Not one child should be denied food nor water. Not one child

Host: The sunset hung low over the horizon, casting a honey-colored glow across the broken streets of an unnamed village. The wind carried the smell of dust and burnt rice, mingling with the distant laughter of children playing in the ruins. A makeshift stall stood near a crumbled wall, where steam rose from a pot of lentils. Jack leaned against a wooden post, his shirt rolled up to his elbows, eyes scanning the street like a weary soldier who had seen too much. Jeeny sat cross-legged on a cracked bench, a bowl in her hands, her fingers trembling slightly as she watched a small boy sip from a tin cup of water.

Host: The evening was quiet, almost too quiet, as if the earth itself had paused to listen.

Jeeny: “Not one child should be denied food nor water, Jack. Not one should suffer. That’s what Rita Marley said. And she was right.”

Jack: “She was right in spirit, Jeeny. But the world doesn’t move on spirit. It moves on power, money, and systems that don’t care about children or songs.”

Host: A faint breeze stirred the dust. Jeeny’s eyes glimmered in the fading light.

Jeeny: “And yet it’s songs that remind the world to care. Without them, without people like her, the systems would devour every bit of compassion left.”

Jack: “You think a song can feed a child? Words don’t fill stomachs, Jeeny. Policies, logistics, and politics do. We can’t save the world with good intentions.”

Jeeny: “But we can start with good intentions. Where do you think the policies come from, Jack? From hearts that once cared.”

Host: The steam from the pot rose in ghostly ribbons, curling like smoke between them.

Jack: “Do you know how many children go hungry every day? Over 700 million live in poverty. You can’t sing that number away.”

Jeeny: “And do you know how many were saved because someone cared enough to act? Look at the UNICEF feeding programs, or the school lunch initiatives in Africa, or the way ordinary people send money to strangers they’ll never meet. It all begins with a heart that refuses to be numb.”

Jack: “But we’re not all saints, Jeeny. Most people are too busy surviving to save others. You’re talking about a dream, and the world doesn’t run on dreams.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe that’s why the world is starving, Jack. Not just for food, but for hope.”

Host: The silence stretched. The sky turned from gold to gray, the first stars flickering like hesitant witnesses.

Jack: “You talk about hope as if it’s a currency. But tell that to the child in Yemen, whose village was bombed, whose mother is gone, whose water is poisoned. What will hope do for him tonight?”

Jeeny: “Maybe nothing tonight. But hope is what keeps people alive long enough for tomorrow. You forget that even in wars, mothers still whisper lullabies, still pray. That’s hope, Jack — it’s the seed of change.”

Jack: “And yet those seeds keep dying in barren soil. You can’t keep watering a desert and calling it faith.”

Jeeny: “Maybe the desert only needs someone who believes it can bloom.”

Host: Jack’s jaw tightened, his fingers curling into a fist. Jeeny’s voice trembled, but her eyes stayed firm, lit by a quiet fire.

Jeeny: “You’ve seen hunger, haven’t you, Jack?”

Jack: “I’ve seen hunger, war, and death. In Sudan. In Haiti. In the eyes of kids who looked at me as if I could save them. And I couldn’t. That’s why I stopped believing in the ideal you speak of.”

Jeeny: “You didn’t stop believing, Jack. You just stopped hoping. There’s a difference.”

Jack: “Hope doesn’t rebuild cities or fill plates.”

Jeeny: “But it moves people to try. And trying — that’s where the miracles begin.”

Host: The sound of the pot boiling over broke the tension. Jeeny rose and poured another bowl of soup, placing it in front of a passing child. The boy smiled shyly, then ran off into the dark.

Jack watched, his expression softening for the first time.

Jack: “You really think that bowl makes a difference?”

Jeeny: “To him, yes. Maybe not to the statistics, but to him — to his stomach, his heart, his tomorrow — it does.”

Jack: “One bowl, Jeeny. Out of millions.”

Jeeny: “That’s how every revolution starts — with one act of kindness. One bowl. One voice. One song. Isn’t that what Rita Marley meant?”

Host: The night deepened. The stars burned brighter, reflected in the shallow puddles left from the afternoon’s rain. The air grew cooler, filled with the distant hum of insects and the faint echo of a child’s laughter.

Jack: “So you’re saying compassion is more powerful than systems?”

Jeeny: “I’m saying systems were born out of compassion once. Someone cared, someone fought, someone refused to look away.”

Jack: “But the machine always eats its maker. Look at capitalism. It promised prosperity but delivered greed. Look at charity industries, how they grow fat while the poor stay poor.”

Jeeny: “You’re right. But that’s not a failure of compassion — that’s a failure of integrity. When we forget why we started, the machine wins.”

Jack: “So what do we do then?”

Jeeny: “We remember. We return to the child — not the number, not the policy, but the child.”

Host: Jack looked away, his eyes fixed on the moonlight bouncing off a tin roof. His face seemed older suddenly, worn with regret.

Jack: “When I was in Haiti, I saw a girl — maybe six or seven — digging through trash for food. I gave her a piece of bread. She looked at me and said, ‘Merci.’ Just that. And then she shared it with her brother.”

Jeeny: “That’s what I mean. Even in hunger, she knew how to share. That’s the spirit Rita Marley was talking about. Not one child should suffer, because every child carries the light of what we could be.”

Jack: “You talk like a poet, Jeeny.”

Jeeny: “And you talk like a man who’s seen too much to still dream — but still does.”

Host: Jack laughed softly, though his eyes glistened. The air between them seemed to hum with something unsaid — the ache of truth meeting truth.

Jack: “Maybe… maybe I’ve been wrong to think the world can’t change. Maybe it just can’t change all at once.”

Jeeny: “Change doesn’t happen all at once, Jack. It happens one child, one bowl, one heart at a time.”

Jack: “And yet it feels like the world keeps taking three steps back for every one forward.”

Jeeny: “Then we keep walking anyway. Because every step forward matters to someone.”

Host: The night held them in its quiet arms. The lantern flickered, painting their faces in warm amber light.

Jack: “You win this one, Jeeny.”

Jeeny: “No. There’s no winning when children are still hungry. There’s only doing — and hoping.”

Jack: “Then let’s do both.”

Jeeny: “Together?”

Jack: “Together.”

Host: A faint smile curved Jeeny’s lips as the wind whispered through the narrow alley, carrying the scent of lentils and rain. Somewhere beyond the dark, a child laughed, free for a moment from hunger.

Host: The camera would pull back now — showing two small figures sitting in a pool of light, surrounded by shadows, yet holding onto something unbreakable.

Host: Hope.

FADE OUT.