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It was around 8:30 PM on a weekday evening 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 just a gentle sprinkle, 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 was sitting outside selling sweet treats. We exchanged a few words during my pause, but his attention was elsewhere. I saw the cookies were loosely wrapped in plastic, dampened from the drizzle, and I questioned if he’d manage to sell them all before the night ended. A deep chill permeated the air.

A Journey Through a Place of Tents

As I walked along al-Wehda Street in Gaza City, canvas structures flanked both sides of the road. An eerie silence replaced voices from inside them, just the noise of rain pouring down and the roar of the wind. Rushing forward, attempting to avoid the rain, I activated my mobile phone's torch to see the road ahead. My mind continually drifted to those huddled within: How are they passing the time now? What is their state of mind? How do they feel? A severe chill gripped the air. I imagined children nestled under damp covers, parents shifting constantly to keep them warm.

As I unlocked the door to my apartment, the icy doorknob served as a quiet but powerful reminder of the struggles borne across Gaza in these harsh winter conditions. I walked into my apartment and felt consumed by the guilt of possessing shelter when a multitude remained unprotected to the storm.

The Darkness Escalates

As midnight passed, the storm reached its peak. Outside, plastic sheeting on broken panes billowed and tore, while corrugated metal ripped free and slammed down. Cutting through the chaos came the sharp, panicked screams of children, piercing the darkness. I felt completely helpless.

For the last fortnight, the rain has been incessant. Cold, heavy, and driven by strong winds, it has soaked tents, swamped refugee areas and turned bare earth into mud. Elsewhere, this might be called “bad weather”. In Gaza, it is experienced amidst exposure and abandonment.

The Harshest Days

Locals call this time of year as al-Arba’iniya; the fourty most severe days of winter, starting from late December and continuing through the end of January. It is the true beginning of winter, the moment when the season shows its true power. Ordinarily, it is endured with preparation and shelter. This year, Gaza has no such defenses. The chill penetrates through homes, streets are vacant and people just persevere.

But the danger of winter is far from theoretical. On the Sunday morning before Christmas, rescue operations recovered the bodies of two children after the roof of a bombarded structure collapsed in northern Gaza, freeing five additional individuals, including a child and two women. Two people are still unaccounted for. Such collapses are not the result of fresh strikes, but the result of homes compromised after months of bombardment and succumbing to winter rain. Earlier this month, an infant in Khan Younis succumbed to exposure to the cold.

A Life in Tents

Passing by the camp nearest my home, I witnessed the impact up close. Thin plastic sheets sagged under the weight of water, mattresses were adrift and clothes remained wet, incapable of drying. Each step highlighted how fragile these shelters were and how close the rain and cold threatened life and health for countless individuals living in tents and packed sanctuaries.

Most of these people have already been uprooted, many repeatedly. Homes are lost. Neighbourhoods leveled. Winter has arrived in Gaza, but defense against it 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 is a heavy burden. My students are not figures in a report; they are young people I speak to; intelligent, determined, but profoundly exhausted. Most join virtual lessons from tents; others from cramped quarters where solitude is unattainable and connectivity intermittent. A significant number of pupils have already lost family members. Most have seen their houses destroyed. Yet they continue their education. Their resilience is extraordinary, but it ought not be necessary in this way.

In Gaza, what would normally count as routine academic practices—assignments, deadlines—transform into questions of conscience, shaped each day by anxiety over students’ safety, warmth and proximity to protection.

On evenings such as this, I cannot help but wonder about them. Are they dry? Do they feel any warmth? Did the wind tear through their shelter during the night? For those remaining in apartments, or damaged structures, there is an absence of warmth. With electricity mostly absent and fuel rare, warmth comes primarily through donning extra clothing and using the few bedding items available. Despite this, cold nights are excruciating. What about those living in tents?

The Humanitarian Shortfall

Figures show that over a million people in Gaza live in shelters. Aid supplies, including weatherproof shelters, have been inadequate. When the cyclone hit, relief groups reported providing coverings, shelters and sleeping materials to a multitude of people. For those affected, however, this assistance was widely experienced as uneven and inadequate, limited to band-aid measures that were largely ineffective against ongoing suffering to cold, wind and rain. Structures give way. Respiratory illnesses, hypothermia, and infections linked to damp conditions are rising.

This is not an unforeseen disaster. Winter comes every year. People in Gaza view this crisis not as fate, but as abandonment. People speak of how necessary items 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 are still constrained by restrictions on imports. The failure is political and humanitarian. Answers are available, but are withheld.

A Symbolic Season

The factor that intensifies this hardship especially heartbreaking 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 ruining their last notebook. Rain reveals just how fragile life has become. It challenges health worn down by stress, exhaustion, and grief.

The current cold season occurs alongside the Christmas season that, for millions, epitomizes warmth, refuge and care for the most vulnerable. In Palestine, that {symbolism