The lives of thousands of Cambodians who fled recent clashes along the border with Thailand have been reduced to routines of survival. In makeshift camps on temple grounds and in newly built wooden dwellings, people rely on aid deliveries and government resettlement projects. Local authorities report that 34,440 people remain in displacement sites, including 11,355 children, as of this month, according to the country’s Ministry of Interior. These numbers reflect families forced to leave homes in highly militarised zones or areas occupied during the fighting, highlighting how a fragile ceasefire has not yet restored normal life.
Daily life inside camps and transitional housing
Camp life mixes the ordinary with the precarious: children fetch water, sweep around tarpaulin shelters and help with cooking while adults seek casual work or wait for aid. Many families live in tents supplied by international donors, including some assistance distributed with the help of foreign governments, while others have moved into raised wooden houses the authorities provided. The term internally displaced refers to those who have fled violence but remain inside their national borders, and that classification shapes what services and legal protections are available. Despite shelter, residents face limits on movement, difficulty accessing markets and restrictions when front-line areas are still guarded by troops.
Routines, responsibilities and restrictions
For children like 11-year-old Sokna, chores replace classroom hours: she fetches water, washes dishes and sweeps around her family’s temporary tent at a Buddhist pagoda. Parents report that some students have stopped attending school entirely after displacement, while others attend fragmented classes near camps. High school pupils in particular must often travel long distances to reach secondary schools — about 15km (9 miles) in some provinces — and rising transport costs make daily commutes harder. The combination of disrupted schooling, economic strain and cramped living conditions creates a fragile environment for learning and growth.
Education, trauma and the risk of dropout
Humanitarian workers warn that interrupted education and emotional stress are fuel for growing dropout rates. Organisations supporting temporary learning spaces note that facilities in camps are limited and that students may be affected by psychological trauma after witnessing or fleeing violence. Parents describe children who return from class talking about rumours of renewed fighting rather than lessons learned, and some youngsters have difficulty concentrating. Aid agencies and local officials worry that if displacement and economic hardship continue, many children will not return to sustained schooling, deepening the long-term social cost of the border clashes.
Practical obstacles to schooling
Beyond trauma, concrete barriers impede attendance: fuel price rises have increased the cost of travel, reducing the ability of families to send teens to distant schools by motorcycle. Some camps accommodate primary classes nearby, but secondary education is less accessible. Programs from international non-profits offer catch-up lessons and psychosocial support, yet those services are uneven and often depend on irregular funding. Parents like Yuon Phally say their children spend more time worrying about family members on the front line than focusing on lessons, underscoring how personal anxiety interacts with structural gaps in education provision.
Border friction, access limits and local reactions
Even with a ceasefire reached on December 27, tensions along the border remain visible. In several villages, residents point to shipping containers and barbed wire placed by Thai forces as physical markers of a contested boundary, and social media has amplified nationalist discontent around access restrictions. At the same time, Cambodian military deployments have kept some people from returning home: frontline areas are still classified as highly militarised, and authorities restrict overnight stays and farming activities near bases. Farmers like Sun Reth, 67, report being unable to collect cashew nuts or sleep in their houses because of security rules.
Local leaders who survived decades of conflict express weary longing for stability. A deputy village chief who has lived through repeated eras of violence says he cannot accept permanent camp life and returns periodically to tend a plot or check on his home despite the risk. Such testimonies reveal the human cost behind statistics: an enduring hope for peace, tempered by the fear of renewed hostilities. Until political tensions ease and access to front-line villages is guaranteed, many displaced families will continue to depend on aid while their children face interrupted schooling and uncertain futures.