The clock read about 8:30 PM on a weekday evening when I made my way home in Gaza City. A strong wind was blowing, making it impossible to remain any longer, so I had to walk. In the beginning, it was only a light drizzle, but after about 200 metres the rain became a downpour. It came as no shock. I paused beside a tent, trying to warm my hands to fight off the chill. A young boy had positioned himself selling homemade cookies. We shared brief remarks while I stood there, although he appeared disengaged. I noticed the cookies were loosely wrapped in plastic, dampened from the drizzle, and I questioned if he’d have enough to sell before the night ended. The cold seeped into everything.
While traversing al-Wehda Street in Gaza City, makeshift shelters crowded both sides of the road. No sounds of conversation came from inside them, merely the din of falling water and the moan of the wind. Rushing forward, seeking escape from the rain, I switched on my mobile phone's torch to see the road ahead. 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 envisioned children huddled under damp covers, 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 suffering faced across Gaza in these severe cold season. I entered my apartment and couldn't shake the guilt of possessing shelter when so many were exposed to the storm.
In the middle of the night, the storm intensified. Outside, makeshift covers on broken panes sagged and flapped violently, while metal sheets ripped free and fell with a clatter. Cutting through the chaos came the sharp, panicked screams of children, shattering the darkness. I felt totally incapable.
Over the past two weeks, the rain has been relentless. Chilly, dense, and propelled by strong winds, it has drenched shelters, flooded makeshift camps 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.
Residents refer to this time of year as al-Arba’iniya; the fourty most severe days of winter, commencing in late December and lasting until 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. This year, Gaza has none of these. The frost seeps through homes, streets are empty and people just persevere.
But the threat posed by the cold is no longer abstract. 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 structural failures are not caused by ongoing hostilities, but the outcome of homes weakened by months of bombardment and finally undone by winter rain. Earlier this month, an eight-month-old baby girl in Khan Younis passed away from exposure to the cold.
Passing by the camp nearest my home, I observed the results up close. Inadequate coverings buckled beneath the weight of water, mattresses floated and clothes were perpetually moist, never fully drying. Each step reinforced 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.
A great number of these residents have already been displaced, many repeatedly. Homes are gone. Neighbourhoods razed. Winter has descended upon Gaza, but defense against it has not. It has come without proper shelter, without electricity, devoid of warmth.
In my role as a professor in Gaza, this weather is a heavy burden. My students are not distant names; they are individuals I know; intelligent, determined, but deeply weary. Most join virtual lessons from tents; others from packed rooms where privacy is impossible and connectivity sporadic. Countless learners have already experienced bereavement. Most have seen their houses destroyed. Yet they continue their education. Their resilience is extraordinary, but it must not be demanded in this way.
In Gaza, what would usually be routine academic practices—projects, due dates—become moral negotiations, shaped each day by anxiety over students’ well-being, comfort and access to shelter.
When the storm rages, I find myself thinking about them. Are they dry? Are they warm? Has the gale ripped 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 in short supply, warmth comes primarily through wearing multiple layers and using whatever blankets are left. Even so, cold nights are intolerable. What, then those living in tents?
Agencies state that well over a million people in Gaza exist in makeshift accommodations. Relief items, including thermal blankets, have been insufficient. Amid the last tempest, aid organizations reported providing plastic sheets, tents and mattresses to thousands of families. In reality, however, this assistance was frequently felt to be patchy and insufficient, limited to temporary solutions that did little against extended hardship to cold, wind and rain. Shelters fail. Chest infections, hypothermia, and infections caused by damp conditions are increasing.
This cannot be described as an surprise calamity. Winter is an annual event. 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 fix broken houses are frequently blocked. Community efforts have tried to make do, to hand out tarps, yet they are still constrained by bureaucratic barriers. The root cause is political and humanitarian. Remedies are known, but are prevented from arriving.
What makes this suffering especially painful is how avoidable it could have been. It is unconscionable to study, raise children, or fight illness standing ankle-deep in cold water inside a tent. It is wrong for a pupil to worry about the rain ruining their last notebook. Rain exposes just how precarious existence is. It tests bodies worn down by pressure, weariness, and sorrow.
This winter coincides with the Christmas season that, for millions, epitomizes warmth, refuge and care for the disadvantaged. In Palestine, that {symbolism
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