Unfinished

by Priyanka Chopra Jonas

  No longer hungry, I put my cold pakora down and went to find my mother so we could get to the bottom of whatever was going on.

  Even though in India education is mandatory until age fourteen, our housekeeper and her husband couldn’t afford to send all four of their children to school anymore, because even in government schools, the most inexpensive education option in India, there are expenses—books and fees of various sorts. And those small fees add up when you are living close to the bone. Given the choice of educating sons or educating daughters, the sons—and there were three of them in our housekeeper’s family—were almost always going to win out, even if they were less suited to academics than their sisters.

  “She’s going to be married and so she can learn to cook and clean and do the things that she’s going to have to do when she gets married,” our housekeeper explained. “School is not as important for her.”

  I had seen the undervaluing of a female’s life and future play out years earlier in terms of health when I assisted at one of the free medical clinics my parents offered periodically in rural underserved areas, and girls in need of medical attention hadn’t always received it. I had seen it play out when the tiny newborn girl had been left under my mother’s car when I was seven, and I’d grappled with making sense of a world in which this could happen. I’d seen it play out during my travels as Miss World when I visited children in need around the world. And now, in my parents’ own house, it was playing out again.

  I couldn’t sleep that night. I thought about the ways in which my parents had always, always encouraged me to do well academically and become financially independent, and how they had always, always supported my dreams and then told me to dream bigger. My heart actually hurt as I thought about the way I had been encouraged to create the life I wanted in contrast with the way so many girls in my country and around the world were given no choice in their lives. I had seen what that lack of choice led to: the likelihood of receiving little or no education; becoming a child bride and often a child mother; and not getting adequate health care, resulting in unnecessary affliction and disease.

  When I got up early the next morning to go to work, I had an idea to propose to my parents: we would personally take on the financial responsibility for educating the children of any of our employees who desired assistance. Over the next few years, we slowly expanded to include others who reached out to us. Because I come from a medical family, our informal initiative eventually addressed health concerns as well, and in 2011, the Priyanka Chopra Foundation for Health and Education became an official nonprofit organization.

  Our small, private, and self-funded organization has provided numerous children with higher educations to date, many of whom are girls, and we’ve provided much-needed medical services to people in need of emergency surgeries or treatment they couldn’t afford. By starting small, with the children of people we knew, we made it an easy thing to do, but we quickly saw how just a little bit of effort on our parts could go a long way in the lives of each of these children.

  The Miss World pageant has long included a focus on humanitarian work through its emphasis on “Beauty with a Purpose,” and a good portion of my duties when I wore the crown involved making a difference in children’s lives by raising awareness of their rights to food, clean water, safe places to live, and education. After I surrendered my crown at the end of 2001, I continued my efforts to contribute to those in need, but in a somewhat scattershot way. Eventually I realized that most of my efforts involved children, whether they were suffering from a lack of basic resources or ill with thalassemia or cancer. In 2007, I decided I could be more effective if I consolidated my efforts, and so I began volunteering for UNICEF—the United Nations Children’s Fund—in India, initially doing isolated events in my home country so that the press would shine its light on the many causes that needed attention.

  Natasha and I worked closely with UNICEF India for three years, until in 2010 I became their national ambassador for India and started doing fieldwork to support UNICEF’s peer-to-peer awareness system, through which it goes into communities to educate people, often girls and women, inspiring them to reach out and educate others in their communities in turn. It’s a brilliantly effective system because UNICEF India relies predominantly on local volunteers to understand what the major problems facing any given community are. They then empower local women and girls to go house-to-house with pamphlets that address the needs of that particular community. Having a neighbor knock on your door and then say, “Auntie, your young daughter should not be getting married yet,” opens up conversation in a way an outsider could never do.

  My role was to visit safe spaces that UNICEF India has created for girls and women in villages, towns, and cities throughout the country, houses and rooms where they can go to get information about hygiene, nutrition, female health issues, education, and other matters, and where they can speak openly to one another about their concerns and learn from one another’s experiences. After meeting some of the girls who frequented these safe spaces, I’d visit one or two of them in their homes or neighborhoods to see how they’d used the tools they’d been given. Then came the real purpose of my involvement: showcasing their stories by bringing them to the media and my social platforms.

  What I saw and heard in my travels around the country as a UNICEF national ambassador made me a permanent foot soldier for change. One of the first trips I made was into the slums of Mumbai. I was following a young girl that day—let’s call her Saira—who’d frequented a UNICEF safe space near the place she sheltered with her family. Child marriage is illegal in India, but she hadn’t known that, and she’d learned that she had a right to say no to it, something that had never occurred to her. A child activist was born. The barely teenage girl was able to convince her parents not to force her to marry, and after changing their minds, she went on to become an advocate in her community, sharing what she’d learned with her peers so that they could convince their own parents not to rush them into marriage.

  In Chandrapur, a village on the outskirts of Nagpur in Maharashtra, I visited the home of a teenager named Sunita, who lived in a mud and thatch hut with her father, a farmer, her mother, who did small clothing repairs for extra cash, and her two sisters. When her father fell ill, and later her mother, too, they said, “You can’t attend school anymore. We need to get you married because we can’t provide for you.”

