Marie Claire World Hunger Campaign

From the streets of Nairobi to the hills of North Korea, hunger kills more people every year than all the wars across the globe. And yet, it is one of the most solvable problems. Drew Barrymore teams up with Marie Claire to help end global hunger.

DAY 1, NEW YORK CITY

In about 18 hours, I will be in Africa for the first time in my life. I have dreamed of doing something like this for a long time. To open my eyes in a way they have never been opened before. I am ready to have things revealed and fight for solutions. It's just the beginning.

DAY 2, LONDON HEATHROW AIRPORT

I'm sitting in the lounge waiting for the flight to Nairobi. I can tell that I am still the same person, walking through the duty-free shops, still caught in the trappings of what can occupy our minds. Unfortunately, we live in a society where image is important. There is a lack of celebration of what we are. Knowing the business in which I work is so obsessed with image frightens me to the core, and I find myself wanting to spend more time focusing on places and people where luxuries are never taken for granted, and where the idea of body image is laughable compared to their other struggles.

The real world vs. the mirage. In Sir Thomas More's Utopia, the rich would parade around in jewels and the kids on the sidelines would laugh at their vanity.

Having walked around in a parade for a lot of my life, I find myself today relating much more to the kids on the sidelines. Somehow, I believe that they have the real answers. And I want so desperately to ask the questions: Why is there so much excess in some parts of the world, and such a lack of food and basic needs in others? How is there "all you can eat" and starvation? How can you, the individual, make a difference when governments can't tackle the horrors of our world?

In my life, I am forced to take part in stuff that completely contradicts my heart. Gluttony of money and accessibility, tabloid sensation about image and love lives, gossip that does not make the world a better place. But what if I could use all that for a greater good?

I didn't go to school, so the older I get, I choose different college courses in life. It's funny, because even though we choose the people "in charge," you are still left with a feeling of powerlessness? like you just want to get up and do it yourself. Well, that's exactly what I am going to do: go out there and learn.

I read an article in the New York Times last year that said there are schools that can change a young person's life with the help of very little money. Cents and dollars can feed and educate these children. Four dollars can put one child through school for one year or buy that child a uniform. When I read this article, it made me feel that just one person can help another person?and on and on. Economist Jeffrey Sachs says that when you close your eyes, the problems seem so big, but when you open your eyes and reallv look at them, the solutions become clear. I want to open my eyes. And with that, my flight is taking off, and I am on my way.

DAY 2, NAIROBI

I am now in Africa for the first time in my life. The first thing I notice is the air?there's a scent, as if a spice rack (with all the lids off) was set free. Rene McGuffin and Ben Watkins from the World Food Program meet us at the airport. When we get to the hotel, the gentleman at the reception desk says, "Karibu" ("Welcome" in Swahili). I ask him, "How do you say thank you?" and he says, "asante." A lady named Jackie takes me to my room and points to the pillow. It has a little card on it that says, "lala salama," which means "sweet dreams."

I'm going to go to sleep soon. My tummy is very angry from two days of flying. I'm going to pull out a T-shirt of Fabby's (my boyfriend) to sleep with. Before I left, he gave me a necklace with a little heart charm and a tiny knife charm. As he put it around my neck, he said, "It's for love and the good fight."

DAY 3, KIBERA SLUM

We are driving to what they refer to as "the slums"--small villages outside Nairobi. Ben from the WFP tells me Kibera is the largest slum in Africa, with about 1 million people. Ten minutes from the hotel, it's as if the world has turned upside down. There are no roads and no water. Ben tells me that if a fire broke out in the slum they'd have to let it burn, because there would be no way to reach it, and once they did, there would be no water to pump. There are also barely any flushing toilets. So they have a thing they call "the flying toilet," where people go to the bathroom in a plastic bag and then fling it onto the roof when they are done.

When you drive down Kibera's bumpy dirt paths, you can almost touch the little kiosk shacks from the car window. Some shacks are for barbers and some are for selling meat, but the size of them is astonishing. You could fit just a few people, standing. Garbage is everywhere. The smell turns from spices to scents that I have a hard time breathing in. We pull up to the school, and there, in two rows on either side of the path, are children singing a welcome chant and clapping their hands. I feel like, "all this for us?" and yet I hope I can repay them by bringing attention to their plight through this article.

After the kids sing, we go into what most people would consider a principal's office, although this one is much more primitive. Just metal walls like a shed, a bookshelf, and a desk. They ask me to sign the guestbook, and I write, "I am so honored to be at your school but more importantly, to learn from you." Then we go outside, and different groups perform choreographed dances that are a pure delight. In the last one, they pull me in and I dance with them. I lookup, close my eyes, and spin in circles. All I can think is, We are accepting and sharing each other's joy. Remember this moment forever.

