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Migrant diaspora in Singapore. (at Asia/Singapore)

Everything was a blur when the march ended. The goodbyes were quick. A work deadline couldn’t wait and so the urgent need for sleep conflicted into a frenzying rush hour. And in all that chaos, I somehow managed to will myself to a lecture on refugee legal issues in the evening. Suffice to say that the moment I got home, I took only a fraction of a second to fall into a dead slumber. Then the sun rises up again this morning and as I opened my eyes, I stared hard at the white ceiling trying to comprehend what I just did. The soreness from my right sole sends a signal up to my brain, bringing me back to those long, never-ending late hours of the night. The original intent was to document the struggles of a man in his pursuit to overcome a mental mountain for a noble cause. I had not intended to walk the full distance, but I ended up doing exactly that. But more than just wanting to complete the walk, I also realised that with every step I took, the more vested I become into the cause and because of that, the more I hoped for the numbers to rise up too. So it took us only nine days from the planning to execution and in that period, we completed the 100km march as a show of solidarity and had raised $20,000 of funds in total, twice of our target, when we crossed the finishing line. That number has since then rose up to $23,000. I can’t even begin to describe the feeling in my bones right now. To know that all of the pain we had been through has paid off in the end was gratifying but at the same time, to know that everything we experienced was just a fraction of what the refugees had felt also reminds us that the work is far from over.

Last 10km to complete the 100km March for Refugees Winter Aid. (at Changi Coastal Road.)

The 100km march to raise funds for a winter aid which is going to be delivered to the refugees stranded in the frigid temperatures of Europe will take place tomorrow. It will begin at 0730hrs from Pasir Ris and we will try to complete it within the next 36 hours. As part of this march, TJ will be counting on the goodwill of complete strangers to meet him at the pre-designated checkpoints with either food or water because he will not have any of the two on him right from the start. You can also have a chat with us on the experience so far and that will definitely be a huge moral booster for the long walk ahead. So please come and show your support, not just for the march, but for the refugees who can use every contribution available. We hope to raise $10,000 through this campaign and I believe that there are many Singaporeans who have always wanted to help out but are not sure how to. Then, hopefully, this can be that opportunity for you. To stay updated on the march tomorrow or to make your donation, please head over to our FB page at "100km March for Refugees Winter Aid - Singapore". In photo: Idomeni, Greece, 2016.

Stage Life. Little India, Singapore. In other news, I'll be 'one of the books' in a Human Library organised by CPS on the theme of Changemakers, Travelers, Inspirations. I'm really excited to have this opportunity as an alternative medium in reaching out to everyday Singaporeans about the humanitarian issues happening in other parts of the world. So if you're willing to honor me with your presence and have a chat with me, please join me this coming Sunday, 22nd January, 10am, at the Red Box, Somerset. You can sign up for the event at this link: https://www.eventbrite.sg/e/human-library-of-changemakers-travellers-inspirations-registration-30690616460. I hope to see some of you there (: (at Singapore)

When you learn, teach. When you receive, give. That is all there is to this life. (at Néa Kavála, Kilkis, Greece)

Nea Kavala Refugee Camp, Northern Greece. (at Néa Kavála, Kilkis, Greece)

In the early 1900s when nation-state borders were still fluid, there were many Greeks who lived across the Aegean sea in present-day Turkey. However, as a result of the Asia Minor War between Greece and Turkey, where the former had lost, many of the Greeks had to flee back to their motherland for safety. But instead of being welcomed as fellow countrymen, they were cast as outsiders and ended up being refugees in their own country. Fast forward to almost a 100 years later, this experience of once being a refugee is the main reason, among few others, that motivate the Greeks to receive the Arab refugees into their homeland with open arms. In the process of my research into the first generation refugees from the 1922 war, I also found out that after the grandparents of Mr Kleomenis had split up, the husband continued to keep the photographs but he also chose to cut out the face of his ex-wife. The photo on the right belonged to the grandmother and the two photos on left belonged to the grandfather. Just a short amusing fact that I came across as I dug my way into a family's history to find traces of refugee stories from the 20th century. (at Greece)

A young boy packing his belongings while getting ready to be relocated into official government-run camps after weeks of being stranded at the (closed) border with Macedonia. (at Idomeni)

A little boy walking across the open ground at sunset between the children's playground and the isoboxes where the residents of Ritsona camp stays in. (at Ritsona Refugee camp)

Apart from a few low points in my personal life, 2016 had been truly a blessed year for me. 13 destinations and 8 months abroad in total. All of that compressed into a 7 minute Show Reel of my work from this year. You can either click the link under my bio or head over to -> www.arif-nurhakim.com/blog/2016showreel to view the full length of it. In the mean time, I'll leave you with a short preview of what my life had been like in the past 12 months. Thank you all for the support and here is to a better 2017.

