remain any longer, so I had to walk. Initially, it was merely a soft rain, but after about 200 metres the rain suddenly grew heavier. This was expected. I paused beside a tent, clapping my hands to generate a little heat. A young boy had positioned himself selling homemade cookies. We spoke briefly while I stood there, though he didn’t seem interested. I saw the cookies were loosely wrapped in plastic, already soggy from the drizzle, and I pondered if he’d find buyers before the night ended. A deep chill permeated the air.

A Trek Through a Place of Tents

While traversing al-Wehda Street in Gaza City, canvas structures flanked both sides of the road. An eerie silence replaced voices from inside them, only the sound of falling water and the whistle of the wind. Rushing forward, attempting to avoid the rain, I turned on my mobile phone's torch to illuminate the path. My mind continually drifted to those taking refuge within: What occupies them now? What are they thinking? How do they feel? The cold was piercing. I pictured children nestled under damp covers, parents adjusting repeatedly to keep them warm.

Upon opening the door to my apartment, the icy doorknob served as a subtle yet haunting reminder of the suffering faced across Gaza in these brutal winter climate. I stepped inside my apartment and felt consumed by the guilt of having a roof when countless others faced exposure to the storm.

The Darkness Intensifies

During the darkest hours, the storm reached its peak. Outside, plastic sheeting on damaged glass whipped and strained, while metal sheets tore loose and fell with a clatter. Overriding the noise came the sharp, panicked screams of children, cutting through the darkness. I felt utterly powerless.

During recent days, the rain has been incessant. Cold, heavy, and driven by strong winds, it has drenched shelters, swamped refugee areas and turned open ground into mud. In different contexts, this might be called “inclement weather”. In Gaza, it is lived with exposure and abandonment.

Al-Arba’iniya

Locals call this time of year as al-Arba’iniya; the fourty most severe days of winter, starting from late December and continuing through the end of January. It is the true beginning of winter, the moment when the season unleashes its intensity. Ordinarily, it is weathered through preparation and shelter. Now, Gaza has none of these. The chill penetrates through homes, streets are vacant and people just persevere.

But the peril of the season is no longer abstract. On the Sunday morning before Christmas, rescue operations found the victims of two children after the roof of a war-damaged building collapsed in northern Gaza, saving five more people, including a child and two women. Two people remain missing. These incidents are not new attacks, but the result of homes compromised after months of bombardment and finally undone by winter rain. Earlier this month, an infant in Khan Younis succumbed to exposure to the cold.

Fragile Shelters

Passing by 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, incapable of drying. Each step reinforced how fragile these shelters were and how close the rain and cold came to taking life and health for countless individuals living in tents and cramped refuges.

The majority of these individuals have already been displaced, many several times over. Homes are lost. Neighbourhoods leveled. Winter has arrived in Gaza, but defense against it has not. It has come without proper shelter, without electricity, lacking heat.

The Weight on Education

Being an educator in Gaza, this weather weighs heavily on me. My students are not mere statistics; they are faces I recognize; bright, resilient, but extremely fatigued. Most participate in digital sessions from tents; others from packed rooms where privacy is impossible and connectivity intermittent. Many of my students have already experienced bereavement. Most have lost their homes. Yet they still try to study. Their fortitude is remarkable, but it should not be required in this way.

In Gaza, what would typically constitute routine academic practices—tasks, schedules—become questions of conscience, influenced daily by concern for students’ well-being, comfort and access to shelter.

When the storm rages, I am constantly preoccupied about them. Do they have dryness? Is there heat? Could the storm have shredded through their shelter during the night? For those remaining in apartments, or damaged structures, there is an absence of warmth. With electricity largely unavailable and fuel in short supply, warmth comes mostly via donning extra clothing and using whatever blankets are left. Even so, cold nights are excruciating. How then those living in tents?

Aid and Abandonment

Figures show that well over a million people in Gaza live in shelters. Aid supplies, including weatherproof shelters, have been inadequate. During the recent storm, aid organizations reported delivering tarpaulins, tents and bedding to a multitude of people. On the ground, however, this assistance was frequently felt to be patchy and insufficient, limited to band-aid measures that were largely ineffective against prolonged exposure to cold, wind and rain. Structures give way. Chest infections, hypothermia, and infections linked to damp conditions are increasing.

This cannot be described as an surprise calamity. Winter arrives cyclically. People in Gaza view this crisis not as misfortune, but as being forsaken. People speak of how necessary items are restricted or delayed, while attempts to reinforce weakened structures are repeatedly obstructed. Grassroots projects have tried to find solutions, to hand out tarps, yet they are still constrained by what is allowed to enter. The culpability lies in political and humanitarian. Remedies are known, but are prevented from arriving.

A Symbolic Season

The aspect that renders this pain especially agonizing is how preventable it is. It is unconscionable to study, raise children, or combat disease standing ankle-deep in cold water inside a tent. No learner should dread the rain ruining their last notebook. Rain lays bare just how precarious existence is. It challenges health worn down by anxiety, fatigue, and loss.

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