I see a group of boys with drums made from wood and hide. I wish Fabby were here so badly at this moment. He is a drummer and would Love what these boys are doing; he would play for them. I sit down, and they show me beats. I play for a while and we all laugh, because I am terrible. The one time I get it right, the boy next to me nods his head and looks at me like, "Yes. you finally got it!" and We break out laughing.

After that, it is time for their mid-morning meal. The food that is served to these kids is a vegetable-flour mix (there is a corn and bean mix for lunch). This is the reason that survival is taking place at Stara school. The kids come to school because without these meals, they would not eat! Some children at Stara are HIV-positive. But even if they get medicine, it won't work without food. Also, a large percentage of their mothers have HIV. So the children bring some food home. so that their parents can eat as well.

When the children are not in school, they wander the slums of Kibera (kids who are not able to attend the school rifle through the garbage pits to find food). When the children roam, they are often raped--boys as well as girls. One of the workers tells me that the younger children are raped more often because they are thought not to have HIV, so the rapist believes he will not contract the disease. But the rapist himself may have HIV, and that's one way the children contract the disease. As they tell me this, I am so shocked I don't know what to say.

As I serve the porridge in plastic bowls, I find myself spooning it out at a rapid pace. I want to get this food into the children's hands so badly. I keep thinking, This is all they get? and yet it is enough to keep them coming here, to be protected and fed. And, at the end of the day, to learn, so they can have a fighting chance at something better.

At around noon, we have the opportunity to follow a few of the kids home. One of the little girls holds my hand and leads me through positively the worst living conditions I have ever been in. She takes me to a yellow canvas curtain, and we pull it aside. Her home is the size of a walk-in closet, and in it is her mother, Medina, who has HIV and is holding a 1-vear-old baby. Medina's husband died of AIDS last year. I ask her what she wants people to know, and we talk about how she needs money for rent, and how her kids need to stay in school because they bring back food so she can take her medicine.

We go to another house, the home of Areba, and she is even weaker than Medina. She says that when her kids come home from school, they tell her what they have learned and do dances for her. We speak to her outside, because there is no light in her home. When we do go inside, Areba lights a tin)" candle, and her three kids tell me about their favorite subjects: English and math. I ask them if attending the Stara school has made them want to be teachers. They look at me and say yes.

Later that evening, we go to dinner with Ben and Rene from the WFP. They love to poke fun at each other. I assume you must have thick skin and a sense of humor to get this job done right without breaking down emotionally every five seconds. I ask Ben how he deals with not being able to take showers sometimes after working in areas that are unsanitary. He says, "You just get used to it." I feel embarrassed that I asked. I long for a new understanding that includes not being a prude or being used to a lifestyle that includes luxuries like showering.

At the restaurant, I feel guilty eating. I only had one bottle of water today, and I never stopped to go to the bathroom. Something took over. It was everything that was happening around me that mattered instead.

That night, I look up at the sky and think. This is a great step for me. Getting to know people who can teach me and point me in the right direction. I am not content sitting home, wishing I could make a difference. At least for tonight, I feel like I am on to something. I am the new kid. And there isn't anywhere in the world I would rather be.

DAY 4, ST. PHILLIP'S PRIMARY SCHOOL

This morning I am standing downstairs in the lobby, filming for the documentarv I plan to make about this trip, when I realize that the look of this hotel makes me feel bad. It is so nice compared to the slums we have visited, and those we are going to. Exactly at this moment, Ben walks up to me and says, "'Don't feel guilty. You're doing everything you can." It was like he could read my mind.

We drive to Silanga--a bleaker part of Kibera. When we get out of the car, I can see that on one side of the path is a gated apartment community: on the other side, a swamp. All of a sudden, a few kids appear from the reeds and start singing their welcome song. These children seem weaker. Most of them don't have uniforms, and those who do wear clothes that don't match. I have to say that this part of Africa is not like what you see on the postcards and in picture books. The clothes are not traditionally African. Instead, most people dress in second-hand modern clothing, such as Nike hats, 50 Cent T-shirts, and old Reebok jackets. They wear tennis shoes and hiking boots. And it's as if all the color has been drained out of the clothes.

As we follow the kids up the hill, we step on rocks and cross a wooden bridge made of sticks and screws. It's about 10 feet long, and a man stands at one end in a red Kangol hat. (Later, I find out he built the bridge himself.) He charges one shilling to cross it. But if you don't have the money, he'll still let you pass. "It's better than robbing," he says. He lays the rocks we use as stepping stones just for us. "I knew we had visitors," he says with a smile. "Thank you so much." I say. He says, "Africa poor." I say, "Africa beautiful." His name is John.

