🔗 Share this article

The clock read approximately 8:30 PM on a weekday evening when I headed back home in Gaza City. The wind howled, 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, clapping my hands to generate a little heat. A young boy was sitting outside selling sweet treats. We shared brief remarks while I stood there, but his attention was elsewhere. I saw the cookies were poorly packaged in plastic, already soggy from the drizzle, and I pondered if he’d manage to sell them all before the night ended. A deep chill permeated the air.

A Trek Through a Landscape of Tents

Walking down al-Wehda Street in Gaza City, makeshift shelters crowded both sides of the road. An eerie silence replaced voices from inside them, just the noise of rain pouring down and the whistle of the wind. Rushing forward, trying to dodge the rain, I activated my mobile phone's torch to light my way. My thoughts kept returning to those sheltering inside: What are they doing now? What is their state of mind? What emotions do they hold? It was bitterly cold. I pictured children nestled under soaked bedding, parents shifting constantly 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 stepped inside my apartment and was overwhelmed by the guilt of possessing shelter when a multitude remained unprotected to the storm.

The Night Escalates

In the middle of the night, the storm intensified. Outside, tarps on damaged glass whipped and strained, while tin roofing ripped free and crashed to the ground. Cutting through the chaos came the desperate, terrified shouts of children, piercing the darkness. I felt totally incapable.

For the last fortnight, the rain has been incessant. Chilly, dense, and propelled by strong winds, it has drenched shelters, inundated temporary settlements and turned bare earth into mud. Elsewhere, this might be called “poor conditions”. In Gaza, it is endured in a state of exposure and abandonment.

The Harshest Days

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 true beginning of winter, the moment when the season unleashes its intensity. Ordinarily, it is faced with preparation and shelter. This year, Gaza has neither. The frost seeps through homes, streets are deserted and people merely survive.

But the danger of winter is now very real. On the Sunday morning before Christmas, recovery efforts found the victims of two children after the roof of a bombarded structure collapsed in northern Gaza, saving five more people, including a child and two women. Two people remain missing. These incidents are not the result of fresh strikes, but the consequence of homes damaged from months of bombardment and finally undone by winter rain. Earlier this month, an eight-month-old baby girl in Khan Younis died of exposure to the cold.

Precarious Existence

Passing by the camp nearest my home, I observed the results up close. Flimsy tarpaulins sagged under the weight of water, mattresses floated and clothes remained wet, incapable of drying. Each step reminded me how precarious these dwellings are and how close the rain and cold came to taking life and health for countless individuals living in tents and overcrowded shelters.

The majority of these individuals have already been displaced, many several times over. Homes are gone. Neighbourhoods leveled. Winter has come to Gaza, but defense against it has not. It has come lacking adequate housing, with no power, devoid of warmth.

The Weight on Education

In my role as a professor in Gaza, this weather is a heavy burden. My students are not figures in a report; they are faces I recognize; smart, persistent, but extremely fatigued. Most join virtual lessons from tents; others from cramped quarters where personal space doesn't exist and connectivity intermittent. Countless learners have already lost family members. Most have seen their houses destroyed. 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—projects, due dates—become questions of conscience, shaped each day by concern for students’ security, heat and access to shelter.

When the storm rages, I cannot help but wonder about them. Are they dry? Are they warm? Did the wind tear through their shelter while they were trying to sleep? For those remaining in apartments, or what remains of them, there is a lack of heat. With electricity mostly absent and fuel scarce, warmth comes mostly via donning extra clothing and using the few bedding items available. Even so, cold nights are unbearable. What, then those living in tents?

The Humanitarian Shortfall

Reports indicate that more than a million people in Gaza live in shelters. Aid supplies, including insulated tents, have been insufficient. Amid the last tempest, relief groups reported distributing plastic sheets, tents and mattresses to numerous households. For those affected, however, this assistance was often perceived as uneven and inadequate, limited to short-term fixes that offered scant protection against prolonged exposure to cold, wind and rain. Structures give way. Chest infections, hypothermia, and infections caused by damp conditions are increasing.

This goes beyond an surprise calamity. Winter is an annual event. People in Gaza understand this failure not as misfortune, but as being forsaken. People speak of how necessary items are blocked or slowed, while attempts to repair damaged homes are repeatedly obstructed. Community efforts have tried to make do, to provide coverings, yet they remain limited by restrictions on imports. The failure is political and humanitarian. Remedies are known, but are withheld.

A Preventable Suffering

What makes this suffering especially painful is how preventable it is. No one should have to study, raise children, or battle sickness standing knee-high in cold water inside a tent. No student should fear the rain ruining their last notebook. Rain reveals just how vulnerable survival is. It challenges health worn down by anxiety, fatigue, and loss.

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