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The clock read about 8:30 PM on a Thursday when I headed back home in Gaza City. A strong wind was blowing, forcing me inside any longer, so walking was my only option. At first, it was merely a soft rain, but following a brief walk the rain suddenly grew heavier. That wasn’t surprising. I took shelter by a tent, trying to warm my hands to fight off the chill. A young boy was sitting outside selling homemade cookies. We shared brief remarks while I stood there, although he appeared disengaged. I observed the cookies were poorly packaged in plastic, moist from the drizzle, and I wondered if he’d find buyers before the night ended. A deep chill permeated the air.

A Trek Through a Landscape of Tents

As I walked along 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 torrential rain and the roar of the wind. Rushing forward, trying to dodge the rain, I activated my mobile phone's torch to light my way. I couldn't stop thinking to those taking refuge within: What are they doing now? What are they thinking? What emotions do they hold? It was bitterly cold. I pictured children huddled under wet blankets, parents shifting constantly to keep them warm.

Upon opening the door to my apartment, the icy doorknob served as a quiet but powerful reminder of the suffering faced across Gaza in these severe cold season. I stepped inside my apartment and felt consumed by the guilt of having a roof when countless others faced exposure to the storm.

The Darkness Worsens

In the middle of the night, the storm reached its peak. Outside, makeshift covers on broken panes billowed and tore, while corrugated metal broke away and fell with a clatter. Overriding the noise came the piercing, fearful cries of children, piercing the darkness. I felt utterly powerless.

For the last fortnight, the rain has been incessant. Cold, heavy, and driven by strong winds, it has soaked tents, flooded makeshift camps and turned bare earth into mud. In different contexts, this might be called “poor conditions”. In Gaza, it is endured in a state of exposure and abandonment.

The Harshest Days

Locals call this time of year as al-Arba’iniya; the 40 coldest and harshest 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. Typically, it is weathered through preparation and shelter. Currently, Gaza has neither. The cold bites through homes, streets are deserted and people merely survive.

But the peril of the season is now very real. On the Sunday morning before Christmas, recovery efforts retrieved the remains of two children after the roof of a war-damaged building collapsed in northern Gaza, rescuing five others, including a child and two women. Two people remain missing. Such collapses are not new attacks, but the result of homes weakened by months of bombardment and ultimately defeated by winter rain. Not long ago, an infant in Khan Younis succumbed to exposure to the cold.

Fragile Shelters

Observing the camp nearest my home, I observed the results up close. Thin plastic sheets buckled beneath the weight of water, mattresses were adrift and clothes hung damply, 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 forced from their homes, many several times over. Homes are destroyed. Neighbourhoods leveled. Winter has come to Gaza, but protection from it 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 causes deep concern. My students are not distant names; they are individuals I know; smart, persistent, but deeply weary. Most join virtual lessons from tents; others from cramped quarters where personal space doesn't exist and connectivity sporadic. Countless learners have already suffered personal loss. Most have been rendered homeless. Yet they continue their education. Their fortitude is remarkable, but it should not be required in this way.

In Gaza, what would usually be routine academic practices—assignments, deadlines—become ethical dilemmas, dictated every moment by uncertainty about students’ security, heat and access to shelter.

During nights like these, I cannot help but wonder about them. Are they dry? Are they warm? Could the storm have shredded through their shelter as they attempted to rest? For those remaining in apartments, or what remains of them, there is no heating. With electricity scarce and fuel in short supply, warmth comes mostly via donning extra clothing and using the few bedding items available. Nonetheless, cold nights are excruciating. What, then those living in tents?

The Humanitarian Shortfall

Agencies state 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, aid organizations reported distributing coverings, shelters and sleeping materials to numerous households. On the ground, however, this assistance was frequently felt to be patchy and insufficient, limited to short-term fixes that did little against prolonged exposure to cold, wind and rain. Shelters fail. Respiratory illnesses, hypothermia, and infections associated with damp conditions are rising.

This cannot be described as an unexpected catastrophe. Winter comes every year. People in Gaza view this crisis not as misfortune, but as neglect. People speak of how critical supplies are hindered or postponed, while attempts to reinforce weakened structures are repeatedly obstructed. Grassroots projects have tried to improvise, to hand out tarps, yet they remain limited by what is allowed to enter. The failure is political and humanitarian. Solutions exist, but are kept out.

A Preventable Suffering

What makes this suffering especially agonizing is how preventable it is. No individual ought 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 destroying their final textbook. Rain exposes 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, symbolises warmth, refuge and care for the most vulnerable. In Palestine, that {symbolism