One Can Make a Difference

by Ingrid Newkirk

  Not surprisingly, in my preteen years I became totally enthralled with the civil rights movement and the social justice movement. Jesse Jackson, Bill Jones, and later James Brown became my mentors. Because of this, I was raised with a sense of being a minister, being an activist, and making a mark. I never realized I had any power of my own until, over the years, people that I respected like Jesse, like Bill, would sit me down and say, “you’ve got to understand where you are now in life and interpret it.” I know it was never anything I read because I never believe anything the media says, pro or con. I read attacks and glowing pieces with the same kind of distrust, because usually it’s motivated by something other than a pure heart. But when people that I respect would say it, I knew I’d created a certain level of influence and a certain level of power and I needed to be careful with it all.

  Nevertheless, I’ve faced a lot of obstacles: I’ve been stabbed leading a nonviolent protest; I’ve been indicted; I’ve been incarcerated on civil rights stuff; I’ve run for office with no money. Yet, I never had any doubt that it would come out all right when I looked to my spiritual side. I would read the papers in the morning if I was under attack to see how bleak it was. Before I would leave home I’d have my morning prayer; I had not a doubt in my mind that this matter would be solved. I just think you have to know what gear to have your personality in. There is a gospel song that’s called “The Battle Is Not Yours,” meaning that if you really believe what you’re doing, it’s for more than just you.

  One of my proudest moments was my speech at the Democratic National Convention in 2004. My desire was to bring the movement of social justice back to center stage, twenty years after Reverend Jackson’s first run and years after King, to let the American mainstream political world know that we’re still here and still going to raise these issues. That’s why I spoke way over the limit of time given to me and I went off script, because I was not there for Al Sharpton to become mainstream; I was there to complete my assignment: to make sure that every national election cycle knows they have to deal with social justice issues.What I had learned all through the years culminated at that point.

  My message to people hoping to make a change is, first, that they should choose something that they’re passionate about. The only way you’re going to make something count is if you’re willing and ready to do the extra work or make the extra effort. There’s no career and no life situation that is going to be stress free and obstacle free. Whatever you choose, there’s going to be a side to it you do not like and a side to it that is going to be difficult for you. The only thing that’s going to make you persevere enough to make a point beyond that is if it’s something you’re really passionate about and do no matter what.

  If you’re looking for the easy life, you’re not looking to make a point. If you’re going to make a real point, you’ve got to be willing to take the adversity that comes with that because it’s like exercise. If I get on the treadmill and run to a speed that doesn’t make me sweat, I might do the time but I really haven’t benefited from the exercise. The same thing with making a point in life, it doesn’t count until it requires more out of you than what’s normal. And most people are not willing to do that, which is why most people never leave a mark in life.

  Choose your associates carefully. Choose people who will inspire you to be what it is you’re trying to be and will inspire you to be determined and will be honest with you about your faults without being a downer, but will not give you false information; will be honest with you but in a helpful way. And be determined: when everything else fails, determination will win. Perseverance and persistence will win. Will is more important than talent and gifts because if you don’t have the will, it doesn’t matter what talents you’ve got, you won’t pursue it, you won’t use it. Will and purpose and determination are the most important things in life.

  Being a positive force for change takes courage, but it’s fulfilling. I have lived long enough now where some of my enemies have become cordial, because it was never a personal battle; it’s always a battle that is for a higher purpose. The only person you ever have to conquer in life is not your enemy, it’s yourself. And once you conquer yourself, your ego, your vanity, your misplaced overestimation—once you conquer yourself, then you can fight for a higher purpose and conquer what it is you’re supposed to conquer and realize that’s what your life purpose is. Most of us, however, go through life without ever asking ourselves what is my purpose? We define success by what we have, not by what we did. But the only success in life is what you did. Because whatever you have, you could lose, and whatever you have, somebody else could have more. But nobody can take from you what you did.

  RUSSELL SIMMONS

  The Importance of

  Delivering Respect

  Russell Simmons is a terrific motivator and savvy businessman who worked his way up from a misspent youth to become a multimillionaire, a hip-hop baron who has made a fortune from producing TV shows, music videos, and hit records. He’s also a deeply spiritual man. I have seen people eat a chicken sandwich in the foyer of his Manhattan office, not realizing that the business mogul they are waiting to meet has stood up to protect these little birds and would never kill or eat a single one. Over the years, I have watched him use his forthright, honest style to persuade others to join him in taking strong positions for the underdog, to help those without power seize it. He owns mansions, sports cars, and property; he can buy almost anything he wants, but his interests are in turning out the vote, empowering youth to succeed, and the belief that everyone is part of one family and should treat each other accordingly.

  I remember the first time I was treated with respect by someone of importance in the business world. I was getting off the plane in Amsterdam to promote Kurtis Blow’s record (I was his manager at the time) and hearing the president of the Dutch company call me “Mr. Simmons.” I remember thinking that my dad must have been there because nobody ever called me that before. It didn’t dawn on me then that I could use that respect to benefit anyone other than Kurtis Blow and myself.

