Many of the camp’s detainees had chosen to stay indoors on that dusty day, but Asma decided to brave the weather and take advantage of a less crowded marketplace.
With her four children close by her side, she examined the limited selection of vegetables at a small stall, considering what dishes she could prepare with the scarce options available.
Asma’s eldest child, a bright nine-year-old girl wearing a red-ribboned headband and a pink tracksuit, cradled her youngest sibling, a cherubic one-year-old wrapped in a padded jacket.
She adjusted the hood of her sister’s jacket, which had slipped down, causing the toddler to fidget as dust swirled around her face.
Protectively pulling her little sister closer to her chest, she earned a warm nod of approval from her mother.
Asma spends most of her days with her children because she feels the education facilities in the camp do not meet their needs.
As she spoke, her two sons erupted into a spontaneous playfight.
Her expression revealed a deep sadness. “It’s difficult to raise children here,” she admitted, her gaze lowered.
The monotony of daily life in the camp, she explained, often leads to the children fighting, and she finds it difficult to manage her boys.
On top of that, in her seven years in the camp, Asma has seen prices rise to the point where it is now challenging to buy enough food to feed her growing children.
NGOs distribute daily food rations in al-Hol, but many detainees supplement these ready-made meals and basic ingredients with fresh produce from the market, using money sent by relatives or earned from jobs at the camp’s medical and education facilities run by NGOs.
Asma’s family has lived through the camp’s most turbulent period, which saw more than 100 homicides between 2020 and 2022, leaving a deep psychological impact on the camp’s children, who make up more than half of its population.
In 2021, according to Save the Children, two residents were killed every week, making the camp, per capita, one of the most dangerous places in the world for a child.
It was during this time that Abed, an Iraqi Turkmen welder from Mosul who preferred to give only one name, kept his four children inside their tent at all times.
When Al Jazeera met 39-year-old Abed, he was working under the shelter of the family repair shop on a side street off the market. The shop, constructed from wood scraps and plastic sheeting, services any machinery that camp detainees need fixed.
He guided his adult son, who is in his early 20s, methodically through a complex welding process, the two smiling at each other as they shared a private joke, their words carried away by the howling wind.
Abed picked up a welding torch as his son held a piece of metal in place with a pair of tongs.
He has taught his children his trade, but he explained that this was only to help them “survive day-to-day,” adding that it would not equip them for a full and fulfilling life.
“My children’s future is gone,” Abed said with a hint of bitterness in his voice. “They’ve missed too much school.”
Several aid organizations run education facilities, but suspected ISIL agents have been known to attack them, so Abed feels it is safer to keep his children away until they can return home.
“We had a good life in Mosul. My children went to school, and everything was fine, but now,” he took a deep breath, “too much time has passed.”
“That’s hard to swallow as a parent because school is everything.”
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