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It was around 8:30 PM on a Thursday when I headed back home in Gaza City. A strong wind was blowing, and I couldn’t stay out any longer, so walking was my only option. At first, it was only a light drizzle, but a short distance later the rain became a downpour. This was expected. I stopped near a tent, clapping my hands to draw some warmth. A young boy had positioned himself selling homemade cookies. We spoke briefly as I waited, though he didn’t seem interested. I observed the cookies were poorly packaged in plastic, already soggy from the drizzle, and I pondered if he’d have enough to sell before the night ended. A deep chill permeated the air.

A Walk 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, only the sound of falling water and the roar of the wind. Rushing forward, attempting to avoid the rain, I activated my mobile phone's torch to light my way. My thoughts kept returning to those sheltering inside: What are they doing now? What are they thinking? What emotions do they hold? The cold was piercing. I pictured children nestled under soaked bedding, parents moving restlessly to keep them warm.

As I unlocked the door to my apartment, the freezing handle served as a subtle yet haunting reminder of the struggles borne across Gaza in these harsh winter conditions. I entered my apartment and was overwhelmed by the guilt of having a roof when so many were exposed to the storm.

The Darkness Intensifies

As midnight passed, the storm intensified. Outside, makeshift covers on shattered windows whipped and strained, while corrugated metal tore loose and crashed to the ground. Overriding the noise came the desperate, terrified shouts of children, cutting through the darkness. I felt utterly powerless.

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. In other places, this might be called “poor conditions”. In Gaza, it is lived with exposure and abandonment.

The Harshest Days

Residents refer to this time of year as al-Arba’iniya; the fourty most severe days of winter, commencing in late December and persisting to the end of January. It is the definite start of winter, the moment when the season reveals its full force. Normally, it is weathered through preparation and shelter. Currently, Gaza has no such defenses. The frost seeps through homes, streets are vacant and people just persevere.

But the danger of winter is no longer abstract. Early on the Sunday before Christmas, recovery efforts found the victims 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 remain missing. These structural failures are not caused by ongoing hostilities, but the result of homes compromised after months of bombardment and ultimately defeated by winter rain. In recent days, a young child in Khan Younis succumbed to exposure to the cold.

A Life in Tents

Observing the camp nearest my home, I saw the consequences up close. Inadequate coverings strained under the weight of water, mattresses floated and clothes were perpetually moist, incapable of drying. 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 packed sanctuaries.

The majority of these individuals have already been forced from their homes, many several times over. Homes are destroyed. Neighbourhoods leveled. Winter has descended upon Gaza, but defense against it has not. It has come lacking adequate housing, without electricity, devoid of warmth.

Students in the Storm

Being an educator in Gaza, this weather causes deep concern. My students are not mere statistics; they are individuals I know; bright, resilient, but profoundly exhausted. Most participate in digital sessions from tents; others from overcrowded shelters where privacy is impossible and connectivity intermittent. A significant number of pupils have already lost family members. Most have lost their homes. Yet they persist in learning. Their fortitude is remarkable, but it must not be demanded in this way.

In Gaza, what would usually be routine academic practices—assignments, deadlines—turn into questions of conscience, shaped each day by uncertainty about students’ well-being, comfort and ability to find refuge.

On evenings such as this, I find myself thinking about them. Is their shelter holding? Is there heat? Did the wind tear through their shelter as they attempted to rest? For those still living in apartments, or what remains of them, there is no heating. With electricity scarce and fuel rare, warmth comes mostly via wearing multiple layers and using the few bedding items available. Even so, cold nights are intolerable. How then those living in tents?

Political Failure

Reports indicate that more than a million people in Gaza live in shelters. Relief items, including weatherproof shelters, have been far from enough. When the cyclone hit, humanitarian partners reported distributing coverings, shelters and sleeping materials to a multitude of people. For those affected, however, this assistance was widely experienced as patchy and insufficient, limited to short-term fixes that offered scant protection against prolonged exposure to cold, wind and rain. Shelters fail. Respiratory illnesses, hypothermia, and infections linked to damp conditions are rising.

This goes beyond an unexpected catastrophe. Winter arrives cyclically. People in Gaza interpret this shortcoming not as bad luck, but as being forsaken. People speak of how essential materials are hindered or postponed, while attempts to reinforce weakened structures are frequently blocked. Community efforts have tried to make do, to distribute plastic sheeting, yet they are still constrained by bureaucratic barriers. The root cause is political and humanitarian. Solutions exist, but are withheld.

An Unnecessary Pain

The factor that intensifies this hardship especially painful is how avoidable it could have been. No one should have to study, raise children, or combat disease 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 lays bare just how vulnerable survival is. It strains physiques worn down by pressure, weariness, and sorrow.

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