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The clock read about 8:30 PM on a Thursday when I returned home in Gaza City. A strong wind was blowing, forcing me inside any longer, leaving me to walk. In the beginning, it was merely a soft rain, but a short distance later the rain intensified abruptly. This was expected. I took shelter by a tent, trying to warm my hands to draw some warmth. A young boy sat nearby selling sweet treats. We shared brief remarks during my pause, although he appeared disengaged. I saw the cookies were poorly packaged in plastic, dampened 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 City of Tents

Walking down al-Wehda Street in Gaza City, tents lined both sides of the road. An eerie silence replaced voices from inside them, just the noise of rain pouring down and the whistle of the wind. As I hurried on, attempting to avoid the rain, I turned on my mobile phone's torch to illuminate the path. My mind continually drifted to those sheltering inside: How are they passing the time now? What thoughts fill their minds? What are they experiencing? A severe chill gripped the air. I imagined children curled under soaked bedding, parents shifting constantly to keep them warm.

Upon opening the door to my apartment, the cold metal served as a understated yet stark reminder of the suffering faced across Gaza in these severe cold season. I entered my apartment and couldn't shake the guilt of enjoying a dry home when so many were exposed to the storm.

The Darkness Escalates

In the middle of the night, the storm reached its peak. Outside, plastic sheeting on broken panes billowed and tore, while tin roofing tore loose and slammed down. Overriding the noise came the sharp, panicked screams of children, piercing the darkness. I felt utterly powerless.

During recent days, the rain has been relentless. Chilly, dense, and propelled by strong winds, it has drenched shelters, swamped refugee areas and turned open ground into mud. Elsewhere, this might be called “poor conditions”. In Gaza, it is endured in a state of exposure and abandonment.

Al-Arba’iniya

Residents refer to this time of year as al-Arba’iniya; the 40 coldest and harshest days of winter, starting from late December and persisting to the end of January. It is the definite start of winter, the moment when the season shows its true power. Ordinarily, it is endured with preparation and shelter. This year, Gaza has none of these. The chill penetrates through homes, streets are vacant and people merely survive.

But the threat posed by the cold is now very real. On the Sunday morning before Christmas, civil defense teams retrieved the remains of two children after the roof of a war-damaged building collapsed in northern Gaza, freeing five additional individuals, including a child and two women. Two people are still unaccounted for. These incidents are not new attacks, but the outcome of homes compromised after months of bombardment and finally undone by winter rain. Not long ago, a young child in Khan Younis died of exposure to the cold.

Fragile Shelters

Observing the camp nearest my home, I observed the results up close. Flimsy tarpaulins buckled beneath the weight of water, mattresses floated and clothes remained wet, incapable of drying. Each step highlighted 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 overcrowded shelters.

The majority of these individuals have already been forced from their homes, many several times over. Homes are gone. Neighbourhoods flattened. Winter has come to Gaza, but shelter from its fury has not. It has come without proper shelter, with no power, devoid of warmth.

The Weight on Education

Being an educator in Gaza, this weather causes deep concern. My students are not distant names; they are young people I speak to; bright, resilient, but deeply weary. Most attend online classes from tents; others from cramped quarters where personal space doesn't exist and connectivity intermittent. Countless learners have already suffered personal loss. Most have seen their houses destroyed. Yet they persist in learning. Their perseverance is astounding, but it should not be required in this way.

In Gaza, what would typically constitute routine academic practices—projects, due dates—transform into ethical dilemmas, influenced daily by uncertainty about students’ well-being, comfort and proximity to protection.

On evenings such as this, I find myself thinking about them. Do they have dryness? Do they feel any warmth? Did the wind tear through their shelter during the night? For those residing in apartments, or what remains of them, there is no heating. With electricity scarce and fuel in short supply, warmth comes mainly from wearing multiple layers and using whatever blankets are left. Despite this, cold nights are intolerable. How then those living in tents?

Political Failure

Reports indicate that over a million people in Gaza reside in temporary housing. Humanitarian assistance, including thermal blankets, have been insufficient. Amid the last tempest, aid organizations reported delivering plastic sheets, tents and mattresses to numerous households. In reality, however, this assistance was often perceived as patchy and insufficient, limited to short-term fixes that did little against extended hardship to cold, wind and rain. Tents collapse. Chest infections, hypothermia, and infections caused by damp conditions are rising.

This goes beyond an unforeseen disaster. Winter arrives cyclically. People in Gaza view this crisis not as misfortune, but as being forsaken. People speak of how critical supplies are blocked or slowed, while attempts to reinforce weakened structures are repeatedly obstructed. Community efforts have tried to find solutions, to hand out tarps, yet they continue to be hampered by bureaucratic barriers. The root cause is political and humanitarian. Solutions exist, but are prevented from arriving.

A Preventable Suffering

The aspect that renders this pain especially agonizing is how preventable it is. It is unconscionable to study, raise children, or fight illness standing knee-high in cold water inside a tent. No learner should dread the rain damaging their precious phone. Rain lays bare just how precarious existence is. It tests bodies worn down by stress, exhaustion, and grief.

This year's chill occurs alongside the Christmas season that, for millions, epitomizes warmth, refuge and care for the neediest. In Palestine, that {symbolism