The clock read approximately 8:30 PM on a Thursday when I returned home in Gaza City. A strong wind was blowing, making it impossible to remain any longer, so I had to walk. Initially, it was just a gentle sprinkle, but after about 200 metres the rain intensified abruptly. It came as no shock. I paused beside a tent, rubbing my palms together to draw some warmth. A young boy sat nearby selling baked goods. We spoke briefly 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 manage to sell them all 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, only the sound of torrential rain and the moan of the wind. As I hurried on, seeking escape from the rain, I activated my mobile phone's torch to light my way. I couldn't stop thinking to those taking refuge within: How are they passing the time now? What is their state of mind? What are they experiencing? A severe chill gripped the air. I imagined children curled under wet blankets, parents moving restlessly to keep them warm.
As I unlocked the door to my apartment, the cold metal served as a understated yet stark reminder of the struggles borne across Gaza in these brutal winter climate. I entered my apartment and felt consumed by the guilt of enjoying a dry home when countless others faced exposure to the storm.
As midnight passed, the storm reached its peak. Outside, makeshift covers on damaged glass sagged and flapped violently, while corrugated metal tore loose and slammed down. Cutting through the chaos came the piercing, fearful cries of children, shattering the darkness. I felt totally incapable.
For the last fortnight, the rain has been incessant. Freezing, pouring, and carried by strong winds, it has flooded makeshift homes, flooded makeshift camps and turned the soil into mud. In different contexts, 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 most bitter forty 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 unleashes its intensity. Typically, it is faced with preparation and shelter. Now, Gaza has no such defenses. The cold bites through homes, streets are empty and people simply endure.
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 shelled home collapsed in northern Gaza, freeing five additional individuals, including a child and two women. Two people have not been found. These structural failures are not caused by ongoing hostilities, but the outcome of homes compromised after months of bombardment and succumbing to winter rain. Not long ago, an infant in Khan Younis passed away from exposure to the cold.
Walking past the camp nearest my home, I witnessed the impact up close. Thin plastic sheets sagged under the weight of water, mattresses floated and clothes remained wet, incapable of drying. Each step reinforced how vulnerable these tents are and how close the rain and cold came to claiming life and health for hundreds of thousands living in tents and packed sanctuaries.
The majority of these individuals have already been displaced, many several times over. Homes are gone. Neighbourhoods razed. Winter has arrived in Gaza, but shelter from its fury has not. It has come lacking adequate housing, in darkness, lacking heat.
As a university lecturer in Gaza, this weather weighs heavily on me. My students are not distant names; they are faces I recognize; smart, persistent, but profoundly exhausted. Most participate in digital sessions from tents; others from packed rooms where solitude is unattainable and connectivity intermittent. A significant number of pupils have already suffered personal loss. Most have seen their houses destroyed. Yet they continue their education. 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, shaped each day by concern for students’ well-being, comfort and ability to find refuge.
On evenings such as this, I cannot help but wonder about them. Is their shelter holding? Are they warm? Has the gale ripped through their shelter while they were trying to sleep? For those residing in apartments, or damaged structures, there is an absence of warmth. With electricity scarce and fuel rare, warmth comes mainly from bundling up and using any remaining covers. Despite this, cold nights are intolerable. What about those living in tents?
Agencies state that over a million people in Gaza live in shelters. Relief items, including insulated tents, have been far from enough. Amid the last tempest, relief groups reported providing plastic sheets, tents and mattresses 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 ongoing suffering to cold, wind and rain. Shelters fail. Chest infections, hypothermia, and infections associated with damp conditions are on the upswing.
This is not an surprise calamity. Winter is an annual event. People in Gaza view this crisis not as misfortune, but as neglect. People speak of how necessary items are restricted or delayed, while attempts to reinforce weakened structures are frequently blocked. Community efforts have tried to make do, to hand out tarps, yet they continue to be hampered by what is allowed to enter. The culpability lies in political and humanitarian. Answers are available, but are prevented from arriving.
The factor that intensifies this hardship especially heartbreaking is how unnecessary it should be. No individual ought to study, raise children, or combat disease standing knee-high in cold water inside a tent. No student should fear the rain destroying their final textbook. Rain lays bare just how precarious existence is. It challenges health worn down by anxiety, fatigue, and loss.
This winter coincides with the Christmas season that, for millions, epitomizes warmth, refuge and care for the neediest. In Palestine, that {symbolism
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