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It was approximately 8:30 PM on a Thursday when I headed back home in Gaza City. Gusts of wind blew, and I couldn’t stay out any longer, leaving me to walk. Initially, it was merely a soft rain, but a short distance later the rain intensified abruptly. It came as no shock. I took shelter by a tent, clapping my hands to draw some warmth. A young boy sat nearby selling baked goods. We spoke briefly during my pause, but his attention was elsewhere. I noticed the cookies were hastily covered in plastic, already soggy 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 Trek Through a Place of Tents

While traversing al-Wehda Street in Gaza City, canvas structures flanked both sides of the road. There were no voices from inside them, only the sound of rain pouring down and the roar of the wind. Quickening my pace, trying to dodge the rain, I activated my mobile phone's torch to illuminate the path. I couldn't stop thinking to those huddled within: What occupies them now? What is their state of mind? What emotions do they hold? The cold was piercing. I pictured children huddled under damp covers, parents shifting constantly to keep them warm.

As I unlocked the door to my apartment, the cold metal served as a understated yet stark reminder of the struggles borne across Gaza in these severe cold season. I stepped inside my apartment and couldn't shake the guilt of possessing shelter when so many were exposed to the storm.

The Darkness Escalates

During the darkest hours, the storm grew stronger. Outside, makeshift covers on shattered windows sagged and flapped violently, while metal sheets broke away and slammed down. Cutting through the chaos came the sharp, panicked screams of children, piercing the darkness. I felt totally incapable.

For the last fortnight, the rain has been relentless. Cold, heavy, and driven by strong winds, it has drenched shelters, swamped refugee areas and turned open ground into mud. Elsewhere, this might be called “inclement weather”. In Gaza, it is lived with exposure and abandonment.

The Harshest Days

Locals call this time of year as al-Arba’iniya; the most bitter forty 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 reveals its full force. Typically, it is endured with preparation and shelter. This year, Gaza has none of these. The cold bites through homes, streets are deserted and people merely survive.

But the danger of winter is far from theoretical. Early on the Sunday before Christmas, civil defense teams recovered the bodies of two children after the roof of a bombarded structure 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 weakened by months of bombardment and succumbing to winter rain. Earlier this month, an infant in Khan Younis passed away from exposure to the cold.

Fragile Shelters

Passing by the camp nearest my home, I saw the consequences up close. Thin plastic sheets strained under the weight of water, mattresses bobbed in water and clothes hung damply, incapable of drying. Each step highlighted how precarious these dwellings are and how close the rain and cold threatened life and health for countless individuals living in tents and packed sanctuaries.

The majority of these individuals have already been displaced, many several times over. Homes are gone. Neighbourhoods flattened. Winter has come to Gaza, but shelter from its fury has not. It has come lacking adequate housing, in darkness, without heating.

The Weight on Education

Being an educator in Gaza, this weather is a heavy burden. My students are not distant names; they are young people I speak to; smart, persistent, but extremely fatigued. Most attend online classes from tents; others from packed rooms where privacy is impossible and connectivity intermittent. Many of my students have already suffered personal loss. Most have been rendered homeless. 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 ethical dilemmas, shaped each day by concern for students’ safety, warmth and proximity to protection.

On evenings such as this, I find myself thinking about them. Is their shelter holding? Are they warm? Did the wind tear through their shelter while they were trying to sleep? For those remaining in apartments, or the shells that are left, there is no heating. With electricity largely unavailable and fuel scarce, warmth comes mostly via wearing multiple layers and using the few bedding items available. Even so, cold nights are intolerable. What about those living in tents?

Political Failure

Reports indicate that more than a million people in Gaza live in shelters. Aid supplies, including thermal blankets, have been inadequate. When the cyclone hit, humanitarian partners reported delivering plastic sheets, tents and mattresses to numerous households. On the ground, however, this assistance was widely experienced as patchy and insufficient, limited to temporary solutions that offered scant protection against extended hardship to cold, wind and rain. Shelters fail. Sicknesses, hypothermia, and infections associated with damp conditions are increasing.

This cannot be described as an unforeseen disaster. Winter is an annual event. 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 repeatedly obstructed. Grassroots projects have tried to find solutions, to provide coverings, yet they remain limited by bureaucratic barriers. The root cause is political and humanitarian. Solutions exist, but are kept out.

An Unnecessary Pain

The aspect that renders this pain especially agonizing is how unnecessary it should be. No individual ought 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 reveals just how fragile life has become. It tests bodies worn down by pressure, weariness, and sorrow.

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