Many camp detainees had chosen to stay at home this dusty day, but Asma decided to brave the elements and enjoy a less congested market.
Her four children nearby by her side, she scanned the disappointing selection of vegetables exhibited in a small stand, weighing the dishes that she could bring together with the limited options for sale.
Asma’s older child, a nine -year -old early little girl with a red Ribbone band and a pink tracksuit rocked the youngest child, a one -year cherubic girl sheltered in a padded jacket.
She adjusted the hood of the jacket of her sister, who had slipped down, wiggling the toddler while the dust swirls around her face.
She pulled her little sister to her chest in a protective way, attracting a warm head of her mother.
Asma spends most of her days with her children because she does not think that camp education facilities meet their needs.
While she was talking, her two sons broke out in a spontaneous game struggle.
His expression betrayed a deep melancholy. “It is difficult to raise children here,” she admitted, her gaze was lowered.
The monotony of daily life in the camp, she explained, can often lead children to fight and she can find it difficult to control her boys.
In addition to that, during its seven years in the camp, Asma has seen the prices to the point that it is now difficult to buy enough food to feed its growing children.
NGOs distribute daily food rations in Al-Hol, but many prisoners complete these ready-to-use meals and basic ingredients with fresh market products, using money sent by parents or earned from jobs in medical and educational establishments of the camp managed by NGOs.
Asma’s family lived the most turbulent period of the camp, which saw more than 100 homicides from 2020 to 2022 and left a deep psychological impact on camp children, who represent more than half of its population.
In 2021, according to Save The Children, two residents were killed each week, camping, per capita, one of the most dangerous places in the world to be a child.
This is a period that Bed, an Iraqi welder from the Mosul Turkmens who preferred not to give a single name, kept his four children inside their tent at any time.
When Al Jazeera met Abed, 39, he worked under the shelter of the family repair workshop in a side street out of the market. The shop, paved together from pieces of wood and plastic plates, serves all the machines that camp detainees need.
He guided his adult son, who was at the beginning of his twenties, methodically through a complex welding process, the two smiling while they shared a private joke and the howling wind released their words within the reach.
Abed took a welding torch while his son held a piece of metal in place with a pair of pliers.
He taught his children for his job, but that, he said, is just so that they can “survive day-to-day”, adding that this will not give them the tools to enjoy a complete and fulfilling life.
“The future of my children has disappeared,” said Abed with a suspicion of bitterness in his voice. “They missed too much school.”
Several aid organizations manage education facilities, but alleged ISIL agents have been known to attack them, so Abed believes that it is safer to keep your children away until they can go home.
“We had a good life in Mosul. My children went to school, and everything was fine, but now “, he took a deep inspiration,” too much time has passed “.
“It is difficult to swallow as a parent because school is everything.”