  Not long after that, I cofounded Def Jam and began producing hip-hop artists. Because of the nature of the music we were putting out there, we attracted a lot of attention. Unfortunately, back then, I had a major phobia of public speaking. In fact, whenever I was nominated for an award I would always send someone in my place in case I won. Then, when we started Def Comedy Jam I had to come out at the end of the show and say, “Thanks for coming out. Good night and G-d Bless.” Somehow after doing that again and again, it slowly sunk in that I could speak to more people than could fit in a boardroom. And, not only that, but people were actually listening to what I had to say. So I began to pay more attention to just what it was I was saying.

  Around this time, I began doing yoga, and it has greatly influenced my life. I recognize the goal of yoga practice is to put you in the same space that Muslim, Christian, Buddhist, and many other practices, put you in. I recognize there are as many roads to G-d as there are people. I was raised as a Christian but was not religious. I know Jesus did not come to save or reveal Himself but instead came to help us reveal ourselves. He stayed around to promote miracles, not because the world needed them but to show us our highest potential. So, because his miracles were true, I guess I can be considered a Christian Yogi.

  My spiritual path has been a gradual process. My first yoga class, about fourteen years ago, was inspiring. I went to the class because there were so many fine girls there, and when I came out I forgot about the girls, forgot about my business, and everything else and was still. That stillness is what I seek every day. It’s a practice of reminding yourself and having respect and appreciation for the truth you already know instinctively.

  I have been inspired in particular by the second yoga sutra, “Yoga or union with G-d happens with the sensation of the fluctuation of the mind.” In other words, when you get rid of all the bullshit, you find your union with G-d. And once my mind began to clear, I was
able to take that respect and power I had begun all those years ago in Amsterdam and finally channel it to help not only myself lead a more peaceful life, but to influence the lives of those around me.

  If I could tell anyone what not to do in life, it would be, don’t waste it and don’t whine, just do! If you think you can’t get ahead in your job because there’s a glass ceiling holding you back, shatter that glass, brush off the shards, and get on with your vision. Get in touch with your passion. Passion is always a driving force in any success.

  ANITA SMITH

  The Potholed Road from

  Shy to Shining

  Anita Smith lives in the little village of Orlingbury in Northamptonshire, England, with her husband. Her children are grown up now, but because of a fateful vacation they took in 1992, they have all ended up lending their mother a hand in the work she has started doing for less fortunate families.That “holiday” was to Gambia. At the time, knowing that this tiny country is one of the poorest of African countries—which is saying something on a continent beset with civil wars, desertification, and crop failure—Anita was prepared to see poverty. She even thought to bring along in her luggage some gifts for poor children they might encounter. But the children Anita ended up meeting, and what she discovered about how they live and die, eventually transformed her.I love Anita’s story because it shows how, when one person realizes a need, no matter how many thousands of miles away that need may be, he or she can rouse a whole community to share its wealth and talents.

  England is usually wet, cold, and miserable at the end of winter— one reason that my husband, my children, and I were looking forward to leaving for an overseas vacation.We had chosen Gambia because it was only a six-hour flight and the brochure said, “Sunshine guaranteed!” We knew it was a very poor country, of course, so we brought along some coloring books and crayons to give to children at the local school. I remember thinking that there would no doubt be children who did not have many privileges in life. How little I knew!

  After enjoying the beach and doing touristy things for a few days, my children and I set off to visit a school in Banjul, the capital, but they were all closed for a holiday. Someone suggested we go to the children’s ward at the Royal Victoria Hospital, the main government hospital, instead, so off we went.

  When we got there, I was devastated: the wards were dirty, the equipment was old and in some cases broken. I remember seeing one little girl called Jayna who had sat in her cot for the best part of six months with no staff having the time to pick her up and cuddle her. The nurse explained that her parents, unable to feed her, had abandoned her, placing a concrete block on top of her legs. She was now paralyzed.

  On the bus going back to the airport, I was tormented by the idea that I could fly out of this country and the children would be left with nothing. I called the only person I could think of, the author of the guide book we had brought with us, and told him I needed to help the hospital. He was very nice, but he said that if I thought the Royal Victoria was bad, I should go to the hospital in Bansang, about 200 miles inland.

  He said “I’m a very hardened man. I’ve traveled the world. But at Bansang, I cried like a baby when I saw the conditions those children were in.” I made up my mind that I had to go back and I had to see Bansang Hospital for myself. “God help my marriage,” I thought, not knowing then that my husband and my children would all end up helping in their own ways.

  Now please don’t think I’m the sort of person who usually jumps in with both feet. Far from it. I’m the shyest person on the earth, although in this case my heart ruled my head.

