The borders of camp are marked by tall, barbed-wire fences. Entry and exit are via designated gates, with those entering required to show identification or pre-approved permission to security. Visitors or tourists without this are turned away — camp life is not a spectacle.

Residents in camp are free to come and go, with many making the journey to cities or towns during the day to work. But during the first three months of the pandemic, camps were in total lockdown. Even those who worked outside camp were barred from entry and exit, with livelihoods affected greatly and little money to sustain whole families. In such a densely populated space, with as little as a metre between tents in some areas and a medical clinic equipped to only see few people per day, a potential outbreak could have meant devastation.

In the early mornings, trucks carrying water enter camp to refill tanks. Where camps are located — the middle of rural, open plains — there is no central water system, which means clean water must be transported from the cities. Sometimes, trucks can be delayed, and residents need to ration their water carefully to make sure that there is enough for the community.

The metal contraption is a basic tap system. In some camps, pipes carry water directly to each tent for cooking and cleaning, but in this camp residents bring buckets and pitchers to the tap to fill.

Above this camp and many more across the region tower huge metal powerlines, spanning hundreds of kilometres across the countryside to connect towns to each other. Available space was scare in the rush to erect camps for the thousands who were displaced, designating them to the cheapest and most readily-available land.

Though residents spend their days under the powerlines, in camp, available electricity could be as little as a couple of hours a day.

“My baby was born here the camp with limited medical assistance in very harsh and unhygienic conditions. But there is no hospital and no proper clinic that can deal with these things. Everyone did the best they could. And I am thankful I have a healthy baby in my arms. But every morning when I wake up, I am scared that the baby will not.”

When a baby is born in camp, there is a sense of trepidation in the air. Facing extremes — in temperature, especially — daily life in a camp is gruelling even for grown adults. For a new mother, the unrelenting struggle to keep her baby warm and dry during winter is made even more challenging by strong rains that cause flooding throughout camp. Floors turn to mud and the wet permeates clothes and shoes. Sunny days provide respite for camp residents, with barbed wire fences serving as clotheslines for mud encrusted blankets.

Despite this, the strength this mother harbours for her baby pervades even the most dire circumstances. Her fierce determination keeps her baby safe, warm, and dry. But a constant anxiety overshadows what should be the joy of new motherhood.

A sense of normalcy amidst camp conditions is hard to sustain. For the older population, who knew vibrant and active lives before camp, routine can help to maintain this.

In his former home, a daily stroll around his neighbourhood was routine for this man. Stopping to talk with neighbours or kids out playing, dropping by friends’ houses to enjoy a coffee and baked goods, the exercise and social interaction was sacrosanct.

Now in camp, he maintains his daily routine — albeit in different conditions. Come rain or shine, with the help of his cane he takes a lap around camp once daily — stopping every hundred metres to rest and find the energy to walk further, observing those around him and his surroundings. In the place of his former neighbours, he pauses to check on fellow camp residents and to greet newcomers. He is older than he once was, and though his pace is slower and distance shorter, it is a routine he will continue to maintain until he is no longer able.

While education is considered a right in many places, amidst the backdrop of conflict, war and displacement, education becomes a privilege. In this IDP (internally displaced person) camp in Northern Iraq live over 300 families with young children. Though a school is located onsite, there are not enough resources to accommodate all the children. Some schools in the region work in shifts, with children attending either the morning or evening classes, due to the growing number of students and lack of infrastructure to support them.

In this camp, there are few teaching materials. Teachers voice their concerns over their students’ development — both academic and social. And when their pupils are old enough for secondary studies, their education is cut short, as there is no high school for them to attend. Their already limited education abruptly comes to an end. The manager of this camp strives to provide all the children with proper schooling, but in the face of insufficient funding and inadequate supplies, this becomes an almost insurmountable challenge.

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In camp, receiving essential basic goods means spending hours waiting in line for distribution. It has become part of the daily routine for residents, with families planning their time to rotate in shifts to receive hygiene products, blankets, or food packages. For those without direct family, most hours of the day consist of waiting.

There are separate lines for men, and women and children. For each family, an adult holds a card with information about the names, ages, and genders of each member, dictating how much each person collects. Cards are prized objects — wrapped in plastic to protect them from the elements and carried at all times. Losing it could mean weeks waiting for another and no access to goods distributions.

The queue does not discriminate based on age or mobility — every person is required to wait in line for access to the goods they need, in all weather conditions, for hours. But residents have come to accept this reality, approaching their obligation with patience and calmness.

In camp, the contrast between old and young is less measurable. Though physically bodies age differently, emotionally young people grow up faster than they should, leaving childhood behind well before their eighteenth birthdays.

In the place of boisterous, joyful children, are young people who have experienced things most adults would never have. They take on the worries of their parents and grandparents, which is perhaps only natural when the constant struggle for survival permeates every aspect of their lives. At a time when their development should be shaped by play and laughter, the weight of the harsh life in camp bears down on their shoulders.