My palms were sweating and I looked fidgety. I have just arrived in the camp but I didn't feel like stepping out of the car. After more than four months, the day was finally here for me to be reunited again with Kurdistan and her family. At first, I reminisced our old times together, almost excited even. But as I inched closer to the camp by the kilometre, I started to be overwhelmed by a strange mix of anxiety and sadness. I peered outside the window from the carpark and there were kids clad up in winter clothes plying the dirt track with their broken bicyles. Then I looked back at the photo in my hand. Her smile. Her brown hair. Her eyes. Will she still remember me? There was only one way to find out. So I plucked as much courage as I could muster from the frosty air and walked right into the camp. The place looks different now with the isoboxes but everything else remained the same – the lives stuck in limbo, the frustration and the hanging hope. It was drizzling lightly and only a few brave souls were seen out in the cold. I thought I would return back to a place familiar to me but with this new arrangement, I felt like an alien walking on earth. Slowly, desperation started to creep up into me to find a face that I once knew. I looked left and right but there were no one. Until a girl on a pink bicycle rode up right next to me. “Assalamualaikum,” I said, “Do you know this girl, Kurdistan, and where is she staying?” as I handed the photo to her. She stared at it for a long time and suddenly just like a light bulb, she exclaimed, “Ahh yes, come and follow me, my friend!” Maybe my search for Kurdi had finally gave her something to do for the day because I was left far behind to eat the dust as she sped away. Once the dust have settled down and the girl pointed towards the cubicle, I felt more nervous than excited. The moment that I had been waiting for is finally here now. To be continued. (at Ritsona Refugee camp)

Step right, step left. Just two more defenders to get passed and the goalie would be in deep trouble. I watched the kid snake his way through and around his opponents like a master of maze but at the very last second, he decided to do the unthinkable - he passed the ball to his teammate. This tricked the boy in between the two posts who could not react fast enough. His teammate, with an eye for the clear shot at goal, then striked it into the roof of the net. The celebration was wild. Everyone ran towards each other before clashing into big hugs. They shout and jumped in unison. Euphoria. Doesn’t matter if it was only a game or if the medals are made out of cheap aluminium. For these boys, today they are the kings of the pitch. They carry with them the spoils of the war around their neck, with pride burgeoning out of their litte chests. Now they will have a story to tell to their mothers, fathers and everyone else. A story of victory in a life filled with so many defeats. (at Ritsona Refugee camp)

If we want to understand what is it like to be a refugee, we must first understand what does it mean to be a human? To be a human is to be a free person, someone who has choices and can make the best decision out of it. Our innate ability to choose is what that separates us from any other living species afterall, making the freedom of choice so fundamental to our very own existence as human beings. So now we flip the coin around. These refugees barely have a choice in anything that they do. They can’t choose to leave the camp. They can’t choose which school should their children go to. They can’t even choose what to eat for dinner. That is why we shouldn’t mistake their voluntary submission to the mercy of other people as choices that they are consciously making. Because their ability to choose was robbed away from them long time ago, the moment the first bomb fell down from the skies. So if you’re still unsure and wondering what is it like to be a refugee, then just imagine living a life without choices. (at Ritsona Refugee camp)

The clouds were heavy and grey. Snow flakes have started falling onto the mountain peaks in the distance. But in that chilly wind, there was a break in the skies and a soft orange glow gently lit up the rolling hilltops like it was a painter's dream. I stood there in the middle of the camp desperately trying to take it all in, to remember every single detail of the last light because forgetting would be such a loss. I don't know when will I ever return here again. People are moving on and I pray for better lives to wait for them up ahead. I've said my goodbyes but hopefully it won't be the last. It was such a difficult moment to go through. My heart gravitates to them, wishing ever so wistfully that I could wrap them up in warmth of love and protection in these cold days. But I have to go. I have to face the shame and guilt that I could actually leave, that I could in fact escape from their reality. All of that, with a simple plane ticket home. How can I go home or back to my normal life when they are still searching for a place to call their own after all these while? I don't have the answer to that, I never did. But I will continue to search for it. So I pray, again, that when I have finally found the answer, I will be able to find them in a better place too. Till next time. (at Ritsona Refugee camp)

Yesterday was International Volunteers Day and on such an occasion, you would expect the team to take a break for themselves but here they were, carrying out lifeguard training instead even when temperatures were quickly dropping. (at Lesvos Island)

The ass-biting toe-freezing shift duty on Katiá cliff to look out for any boat arrivals coming from Turkey. Thankfully the stars were present to keep me company for that long six hours. (at Lesvos Island)

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