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It was approximately 8:30 PM on a weekday evening when I made my way home in Gaza City. Gusts of wind blew, forcing me inside any longer, leaving me to walk. In the beginning, it was only a light drizzle, but after about 200 metres the rain became a downpour. This was expected. I took shelter by a tent, clapping my hands to draw some warmth. A young boy had positioned himself selling homemade cookies. We exchanged a few words as I waited, although he appeared disengaged. I observed the cookies were loosely wrapped in plastic, already soggy from the drizzle, and I questioned if he’d find buyers before the night ended. The freezing temperature invaded every space.

A Trek Through a Landscape of Tents

While traversing al-Wehda Street in Gaza City, makeshift shelters crowded both sides of the road. An eerie silence replaced voices from inside them, merely the din of rain pouring down and the moan of the wind. As I hurried on, attempting to avoid the rain, I activated my mobile phone's torch to illuminate the path. I couldn't stop thinking to those taking refuge within: What are they doing now? What is their state of mind? How do they feel? A severe chill gripped the air. I imagined children curled under wet blankets, parents adjusting repeatedly 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 harsh winter conditions. I stepped inside my apartment and was overwhelmed by the guilt of having a roof when a multitude remained unprotected to the storm.

The Night Worsens

During the darkest hours, the storm reached its peak. Outside, makeshift covers on damaged glass whipped and strained, while tin roofing broke away and fell with a clatter. Overriding the noise came the desperate, terrified shouts of children, piercing the darkness. I felt utterly powerless.

Over the past two weeks, the rain has been relentless. Cold, heavy, and driven by strong winds, it has soaked tents, inundated temporary settlements and turned bare earth into mud. Elsewhere, this might be called “bad 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, beginning in late December and continuing through the end of January. It is the true beginning of winter, the moment when the season reveals its full force. Ordinarily, it is faced with preparation and shelter. Currently, Gaza has no such defenses. The chill penetrates through homes, streets are deserted and people just persevere.

But the danger of winter is now very real. Early on the Sunday before Christmas, rescue operations retrieved the remains 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 have not been found. These incidents are not the result of fresh strikes, but the consequence of homes compromised after months of bombardment and ultimately defeated by winter rain. Earlier this month, an eight-month-old baby girl in Khan Younis died of exposure to the cold.

A Life in Tents

Passing by the camp nearest my home, I witnessed the impact up close. Flimsy tarpaulins sagged under the weight of water, mattresses were adrift and clothes were perpetually moist, never fully drying. Each step highlighted how vulnerable these tents are and how close the rain and cold came to claiming life and health for countless individuals living in tents and cramped refuges.

The majority of these individuals have already been forced from their homes, many several times over. Homes are lost. Neighbourhoods flattened. Winter has arrived in Gaza, but shelter from its fury has not. It has come devoid of safe refuge, with no power, lacking heat.

A Teacher's Anguish

Being an educator in Gaza, this weather is a heavy burden. My students are not distant names; they are individuals I know; smart, persistent, but extremely fatigued. Most join virtual lessons from tents; others from cramped quarters where privacy is impossible and connectivity intermittent. Many of my students have already lost family members. Most have been rendered homeless. Yet they still try to study. Their fortitude is remarkable, but it must not be demanded in this way.

In Gaza, what would usually be routine academic practices—projects, due dates—transform into moral negotiations, dictated every moment by anxiety over students’ well-being, comfort and ability to find refuge.

During nights like these, I find myself thinking about them. Is their shelter holding? Are they warm? Has the gale ripped through their shelter as they attempted to rest? For those residing in apartments, or what remains of them, there is an absence of warmth. With electricity mostly absent and fuel rare, warmth comes primarily through wearing multiple layers and using whatever blankets are left. Despite this, cold nights are excruciating. How then those living in tents?

Aid and Abandonment

Figures show that over a million people in Gaza reside in temporary housing. Relief items, including weatherproof shelters, have been far from enough. When the cyclone hit, humanitarian partners reported providing coverings, shelters and sleeping materials to a multitude of people. On the ground, however, this assistance was widely experienced as uneven and inadequate, limited to temporary solutions that offered scant protection against prolonged exposure to cold, wind and rain. Structures give way. Chest infections, hypothermia, and infections associated with damp conditions are on the upswing.

This goes beyond an unforeseen disaster. Winter is an annual event. People in Gaza interpret this shortcoming not as fate, but as being forsaken. People speak of how necessary items are hindered or postponed, while attempts to repair damaged homes are consistently hampered. Community efforts have tried to improvise, to provide coverings, yet they are still constrained by restrictions on imports. The culpability lies in political and humanitarian. Answers are available, but are kept out.

An Unnecessary Pain

The factor that intensifies this hardship especially heartbreaking is how unnecessary it should be. No individual ought to study, raise children, or battle sickness standing ankle-deep in cold water inside a tent. It is wrong for a pupil to worry about the rain destroying their final textbook. Rain lays bare just how fragile life has become. It strains physiques worn down by pressure, weariness, and sorrow.

The current cold season aligns with the Christmas season that, for millions, represents warmth, refuge and care for the neediest. In Palestine, that {symbolism