We continue up the hill to the school, and the children continue to dance. I almost get nervous with the amount of energy they are using in the hot sun. The main classroom of St. Phillip's is truly something you have to see with vour own eyes--a single room that is about 50 square feet. The school can't have windows because school supplies may be stolen. So instead, there are tiny holes poked in the mud walls to give light and air. There are no Walls to divide the classes, and the kids--grades 1 through 6 are smashed together. Some classes have no teachers because there are not enough to go around. Despite the noise and mayhem, all the children sit quietly, waiting to learn.

When I walk back out of the school, Marie Claire's editor-in-chief, Lesley, introduces me to a woman named Anastasia. I ask Anastasia if I can film her. "Yes," she says. She has three children at this school, but nine altogether. She says, "I am so glad my children are here, because they are fed and happy. For my other children, I go out and find food and water. I drink the water while my children eat whatever food we have. You can live on just water for two or three days at a time. I tie a rope around my waist, and it helps me not be hungry." I don't know what to say next, so I ask her, "How do you make money to pay rent?" She says, "I work. I make charcoal, or I sew. I don't want to be a prostitute, even though it would pay more money, because I would get AIDS and die, and then what would my children do?"

Outside the school, I see a little girl, about 5, in a tattered white dress, bend over and scoop water out of the sewage stream into a plastic bottle. I want to scream, "No!" but I just stand there in shock, hoping she won't try to drink it.

Later that afternoon, we go deeper into the slums to film more footage. At one point, our car gets stuck, and we are so crowded in by the shacks and the people that a sense of danger washes over me. I feel like I shouldn't be here. I want to go back to the hotel. I feel trapped and claustrophobic. After a while, we move on. As soon as we gel out of the car and into some open space to film, I feel fine.

DAY 5, NAROK: ST. MARY'S SCHOOL

This morning, we leave the city and go to Narok, a small village about three hours away from Nairobi. Here, a woman named Sister Mary runs a boarding school for girls, some of whom she has rescued from early marriage and genital mutilation. Both are major issues for young women in Africa. There are so many obstacles young African women face, it is an eye-opener or me as a Western woman.

As we drive deeper into the countryside, the color that was drained out of the clothing and landscape in Nairobi fills up by the second. The muddy, beige roads and gray concrete turn into glorious shades of green, red, and yellow. Industrial city turns into open nature. And the clothes people wear start to explode with brightness and tradition. There are giraffes grazing the tops of trees and zebras in herds. As well as a dead giraffe on the side of the road with a party of vultures devouring it like a Vegas buffet. I stop the car to photograph it, thinking I am Peter Beard, and when I breathe in, I nearly throw up. I will never forget that stench.

When we arrive at the new school, I have that same feeling: What am I doing here? What can I accomplish? How can I help? Unlike St. Phillip's, which had garbage all around, this school has space and nature. There are real-looking classrooms, with windows and walls. As primitive as they are, they are miles ahead of the schools in the slums. The 480 children sit at little desks, looking forward and paying attention. A few look at us as we walk by. Then we get to the main room, which is filled with long, honey-colored tables, about 20 on each side. At the head of the room is a concrete little stage. In here. Sister Mary greets us. She is about my height, 5'4", and wears a black nun's dress and a soft white veil. She holds her hands out to grab mine. We sit down, and I ask her about the students she has rescued. She tells me that these girls were terrified of being circumcised and married off to old Masai men. They wanted a chance at education, as well as protection. This school is a place where they can live in peace.

Sister Mary introduces me to Mary, the woman who runs the secondary school next door. Mary is a woman who leads by example. "I was not circumcised, 1 would not marry early, and I respect education," she says. "I am their teacher, so these girls see me and realize that their dreams can be realized, like mine were. I am an example." Mary introduces me to Little Mary (are they all named Mary?!), a girl who was saved and brought to this school. She had become pregnant at 14 after her father married her off to a very old man who had lots of cattle (money, in Masai terms). When there were complications with her daughter's pregnancy, Mary's mother stepped in and took her to Sister Mary, who put her in the school. Little Mary had the baby, and her mother is taking care of the child until Little Mary graduates.
After meeting Little Mary, we go back into the great room. Sister Man-grabs my hand firmly and sits me down at a table facing the stage. All of a sudden, this beautiful little production starts. Kids pour onto the stage, singing. It is a beautiful song--somewhere between traditional African music and gospel. The play has about five scenes; it is the story of Little Mary's life and rescue. I look over at Sister Mary and she is smiling, while tears well up in her eyes. Little Man's mother is watching, too, through tears. They have all lived through this, and survival is dear to their hearts. As I watch, I think that if I were in an airplane looking down, this place would just look like a huge valley. I am overwhelmed with joy that in this tiny spot, there is this great moment going on, and I am experiencing it. The last part of the play has all the kids on the stage singing again. I close my eyes for a moment and listen. I wish I had that song on tape, so I could listen to it whenever I feel moved to do so.