  Sunita wanted an education and she knew that in order to get one, she’d have to change her parents’ mindset. “I can help you,” she replied, “but not by getting married.” Her mother taught her to sew and Sunita became so good at it she was soon doing more business than her mom. She became so skilled, in fact, that she was able to save up money for a sewing machine. Then she started a business making new clothes rather than just repairing tattered, worn-out ones. Over time, she was able to pay for not only the sewing machine but her schooling, her sisters’ schooling, and her parents’ medical treatment. She now has three or four sewing machines, and employees.

  I saw a lot of girls like Sunita and Saira all around India, girls who have been empowered to create new realities for themselves. Not all of the girls that I met knew of me, but many did. Having someone they’d seen in movies or on television, I was told, made the girls feel that the outside world cared about them, which gave them hope, something they sorely needed. Beyond that, publicizing stories like theirs through the press and social media both illuminates the problems that women and girls still face in our society and shows without a doubt that positive change can and does happen. This good news helps to increase support for the changes that we all want to see, since it’s been shown time and time again that investing in girls and women brings stability to families and communities.

  When UNICEF asked me to become a global ambassador in 2016, I was beyond honored. After almost six years of doing field trips throughout India, I began visiting rural villages and refug
ee camps around the world, starting in Africa and the Middle East, focusing much of my time and attention on the children in these communities. On my first trip, to Zimbabwe, I spent time in a UNICEF shelter for girls who have suffered sexual violence. I heard many devastating stories, the most heartbreaking from a fourteen-year-old who’d been married to an older man and subsequently had a baby. When the man became sick shortly before she gave birth, a local traditional healer told him that if he had sex with a virgin he would be cured. A day after his daughter was born, he tried to have intercourse with the newborn and she died. (This is, of course, an extreme example, and I subsequently learned that the man was ultimately tried and sentenced in a victim-friendly court, part of a network of courts that address the needs of all victims deemed as vulnerable during criminal proceedings. These courts, too, are supported by UNICEF.)

  And yet in spite of her trauma and loss, this fourteen-year-old, like almost all of the children I have met on my travels, was not hopeless. What I have seen no matter where I am is that even when they have seen horrors, even when they have had their homes and families destroyed, even when they are lacking basic necessities like food, clean water, and permanent shelter, children want an education. The children I met in Ethiopia and South Africa want an education, and so do those that I met in India, especially the girls. At the Jamtoli refugee camp in Bangladesh, I spoke to Rohingya children who were full of aspirations. One little girl wanted to be an actress, another one wanted to be a dentist. A six-year-old wanted to be a doctor, an eight-year-old hoped to be an engineer. One five-year-old, who for the first time in his life had access to basic reading, writing, and math instruction, told me he wanted to be a journalist. When I asked him what he would tell the world, he responded, “When countries fight, it’s bad for everyone.”

  At the Zaatari refugee camp in Jordan, the world’s largest refugee camp for Syrians, a woman told me her story: Her neighborhood was being bombed, so she grabbed her children and her Prada bag—which she used for their papers and other essentials—and left her large, comfortable four-story home, thinking she’d be back in a few days. It’s been more than seven years, and she is still living under a tarp with her children in that sprawling, makeshift camp that is home to more than seventy-eight thousand of her fellow Syrians. Her children at least have a memory of another life. A whole new generation of Syrian children has been born in the camp and knows no other reality. These children, too, want an education, and in the face of enormous obstacles, Jordan is making big strides in its efforts to provide them with one.

  I have to acknowledge that I find these trips heartbreaking. It’s not easy to see the levels of poverty and disease and trauma that characterize the lives of the young people I meet through UNICEF. Looking at their bright faces shining up at me in any given location, I know that because of their lack of formal education, most of them are not going to be able to achieve the dreams they so eagerly share with me; most of the refugees I meet don’t even have any papers or identification, essentially making them citizens of nowhere. But my job is not to show my sadness or my sympathy; I have to leave those things outside when I walk into the room.

  At some point after I became a public person, I realized that having a platform where people would be willing to hear what I have to say could be one of my greatest strengths, and so I decided to use my voice to amplify the voices of people who weren’t being heard. My job, then, is to be a means to an end, to get the attention of people and direct it to conditions or situations that cry out for change. For example, when I did a Facebook Live event from the Kutupalong refugee camp in Cox’s Bazar, Bangladesh, it generated 10 million users, 4.4 million views, and nearly 500,000 engagements, making it the most successful Facebook Live event ever hosted by UNICEF. I believe that I have a duty and a responsibility to use my platform to amplify the voices of those forgotten, ignored, or abandoned by society, and as long as I can see that using my voice gets results, I’ll keep doing it.

