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The clock read approximately 8:30 PM on a Thursday when I made my way home in Gaza City. Gusts of wind blew, forcing me inside any longer, so walking was my only option. In the beginning, it was only a light drizzle, but after about 200 metres the rain intensified abruptly. It came as no shock. I paused beside a tent, trying to warm my hands to fight off the chill. A young boy was sitting outside selling baked goods. We exchanged a few words while I stood there, though he didn’t seem interested. I noticed the cookies were hastily covered in plastic, dampened from the drizzle, and I questioned 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

Walking down 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 torrential rain and the moan of the wind. Rushing forward, seeking escape from the rain, I switched on my mobile phone's torch to see the road ahead. I couldn't stop thinking to those taking refuge within: How are they passing the time now? What thoughts fill their minds? What emotions do they hold? It was bitterly cold. I imagined children curled under wet blankets, parents moving restlessly to keep them warm.

Upon opening the door to my apartment, the freezing handle served as a subtle yet haunting reminder of the suffering faced across Gaza in these severe cold season. I walked into my apartment and felt consumed by the guilt of enjoying a dry home when a multitude remained unprotected to the storm.

The Night Worsens

During the darkest hours, the storm grew stronger. Outside, plastic sheeting on shattered windows sagged and flapped violently, while metal sheets tore loose and slammed down. Overriding the noise came the desperate, terrified shouts of children, shattering the darkness. I felt utterly powerless.

For the last fortnight, the rain has been incessant. Chilly, dense, and propelled by strong winds, it has drenched shelters, flooded makeshift camps and turned bare earth into mud. In other places, 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 40 coldest and harshest days of winter, starting from late December and continuing through the end of January. It is the real onset of winter, the moment when the season unleashes its intensity. Typically, it is endured with preparation and shelter. Currently, Gaza has no such defenses. The chill penetrates through homes, streets are deserted and people just persevere.

But the threat posed by the cold is now very real. In the early hours of Sunday before Christmas, civil defense teams found the victims of two children after the roof of a bombarded structure collapsed in northern Gaza, rescuing five others, including a child and two women. Two people have not been found. These structural failures are not new attacks, but the consequence of homes weakened by months of bombardment and succumbing to winter rain. Earlier this month, an eight-month-old baby girl in Khan Younis passed away from exposure to the cold.

A Life in Tents

Observing the camp nearest my home, I observed the results up close. Thin plastic sheets buckled beneath the weight of water, mattresses were adrift and clothes remained wet, always damp. Each step reminded me how vulnerable these tents are and how close the rain and cold came to taking life and health for hundreds of thousands living in tents and cramped refuges.

A great number of these residents have already been forced from their homes, many several times over. Homes are gone. Neighbourhoods leveled. Winter has descended upon Gaza, but shelter from its fury has not. It has come without proper shelter, without electricity, without heating.

A Teacher's Anguish

Being an educator in Gaza, this weather is a heavy burden. My students are not figures in a report; they are individuals I know; smart, persistent, but deeply weary. Most attend online classes from tents; others from packed rooms where personal space doesn't exist and connectivity unreliable. Many of my students have already experienced bereavement. Most have lost their homes. Yet they still try to study. 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—turn into moral negotiations, shaped each day by anxiety over students’ safety, warmth and ability to find refuge.

On evenings such as this, I cannot help but wonder about them. Do they have dryness? Are they warm? Could the storm have shredded through their shelter during the night? For those remaining in apartments, or the shells that are left, there is no heating. With electricity mostly absent and fuel rare, warmth comes primarily through wearing multiple layers and using the few bedding items available. Nonetheless, cold nights are unbearable. How then those living in tents?

Aid and Abandonment

Reports indicate that over a million people in Gaza reside in temporary housing. Humanitarian assistance, including thermal blankets, have been insufficient. During the recent storm, aid organizations reported delivering tarpaulins, tents and bedding to numerous households. For those affected, however, this assistance was frequently felt to be uneven and inadequate, limited to temporary solutions that were largely ineffective against ongoing suffering to cold, wind and rain. Structures give way. Sicknesses, hypothermia, and infections linked to damp conditions are increasing.

This is not an unexpected catastrophe. Winter comes every year. People in Gaza interpret this shortcoming not as fate, but as abandonment. People speak of how critical supplies are blocked or slowed, while attempts to repair damaged homes are consistently hampered. Grassroots projects have tried to make do, to distribute plastic sheeting, yet they remain limited by what is allowed to enter. The culpability lies in political and humanitarian. Solutions exist, but are prevented from arriving.

A Symbolic Season

What makes this suffering especially heartbreaking is how unnecessary it should be. It is unconscionable to study, raise children, or battle sickness standing knee-high in cold water inside a tent. It is wrong for a pupil to worry about the rain ruining their last notebook. Rain reveals just how precarious existence is. It tests bodies worn down by pressure, weariness, and sorrow.

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