Despite the dusty weather, many of the camp’s detainees decided to stay home, but not Asma. She braved the elements to shop at a less crowded marketplace.

Accompanied by her four children, she thoroughly inspected the limited vegetable selection at a small stall, contemplating which dishes to make with the offerings available.

Asma’s eldest, a vibrant nine-year-old girl wearing a red-ribboned headband and a pink tracksuit, was responsible for her younger sibling—a one-year-old swaddled in a padded jacket.

With a gentle touch, the girl adjusted her sister’s slipped hood, as the toddler fidgeted in the swirling dust.

She pulled her sister close, seeking comfort and approval from her mother, which was warmly acknowledged.

Asma dedicates most of her time to her children, unsatisfied with the camp’s educational offerings which she believes fall short of their needs.

During our conversation, her two sons burst into an impromptu playfight, and a hint of sadness flashed across her face. “Raising kids here is tough,” she confessed, her eyes downcast.

Life in the camp is monotonous, leading to frequent child conflicts, making it tough for Asma to keep her boys in check.

In addition, food prices have surged over her seven-year stay, making it a struggle to feed her growing family. While NGOs deliver food rations, many supplement their diets with market produce.

Asma’s family endured the camp’s intense period when homicides spiked, leaving lasting psychological effects on its youthful inhabitants.

In 2021, two camp residents were killed weekly; by per-capita, it was one of the most perilous places for children globally, as reported by Save the Children.

Abed, a 39-year-old Iraqi Turkmen from Mosul, who preferred to use only one name, shielded his children from the turmoil, keeping them confined within their tent.

Encountering Abed, Al Jazeera found him at work under a makeshift repair shop, built from scraps of wood and plastic.

Together with his adult son, both laughed and shared a private mirth as they worked on a welding task, oblivious to the nearby chilling wind.

Abed, who has taught his children his trade, sees it only as a means of daily survival, lamenting that it won’t equip them for a fulfilling life.

“My children’s future is lost,” Abed stated bitterly, “They’ve missed out on too much schooling.”

While education centers are run by several NGOs, concerns about attacks by suspected ISIL agents keep Abed’s children out of them.

“Life was good in Mosul, where my kids attended school,” he sighed, “but now too much time has passed, and it’s hard to accept.”

“As a parent, it’s hard to accept because schooling is essential.”