While many of the camp detainees chose to stay home on that dusty day, Asma bravely confronted the elements and decided to take advantage of a less crowded market.
Her four children approached her side, scanned the overwhelming selection of vegetables on display at the small food stalls, squeezing the dishes she could convene with the limited options she was on sale.
Asuma’s eldest son, a precocious nine-year-old girl with a red ribbon headband and a pink tracksuit, was hugged slowly and slowly by her 3-year-old, wrapped in a padded jacket.
She adjusted the hood of her sister’s jacket. It had slipped, causing the toddler to squirm as dust swirled around her face.
She protected her sister towards her chest and received warm approval from her mother.
ASMA spends most of the day with their children as they do not feel that the camp’s educational facilities meet their needs.
As she spoke, her two sons erupted into a spontaneous playfight.
Her expression betrayed the deep depression. “It’s difficult to raise a child here,” she admitted, and her gaze fell.
She explained that the monotony of everyday life at camp can often lead to children fighting, and boys can find it difficult to control.
Plus, in her seven years at camp, ASMA has seen prices rise in the sense that it is now difficult to buy enough food to feed a growing child.
NGOs distribute daily food at Al-Hol, but many detainees use money sent by relatives or earned from employment in camp medical and educational facilities run by NGOs to supplement these ready-made meals and basic ingredients with fresh ingredients from the market.
Asma’s family saw more than 100 murders between 2020 and 2022, leaving a deep psychological impact on the children in the camp, which make up more than half the population.
In 2021, two residents were killed each week, making their children a per capita camp, one of the most dangerous places in the world.
It was a time when Abedo, the Iraqi Turkmen welder in Mosul, preferred to only one name to honor, keeping his four children in their tents at all times.
When Al Jazeera met Abed, 39, he was working under a shelter at a family repair shop on a side street in the market. The shop offers machines that camp detainees must secure together on cobblestones from wood and plastic sheets.
He systematically guided his adult son, in his early 20s, through a complicated welding process, and the two shared private jokes, with howling winds falling out of his ears.
Abed picked up the welding torch as his son had the piece of metal in place with tongs.
He taught his children his trade, but he said that he told them they could “survive every day”, adding that it would not give them the tools to enjoy a complete and fulfilling life.
“My children’s future is gone,” Abedo said with a hint of bitterness in his voice. “They missed too many schools.”
Although several aid organizations operate educational facilities, Abedo finds it safer to keep children away until they can get home, as there is suspicion that ISIL agents are known to attack them.
“We had a good life in Mosul. My kids went to school and everything was fine, but now he took a deep breath.
“It’s hard to swallow as a parent because school is everything.”
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