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The time was about 8:30 PM on a weekday evening when I headed back home in Gaza City. Gusts of wind blew, making it impossible to remain any longer, so walking was my only option. Initially, it was merely a soft rain, but following a brief walk the rain intensified abruptly. That wasn’t surprising. I paused beside a tent, trying to warm my hands to draw some warmth. A young boy had positioned himself selling sweet treats. We exchanged a few words while I stood there, though he didn’t seem interested. I observed the cookies were hastily covered in plastic, moist from the drizzle, and I pondered if he’d find buyers before the night ended. The cold seeped into everything.

A Walk Through a Landscape of Tents

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 rain pouring down and the roar of the wind. As I hurried on, attempting to avoid the rain, I activated my mobile phone's torch to see the road ahead. I couldn't stop thinking to those sheltering inside: What occupies them now? What are they thinking? What emotions do they hold? It was bitterly cold. I imagined children nestled under damp covers, parents adjusting repeatedly to keep them warm.

As I unlocked the door to my apartment, the icy doorknob served as a understated yet stark reminder of the hardships endured across Gaza in these severe cold season. I stepped inside my apartment and felt consumed by the guilt of having a roof when so many were exposed to the storm.

The Darkness Intensifies

During the darkest hours, the storm reached its peak. Outside, tarps on broken panes billowed and tore, while metal sheets ripped free and crashed to the ground. Cutting through the chaos came the piercing, fearful cries of children, piercing the darkness. I felt totally incapable.

During recent days, the rain has been relentless. Cold, heavy, and driven by strong winds, it has soaked tents, inundated temporary settlements and turned open ground into mud. In different contexts, this might be called “inclement weather”. In Gaza, it is endured in a state of exposure and abandonment.

Al-Arba’iniya

Palestinians know this time of year as al-Arba’iniya; the fourty most severe days of winter, beginning in late December and persisting to the end of January. It is the true beginning of winter, the moment when the season shows its true power. Typically, it is endured with preparation and shelter. This year, Gaza has neither. The chill penetrates through homes, streets are empty and people merely survive.

But the danger of winter is no longer abstract. On the Sunday morning before Christmas, rescue operations found the victims 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 are still unaccounted for. These incidents are not caused by ongoing hostilities, but the outcome of homes weakened by months of bombardment and succumbing to winter rain. Earlier this month, an eight-month-old baby girl in Khan Younis succumbed to exposure to the cold.

Precarious Existence

Passing by the camp nearest my home, I saw the consequences up close. Flimsy tarpaulins buckled beneath the weight of water, mattresses floated and clothes hung damply, never fully drying. Each step reinforced how fragile these shelters were and how close the rain and cold came to taking life and health for countless individuals living in tents and overcrowded shelters.

A great number of these residents have already been forced from their homes, many on multiple occasions. Homes are gone. Neighbourhoods leveled. Winter has descended upon Gaza, but defense against it has not. It has come without proper shelter, in darkness, devoid of warmth.

Students in the Storm

Being an educator in Gaza, this weather weighs heavily on me. My students are not figures in a report; they are young people I speak to; intelligent, determined, but deeply weary. Most attend online classes from tents; others from overcrowded shelters where solitude is unattainable and connectivity unreliable. Countless learners have already experienced bereavement. Most have seen their houses destroyed. Yet they still try to study. Their perseverance is astounding, but it ought not be necessary in this way.

In Gaza, what would usually be routine academic practices—tasks, schedules—become moral negotiations, dictated every moment by concern for students’ security, heat and ability to find refuge.

On evenings such as this, I cannot help but wonder about them. Do they have dryness? Is there heat? Has the gale ripped through their shelter as they attempted to rest? For those residing in apartments, or the shells that are left, there is an absence of warmth. With electricity largely unavailable and fuel scarce, warmth comes primarily through wearing multiple layers and using whatever blankets are left. Nonetheless, cold nights are excruciating. What about those living in tents?

Aid and Abandonment

Reports indicate that well over a million people in Gaza reside in temporary housing. Relief items, including weatherproof shelters, have been inadequate. When the cyclone hit, relief groups reported distributing tarpaulins, tents and bedding to thousands of families. On the ground, however, this assistance was frequently felt to be uneven and inadequate, limited to short-term fixes that did little against prolonged exposure to cold, wind and rain. Tents collapse. Respiratory illnesses, hypothermia, and infections caused by damp conditions are on the upswing.

This is not an unforeseen disaster. Winter comes every year. People in Gaza interpret this shortcoming not as bad luck, but as abandonment. People speak of how essential materials are hindered or postponed, while attempts to fix broken houses are consistently hampered. Grassroots projects have tried to improvise, to hand out tarps, yet they continue to be hampered by restrictions on imports. The root cause is political and humanitarian. Answers are available, but are withheld.

A Symbolic Season

The factor that intensifies this hardship especially agonizing is how preventable it is. It is unconscionable to study, raise children, or combat disease standing surrounded by cold water inside a tent. No learner should dread the rain ruining their last notebook. Rain reveals just how fragile life has become. It tests bodies worn down by pressure, weariness, and sorrow.

This year's chill coincides with the Christmas season that, for millions, symbolises warmth, refuge and care for the disadvantaged. In Palestine, that {symbolism