When it is over, Sister Mary takes me to the table where lunch is being served and puts the bowls in my hand as the kids line up. She gestures to me, "go ahead, start serving," so I do, scooping the food into the bowl of one girl after the next. Rene slaps a WFP hat on my head. All the issues here are like endless branches on the tree--poverty, education, AIDS, family--but the roots are food. It is the fundamental basis for every single person in every situation we are experiencing.

As I serve, I say hello to each of the girls. Some look at me, and we exchange a smile. Some of them won't look up. All of a sudden, I feel like some fraud in a costume. I start sinking inside of myself. Then some of the girls I was speaking with earlier come through, and we say hello with familiarity. I realize the girls I'm just meeting for the first time don't know me, and I shouldn't think I know them. Things take a little time.

After lunch, Sister Mary offers me a tour of the classrooms and dormitory. As we walk, I look around, noticing the beautiful young girls. This is the most thriving school I've seen yet. I ask Sister Mary, "What would you tell people who want to do good things with their time and help others?" She looks at me and smiles. "You give them one fish, but then you teach them how to fish, so they can take care of themselves." We peek inside one of the dorm rooms. It is long and narrow, concrete floors and walls, with small metal bunk beds lined up against each side of the room. The beds are small, and the blankets are different Masai fabrics with bright patterns and colors. The place is so clean you could eat off the floor, and the vibe in this long hallway of a room screams of peace and loving camaraderie. I can't tell you how divine the energy is. Sister Mary is someone I've only just met, but already I think, Please don't ever go anywhere. She is the reason these 480 girls are able to eat, sleep, and learn.

I walk outside and talk with the students. "Where are you from?" they ask. "California," I say and add, "I love your school." They look at my camera and one of them puts a necklace around me; then they start playing with my hair, fingering it like seaweed at the beach. I lean back to give them a better reach and almost fall backward. We laugh hard. I think back to that moment at lunch when I was nervous and understand that it's not about me one darn bit. It's about them: their comfort. As we leave, Sister Mary tells me to "keep studying." I say, "I will stay in school." She knows I mean the school of life. I am speechless, but so incredibly inspired.

The last school we visit is deep in the Mara region, classic "bush country," in western Kenya. It's the end of the school day by the time we arrive, but a group of girls agree to take me around. They show me their classrooms, and I ask each of them where they sit and look at their notebooks. Then one of their teachers tells me that each of them has had "genital mutilation." I freeze. I look at these girls, and all of a sudden, I don't know what to say. I am overwhelmed with sadness, but then I remember it's all about them. And I ask them about what they went through, and if they had the chance to tell people something, what would their message be? They tell me they are happy to have schools like this so that they can eat, learn, and be safe. They all want to be extraordinary things when they grow up: a pilot, a doctor, a teacher. I ask if they could fly, where would they go? A couple of the girls say "America." I really hope they get there.

I ask the principal what the school needs. She says, "More space. More money to build more classrooms so we can accommodate the children."

DAY 6, NAIROBI

This afternoon on the way to a little store to buy a few items for our friends and families back home. Rene and Lesley are discussing a Marie Claire story about little girls who, because they give birth at too young an age, have their bodies ripped apart in labor and require their genitals to be sewn back together. Those who do not have the money, or access to the simple reparative surgery, die. I am more horrified than I have been on the whole trip.

We pull up to the store, and everyone gets out. I sit there paralyzed. How can everyone speak about these horrors with such a matter-of-fact tone? I think about how much fear and pain there is for these girls, and I start to cry for the first time on the trip. In this strange little parking lot, I sit by myself and just cry for a while. I feel helpless and sad and angry that anyone has to suffer through such absolute torture. Every time I try to collect myself, I realize the quiet tears are still coming, and I just wait for them to stop. Then I take a deep breath and go into the store.

There have been moments on this trip when I've felt lost, like I didn't know what change I could effect. Just learning and sharing is my first step. The bottom line is, how do we help these girls? Everyone shuffles around the store, and I try to get into the groove of something basic and familiar, yet shopping seems trivial and uncomfortable. Then I come across a little wooden comb with a rhino on top of it. Fabby has curly hair, and I pick it up and hold it. I want to share this place with him. I need to bring him something. Even if it is small.

As we walk back to the cars, I know that the trip is coming to an end. That I will go home soon, and try to put together the pieces that I've gathered on this journey. A journey that has changed me in more ways than I ever could have imagined. As I open the car door to get in, I remember the sign painted on the wall of the school I saw yesterday. I walked up to it and photographed it. I felt it conveyed everything about finding a path to doing something meaningful. On any scale. In big letters, it said, "Education Is Light."

Reprinted with permission of Hearst Communications, Inc.