  In school, I was the child sitting at the very back of the class, and I would rather have died than raise my hand to answer a question. I wouldn’t say “boo” to a goose. In fact, my mother had sent me to Belgium when I was in my teens—to an aunt who didn’t speak English—in the hope that I’d have to get over my shyness there, but the experience only made me retreat further into my shell than ever! I don’t have any nursing experience or a degree either. I left school at fifteen and started work in a florist’s shop. The thought of pushing forward in Gambia made me weak at the knees, but I felt I had to grapple with it. The enormity of what needed to be done terrified me, but I knew in my heart that I had to do something, no matter what.

  Two months later, I was in Banjul again, my mother in tow, which was a really foolish move, looking back. Among other things, it was fifty degrees Celsius [122 degrees Fahrenheit], mind-bogglingly hot. This time, I went to the minister of health. I told him that if they could get my mother and me to Bansang, I would see what I could do, that I couldn’t promise I could help, but I’d try. To my surprise, the minister arranged transport right away. It took sixteen hours to travel that 200 miles, along a road that had potholes in it big enough to swallow a truck whole. That road has deteriorated since, and now, in places it is totally impassible and you have to take three separate ferries. That first night, my mother and I stayed in a mud hut, the roof of which was infested with rats. We could hear them gnawing and running about and were worried that they would fall through onto us. It was pitch dark, as there was no electricity. We were petrified by the sounds we kept hearing, sometimes sounds like carcasses being dragged around, animal noises. Both of us sat bolt upright much of the time. The next morning, my mother had her things in her case and was at the end of the road at dawn, ready to go back home. I stayed on for four days.

  When I entered the hospital, it was beyond bleak.The operating room had a dirty floor and broken windows that allowed dust to blow in. As far as I could tell, there was virtually nothing in the way of pain relief or other drugs. Ether was the only anesthetic. The electricity could be off for days, and the nurses would have to work by candlelight. No electricity also meant no water, as the water was provided by an electric pump. The staff is hardworking and dedicated, but despair and a sense of helplessness was written all over their faces. The sick journeyed for many miles on foot or by horse cart only to be met by hopelessness and despair.

  Stepping into the children’s ward, it took a while for my eyes to adjust to the darkness. When they did, I saw there were old beds with pieces of foam contaminated with every imaginable body fluid and up to four children sharing a bed. Mothers slept under the bed, at the sides of the beds, and in the corridors. As a mother, my heart broke. My first reaction was one of stunned horror and a feeling of helplessness. It was awful to see children in these conditions for no reason other than they were poor.You don’t have to speak the language to be able to communicate. You only have to look into another mother’s eyes to know her feelings.

  Some of the children had dysentery, and the stench of the place was so strong that it took all my strength to suppress my desire to heave. There were no bandages, just strips of rags holding drips to tiny arms. I learned that an incredible number of children die in infancy and that one in four children in Gambia don’t survive to see their fifth birthday. I had brought toys with me, but the children had never had a toy, so at first they had no idea what they were. They didn’t pick them up. That was my introduction to Bansang.

  Before I left the area, I had an experience that moved me greatly and hardened my resolve. A child had been propped up opposite me on a wooden bench in the back of a jeep going to the hospital. He had a horribly deformed face and I found that I simply couldn’t muster the courage to look at him and smile, although I knew he was staring at me all the time. I was feeling too emotional to look at him, afraid I would break down and that he would see me cry. But when we got to the hospital, he was too weak to walk, so I had to pick him up and carry him inside. His frame was skeletal. When I went to leave him, I looked at his face and saw that he was terrified, absolutely terrified. I left him some clean clothes and a washcloth, but he died the next day. He was one of the first children I saw die.

  As soon as I got back to the U.K., I knew I had to give talks about Bansang to raise support and money to buy vital drugs and supplies, but I shook with fear. Once
, getting ready to address a meeting, I was so tense that a glass I was holding actually shattered in my hand. Eventually I got a prescription for beta blockers to calm my nerves and that has helped, but what kept me going early on was the memory of that child I had carried into the hospital who had died.

  I asked everyone to help, including my doctor, Dr. Peter McCormick. He said no, he couldn’t, he was retiring and, after all, he was a general practitioner and didn’t know anything about diseases like malaria and snakebite, so he wouldn’t be any use. But, incredibly, that night, he called me at home. He said he’d been thinking about what I had said and had decided to go to the Liverpool School of Tropical Medicine to learn what he needed to know! Dr. McCormick ended up being a literal lifesaver. He not only has spent time as a volunteer but has set up practices that continue to save lives to this day. If one person’s actions can inspire another, then one need look no further than Peter McCormick, whose connection with Bansang led him to devote the rest of his retirement to helping child cancer patients in Cameroon. I may have inspired him initially, but he has been my mentor and my inspiration. His medical knowledge and his input have kept me going all of these years.

  Since those days, Bansang hospital has changed from a place of despair and helplessness to a place of healing and hope. Thanks to the love, compassion, and generosity of so many people from all walks of life, the child patients are no longer treated in a dark, dank ward. We have just completed a purpose-built eighty-bed children’s unit, and mortality rates have been reduced by a staggering 73 percent.