  We as human beings have a tendency to look away from what’s uncomfortable or painful. It’s natural. But if we can turn our gaze to what is difficult, or open our eyes just a bit wider, we have the chance to do something life-affirming. Some people think being philanthropic means you have to empty your wallet. It doesn’t. When you can look at someone in need and do something about it—whether it’s offering a smile or a sandwich or a few dollars or, sure, a hospital wing if you can afford it—that’s philanthropy. The simple gifts of time, energy, and compassion can be life-changing for those on the receiving end. Those gifts make our world a much kinder place. And that’s the world I want to live in. A world of kindness and compassion in action.

  The room I’m envisioning will have plenty of well-tended plants to remind us that with enough care and nourishment, all living things can flourish. It will have blossoming wildflowers, too, representing the unruly nature of life. It will have comfortable couches and pillows and chairs so that people can gather to laugh and cry, where we can all brainstorm and recharge together and then go back into the world to continue our work. And it will radiate hope, because in order to do the work that needs to be done, you have to believe we can heal.

  You see why I dream of this space as an inviting one. No one person can do all that needs to be done alone. We need to act together for whatever positive change we want to bring into the world. Yes, there’s much to be done, but let’s not use that as an excuse not to get started. All the good intentions in the world cannot replace positive action. We need to act and we need to act now, for whatever change we are passionate about, in whatever way we can, small or large. There’s space in this room for you. I’d be honored if you’d join me here.

  We’re coming to the end of our tour, but there are a couple of spaces we’ve not yet explored. The first is the one I envision for family, the large extended family that Nick’s and my union has already created, and the more intimate one that we hope to create in the future. Having gotten a sense of the importance that both Nick and I place on family, you won’t be surprised to learn that this, too, needs to be a spacious room, though perhaps it will have alcoves and nooks throughout, so that individual members can slip off for some occasional solitude while still being part of the larger whole. Again, there will be a glorious sense of all the influences that make us who we are: Eastern, Western, American, Indian. There is a Mandir next to a grand piano; business spreadsheets and a baseball glove; film and TV scripts, and two sets of golf clubs. Toys and books for young people abound, because children—nieces, nephews, and maybe our own brood someday—will always be a part of my family life. As much as I love having a neat and orderly home, this room will very likely look slightly mussed and lived in, and that’s just fine with me. The life of a family, both interior and exterior, is not always orderly, and there’s room for that in this inclusive space.

  The final room in my inner house is for Nick and me. It’s smaller than the other rooms and more intimate. It’s where the two of us come to be alone—to share our hopes and dreams, or to simply sit together in silence. Whenever I want to reflect in solitude, to find a sense of stillness that may be eluding me, this is the room I come to. And while I’ve been open with you about my journey to date, this room is one that will remain relatively private. It’s the 90/10 rule. While I may be open about 90 percent of my life, there’s 10 percent that remains just for me.

  The remaining space is not a room with four walls. It’s the outer landscape that houses my inner landscape—the physical terrace and lawn outside our actual physical house. It, too, is unfinished and here’s how I envision it in the future: Depending on the day, the sun may be beating down or a soft breeze may be delivering the scent of the honeysuckle or mogra. Brilliant fuchsia bougainvillea vines provide bright splashes of color. Flowers abound. Along with the loud excitement of Diana and Gino—the German shepherd puppy that joined our family in 2019—and Panda, our new Australian shepherd-husky mix rescue pup—the laughter
of children fills the air.

  I’ll have planted a gulmohar tree, also known as a royal poinciana or flame-of-the-forest tree. With its magnificent orange-red flowers and its graceful fernlike foliage, it was my father’s favorite tree. When we lived in Lucknow, there was a huge one that reached the second floor of our temporary accommodations. I had a few pet rabbits that I kept under its shade, and every evening it left us with a red carpet of fallen flowers. My family loved that tree.

  Gulmohar trees are fast growing, which is good news for me because I look forward to the day when I can gaze out on its vibrant, life-affirming blossoms and be reminded of my father. We’ll put a bench under it where I can sit one day with our children, nieces, and nephews and tell them about their amazing grandfather and how he helped make me who I am today. Then we’ll all walk around to our front door and I’ll tell them a story they’ve heard time and time again.

  When I was in kindergarten, my parents and I moved from one army home to another. Outside every house in the new neighborhood was a nameplate so you knew who lived there. When ours was put up, I saw that it read Major Ashok Chopra, MBBS, MS, Captain Madhu Chopra, MBBS DORL. Surprised and hurt, I asked, “Why isn’t my name on the nameplate, too? Don’t I live in this house?”

  Without missing a beat, my father answered, “So what would your name read?”

  I took a few seconds to think. “Priyanka Mimi Chopra, Upper Kindergarten.” Which was added to the nameplate as Miss Priyanka Mimi Chopra, Upper KG.

  I tell this story because it’s such a perfect example of how my parents raised me: with a sense of individuality and as a person who had rights, even at a very young age. When I questioned Dad further about it that day, he told me that I was correct to point out the omission. “You live in this house, too,” he’d said. “Your name should be on it.” Many parents wouldn’t have taken a complaint like mine seriously, but he and my mother did. The lasting effect was that I was not shamed for my feelings, my wish to be included, my keen sense of what’s fair and not fair. I was taught self-worth. I was given a voice.