To walk is something most of us choose. We walk for exercise, for scenery, for the rhythm it brings to our minds. But for millions of people, walking is not a pastime. It is survival. It begins with a moment of decision so sharp it cuts a life in two. As poet Warsan Shire wrote, “No one leaves home unless home is the mouth of a shark.” Those who walk do so because staying has become more dangerous than the unknown road ahead.
A refugee's journey is seldom a single path. It is a chain of choices made under pressure: when to leave, what to carry, who to trust, which direction to walk when maps are unavailable and borders are shifting. It is a journey through exhaustion, hunger, heat, cold, and fear, often without rest, certainty, or companionship.
And even companionship can be fractured. In What Is the What, Dave Eggers captures the quiet cruelty of endurance among the displaced: “If a boy became sick he walked alone; the others were afraid to catch what he had, and did not want to know him too well for he would surely die soon.” Walking in such conditions becomes more than physical movement; it becomes a negotiation between survival and humanity, between staying with the group and protecting oneself from the emotional cost of loss.
For many, the landscape itself becomes a moving blur. Days folding into one another. Distances losing meaning. Refugees often speak of walking until thought unravels into repetition, until each step echoes a single question. For Salva Dut, one of the “Lost Boys of Sudan,” the rhythm of movement became inseparable from the rhythm of worry: “Where is my family? When will I see them again?”
This is the deeper truth behind forced migration: it is not only the body that walks, but the mind, carrying memories, fears, and unanswered questions. The uncertainty is as heavy as the journey itself.
To “walk a mile in my shoes” is not a metaphor for refugees. It is the literal shape of their struggle. And for those of us who walk by choice, there is something humbling in recognising the difference. We walk to return home; they walk because home is gone or unsafe. We walk with the confidence of a known route; they walk into landscapes defined by ambiguity. Yet within these journeys lies extraordinary endurance, the strength to keep moving when the past is lost and the future unclear.
Christmas has its roots in a journey that began without any welcome at the end. It reminds us that every step someone takes carries a story we rarely see, a quiet thought to carry with us on our own paths.