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The time was about 8:30 PM on a weekday evening when I headed back home in Gaza City. A strong wind was blowing, making it impossible to remain any longer, leaving me to walk. Initially, it was merely a soft rain, but a short distance later the rain suddenly grew heavier. That wasn’t surprising. I paused beside a tent, trying to warm my hands to fight off the chill. A young boy sat nearby selling baked goods. We shared brief remarks during my pause, although he appeared disengaged. I saw the cookies were loosely wrapped in plastic, dampened from the drizzle, and I pondered if he’d find buyers before the night ended. The cold seeped into everything.

A Journey Through a Landscape of Tents

Walking down al-Wehda Street in Gaza City, tents lined both sides of the road. There were no voices from inside them, merely the din of falling water and the moan of the wind. Quickening my pace, seeking escape from the rain, I activated my mobile phone's torch to illuminate the path. I couldn't stop thinking to those taking refuge within: How are they passing the time now? What is their state of mind? What emotions do they hold? A severe chill gripped the air. I imagined children curled 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 harsh winter conditions. I stepped inside my apartment and was overwhelmed by the guilt of enjoying a dry home when a multitude remained unprotected to the storm.

The Darkness Intensifies

As midnight passed, the storm reached its peak. Outside, plastic sheeting on damaged glass billowed and tore, while corrugated metal tore loose and fell with a clatter. Overriding the noise came the piercing, fearful cries of children, cutting through the darkness. I felt completely helpless.

Over the past two weeks, the rain has been unending. Chilly, dense, and propelled by strong winds, it has flooded makeshift homes, flooded makeshift camps and turned bare earth into mud. Elsewhere, this might be called “bad weather”. In Gaza, it is experienced amidst exposure and abandonment.

Al-Arba’iniya

Palestinians know this time of year as al-Arba’iniya; the most bitter forty days of winter, beginning in late December and lasting until the end of January. It is the definite start of winter, the moment when the season unleashes its intensity. Normally, it is weathered through preparation and shelter. Now, Gaza has neither. The cold bites through homes, streets are empty and people just persevere.

But the peril of the season is no longer abstract. In the early hours of Sunday before Christmas, recovery efforts found the victims of two children after the roof of a war-damaged building collapsed in northern Gaza, rescuing five others, including a child and two women. Two people have not been found. These incidents are not new attacks, but the outcome of homes damaged from months of bombardment and finally undone by winter rain. Earlier this month, a young child 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 sagged under the weight of water, mattresses floated and clothes were perpetually moist, never fully drying. Each step reinforced how vulnerable these tents are and how close the rain and cold came to claiming life and health for hundreds of thousands living in tents and cramped refuges.

The majority of these individuals have already been displaced, many repeatedly. Homes are gone. Neighbourhoods flattened. Winter has arrived in Gaza, but protection from it has not. It has come devoid of safe refuge, with no power, without heating.

The Weight on Education

Being an educator in Gaza, this weather weighs heavily on me. My students are not mere statistics; they are individuals I know; smart, persistent, but deeply weary. Most participate in digital sessions from tents; others from overcrowded shelters where solitude is unattainable and connectivity sporadic. A significant number of pupils have already suffered personal loss. Most have been rendered homeless. Yet they continue their education. Their resilience is extraordinary, but it ought not be necessary in this way.

In Gaza, what would typically constitute routine academic practices—projects, due dates—turn into ethical dilemmas, dictated every moment by anxiety over students’ security, heat and ability to find refuge.

During nights like these, I find myself thinking about them. Do they have dryness? Are they warm? Could the storm have shredded through their shelter while they were trying to sleep? For those residing in apartments, or what remains of them, there is an absence of warmth. With electricity largely unavailable and fuel scarce, warmth comes primarily through donning extra clothing and using the few bedding items available. Nonetheless, cold nights are excruciating. What, then those living in tents?

Aid and Abandonment

Reports indicate that more than a million people in Gaza reside in temporary housing. Relief items, including thermal blankets, have been far from enough. During the recent storm, aid organizations reported providing plastic sheets, tents and mattresses to thousands of families. For those affected, however, this assistance was frequently felt to be inconsistent and lacking, limited to band-aid measures that did little against extended hardship to cold, wind and rain. Shelters fail. Chest infections, hypothermia, and infections caused by damp conditions are on the upswing.

This goes beyond an unforeseen disaster. Winter is an annual event. People in Gaza view this crisis not as misfortune, but as neglect. People speak of how critical supplies are hindered or postponed, while attempts to reinforce weakened structures are repeatedly obstructed. Grassroots projects have tried to find solutions, to hand out tarps, yet they continue to be hampered by what is allowed to enter. The root cause is political and humanitarian. Answers are available, but are kept out.

A Symbolic Season

What makes this suffering especially painful is how avoidable it could have been. It is unconscionable to study, raise children, or fight illness standing ankle-deep in cold water inside a tent. It is wrong for a pupil to worry about the rain damaging their precious phone. Rain exposes just how fragile life has become. It strains physiques worn down by anxiety, fatigue, and loss.

This winter aligns with the Christmas season that, for millions, symbolises warmth, refuge and care for the neediest. In Palestine, that {symbolism