In Gaza, every day is Halloween.

I realized this a few weeks ago, as the Western world celebrated the annual holiday on October 31. Its origins are in ancient Celtic and Christian traditions. It’s known for costumes, trick-or-treating, and ghoulish decorations.

I first learned about it through movies and the Internet, glimpsing a world where children can enjoy the thrill of being scared by things that aren’t real. They dress as zombies, ghosts, witches — each costume more exaggerated than the last. Stores decorate their façades with illuminated pumpkins and playful masks, all for a night of spooky entertainment.

But in Gaza, this concept of “fear for fun” is far removed from our reality. Here, fear is anything but a game. The idea of being able to treat one’s fears with laughter is something I find strange and even enviable. It’s an experience Gaza’s children never get to have.

In Gaza, fear doesn’t hide behind a mask or costume. It has no festive appearance, no pumpkin-carved grin. Instead, fear is embedded into our daily lives; it’s brutal reality we can’t escape. Our monsters don’t live in the imagination; they take the form of a military occupation that threatens our land, our families, and our future. For us, fear is not a holiday — it’s a fact of life that arrives with the sound of bombs and the hum of drones in the sky.

When I see pictures of people celebrating Halloween, I feel disbelief. How can fear be something to play with? I think about the children here, who grow up under the shadow of an occupation that tears away their innocence before they even have a chance to understand what childhood is. For them, fear is real and relentless, deep in every air raid, in every rumble of planes above. They don’t need to imagine monsters — they face them in real life, every day.

I think of my cousin Salma, just eight years old. She has already learned to recognize the difference between the whine of a drone and the roar of a plane. She doesn’t flinch anymore at explosions. The last time our neighborhood shook, she didn’t scream. She just held my hand, looking at me with eyes far too old for her face, eyes that seemed to say, “I know this won’t be the last.”

Recently, I asked Salma what she wished for. She responded simply, “A lollipop.” Sweets are not available and, if they are, they are extremely expensive. Her laughter used to fill a room when her father bought her candies, but now it has an edge, a fragility, as though happiness were something that might flee at any time. Salma longs for just one piece of candy while kids outside Gaza celebrate Halloween and devour candy without thinking.

Then there’s Abdullah, the son of our neighbors. He’s 11 and once dreamed of being a soccer star. Now, he mostly stays indoors. When he ventures outside, his eyes dart around, and he stays close to the walls, always scanning for somewhere to hide. His innocence has been chipped away over months of watching his neighborhood destroyed, seeing friends leave — or worse, never seeing them again. What are monsters to him, a child who has spent half his life trying to pretend he isn’t scared?

Children in other parts of the world might shiver at the thought of a ghost hiding under their bed. But here, our children, like Abdullah, are haunted by memories of demolished homes, by the knowledge that their own homes might be next. They grow up too quickly, forced to live with scenes of loss and devastation that no child should have to witness. How could a Halloween mask ever compare to that kind of horror?

When we see young men and women wearing terrifying costumes abroad, it’s hard not to feel a sense of dissonance. For many here, these costumes are a reminder of the real terror that we live with. While they can remove their masks at the end of the night, our fear doesn’t fade; it follows us, it surrounds us, it scars our memories and our lives.

For Palestinians, Zionism feels like the most terrifying monster. To the world, it might appear as a political stance, but for us, it has meant the loss of land, freedom, and even the right to live in safety. It’s a monster that doesn’t wear a costume or need a mask — it’s a force that invades our lives and steals our security. And while people elsewhere celebrate Halloween with fake blood and plastic swords, here, the monster of occupation uses real weapons, leaving real bloodshed and pain in its wake.

When Romanian activist Nicole Genis posted on Instagram, describing Zionism as a child-killing, land-stealing monster, it resonated deeply with me. Her words felt like a rare acknowledgment of our terrifying reality.

So, next Halloween, while some wear masks to embody their deepest fears, I wish for them to remember that in Gaza, fear wears no mask. It is something we face each day.

For anyone celebrating Halloween, I want you to think about what it feels like to wear a mask, to try on a fear that isn’t real, and then imagine that mask is your life, that you can’t take it off. Imagine that fear isn’t a choice or a costume, but a reality that you can’t step away from. That’s what it is to be a child in Gaza — to be forced to confront something far scarier than any Halloween monster: the loss of innocence, the knowledge that safety isn’t a promise, and the heartbreaking realization that fear isn’t something you can just laugh away.