Like most people in this camp, this man’s hometown is less than 50km away. Though he yearns to return to the life he had before he was displaced, his home is now in ruins and his town still marred by the dangers of conflict.

Even the most mundane daily routines of his former life now seem sacred. He worked full-time, enjoying his role as provider for his loved ones. Evenings were reserved for family time — enjoying dinner together, watching his grandchildren play, tucking them into bed with the promise of sound sleep and enchanting dreams ahead. Some time ago, he was forced to leave this life — including his grandchildren — behind.

“Everything was taken from us. The war took it all. It took lives, it took all of our belongings, it took our dignity, it took our identity."

Watching the children of the camp gathering to receive donations of toys from Bring Hope, the man expresses his longing to see his own grandchildren. He grieves their lost childhoods, and those of the children in the camp. But he is heartened when watching them receive something of their own again — a teddy bear for comfort and companionship, to stimulate their imagination and play. He dreams of the time when he will be reunited with his family, but worries that the toll war has taken on their lives will be irreparable.

In an IDP (internally displaced person) camp, life is a continual battling of the elements with little more than a makeshift roof and tarps for walls. Shelters constantly leak in the rainy season, with nothing for warmth besides clothes and blankets, and mud everywhere. Most families live in one room — generations sharing one space for sleeping, cooking, eating, and playing. There is little food, not enough clean water, and a lack of warm clothes.

Yet the feeling of relief that camp provides from war and violence far outweighs the frustration with the living conditions. For some, arriving in camp means a good night’s sleep without the threat of an imminent attack for the first time in years.

Some people fantasise about their futures beyond the camp and what could be, envisioning their return home and the rebuilding of their villages. For others, it is too painful to imagine. But for all, coming to a place like this after what might have been years of violence, attacks, and insecurity — despite the cold, the lack of infrastructure and the small allocated space — means relief.

“We share the same stories— just different versions. It makes us family.

“We take care of each other here. We are family. Actually, she is my daughter-in-law, but the rest are chosen family. We have come from different places. It doesn’t matter because we all ended up here in the camp together as neighbours. We have all been through the same loss and share the same stories of war and conflict. We knew each other without ever having met before. We are each other’s support system and we cry together.

“But we goof around a lot as well. Taking care of the children and each other is a community thing. If someone has a bad day, we are here for each other to lighten the load. And just like anyone else, we still want and need joy and laughter. And believe me when I say that we have a lot of fun together. We refuse to be victims or let all the loss, horror and trauma be the thing that defines us. We are survivors. We are strong women.”

A child’s right to play is enshrined in the UN Convention on the Rights of the Child. For children in camp, play provides a distraction from the everyday—a place to escape and process the violence and challenges of displacement. Children craft a world of their own, regaining their power and resilience, and allow themselves the opportunity to dream of their desired future.

But the opportunity to play is limited, and the trauma of displacement follows children in their daily life, stifling the creativity and the lightness that should accompany childhood. Spaces for children to congregate in are most commonly the paths and streets around their homes. Security of children— especially in camps with limited infrastructure and schooling— is never assured

The population of a refugee camp is a mishmash of ethnicities, religions, and backgrounds. Newcomers to camp find themselves surrounded by strangers in exceptionally close proximity, with only makeshift walls to divide families, and in some cases not even a door to close. Building trust takes time, and relationships are approached with caution.

Working alongside refugees necessitates empathy at the core of all interactions, with a genuine dedication to nurturing lasting connection. Bring Hope’s team in Iraq is instrumental in initiating and sustaining close ties to camp communities, who in too many cases have seen organisations come and go long before their needs are met — a short blip in time compared to what could be more than a decade living in camp. Developing trust with communities based on mutual respect and the dignity of all parties is the most vital enabler of the work that Bring Hope does. Our steady presence and availability to those we serve assures them of our lasting commitment to their development and empowerment.

Surrounding camp, open land stretches for miles. Come spring, residents awake each morning to clear skies and green all around, with light breezes blowing fresh air from the mountains down into each settlement. This is the time of year when the weather is most merciful to camp life.

When cities were besieged with fighting, people fled in their thousands. Camps were rapidly constructed and infrastructure was, and remains to be, severely lacking. Land close to cities is too valuable for a camp settlement — those who had always lived suburban lives abruptly found themselves in the open plains of rural Iraq.

Maintenance of camp buildings regularly falls under the responsibility of its residents. Most often the structures were poorly built from the beginning, in the haste to assemble something liveable for the people that arrived in droves. When housing units need to be stabilised, or leaks from bad weather mended, residents pool together their scarce resources and experience to complete repairs. But for some structures— especially on the outskirts of camp— damage is beyond repair, and they are abandoned to the elements.