Our journey was one of small triumphs, individual and collective. It was a journey of endurance, psychological and physical. It was a journey of remembrance, of the 20,000 humans who fled for sanctuary into the wilderness of the Bosnian mountainsides. It was a journey from ignorance to realization - and comprehension. Let me focus, though, on our journey as a tale of triumph, individual and collective. There were 12 of us at the beginning and there were 12 of us by the end. I salute you all for your small (but not insignificant) acts of heroism. I believe that we proved ourselves worthy of retracing the path the Bosnian refugees imprinted with their feet, their tears and their longing for salvation.

At the beginning of our journey, it was Qasim who was charging ahead, his speed being no match for any one of us. But we were ordered to stay together, and every time we stopped his silence betrayed anguish at having to remain behind. Even though he could comfortably have finished hours before any of us he held back, and I admired him for it.

From fastest to who we assumed would be slowest, there was Masood. An exclusively fried chicken diet pre-Bosnia had hampered him to the extent that he would complain of 'miniheart attacks'. But it was his heart that attacked the three day 120 km course, and he was with us till the very end.

The most capable amongst us, we assumed, was Wasim. But the Marš can break even the strongest. In Wasim's case, his knees began slowly to disintegrate, and had to be bandaged and taped. We forgot the discomfort together though, poking fun at Dilwar in Urdu.

This behaviour was unjust really, since he was the presence of mind in our group. He directed, he organized, he took the initiative where the rest of us were hypnotized into a lull by the heat, sweat and grime. This talent for taking action was best exemplified when he walked into the middle of the road to force a car to stop for the stricken Leila - more on her antics later.

Then there was our leader for a day, Hiresh. Before we departed, he gathered us together to remind us of our obligations to each other, the necessity of purifying intentions, and of keeping together as a compact unit. And for the most part, we did keep together.

But Leila's feet had become a mess of blisters, plasters, and bandages. Her toe nails had begun horrifically to peel away, but there wasn't soothing, spongy ground to relieve the pain. It was vertiginous ground and winding ground - a carpet of jagged stones that stabbed at your feet and forced your ankles into surreal contortions. The feeling was that she might not be able to go on, but the strength of her resolve ensured a different outcome. On the third day she took to the Marš in flip-flops, and she went flip-flopping on - indefatigable, irrepressible Leila.

It was Leila and Alyaa who crossed the finish line at Potocari. Alyaa had perhaps found the course toughest, but every time she was given encouragement she reflected it back and amplified it. With her eagerness she not only pushed herself on, she pushed others too.

Halima and Asiya trekked like soldiers. It seemed that they were carrying more than their own body-weight on their shoulders. But it soon became clear that when Asiya refused help carrying her bags, it was a consequence not of some feminist instinct, but because she really was strong enough and didn't need the help- I found this out after carrying her bag for a ength of time so inadequate that it is better for my pride for it to be left undisclosed. Halima, likewise, set a blistering pace when asked to lead and her diplomacy and merry disposition were invaluable during the few moments of tension.

Then there was young Minaar in her flowing abaya. Amidst 7000 trekkers she was the only one wearing an abaya, and she is probably the first to have completed the Marš in such a way. I can't imagine how difficult that must have been, not just because of the heat, but because of the stares. We engaged in a lot of banter (concerning my passport and her age) which kept things entertaining- and the laughter killed the pain.

Last, but by no means least, was our group leader, Lucy, our guiding star. For keeping us fed, sheltered, and safe, she must take all the credit. She was prepared, said the right words at the right time and rallied us when things seemed bleak. A true leader.

For the 12 of us, the Marš began and ended as a collective effort. It began and ended with camaraderie and jocularity, but also with a maturer understanding of why we were there and what we hoped to achieve. The 7000 people who took to the Marš last week were prepared: they had food, shelter, and clothing. If they were left behind they would not encounter a swift death. I did not see any heavily pregnant women, babies, or people too elderly to walk. There wasn't a person whose stomach groaned with hunger for three whole days. There was nobody whose feet were not protected against the punishing ground. For us, Marš Mira was simply an infinitesimally small gesture of solidarity with the brave souls who fled from the war. It was a journey of remembrance, and may we never forget.

By Tabassam Hameed