Singing together across the divide: what a Jerusalem chorus taught me

The boys turn toward her, surprised. She is unmistakably Jewish. Yet she knows the song. She knows the melody. She knows a piece of music that belongs deeply to their cultural memory.

In many places, this would be an ordinary moment. A stranger hears a familiar song and joins in. But this is Jerusalem, and that girl is me.

Here, identity is often recognized before individuality. People are frequently viewed first through the communities they belong to: Israeli, Palestinian, Jewish, Muslim, Arab, religious, secular. The history of the city means that assumptions can arrive before introductions.

But for a few minutes, those labels faded, and there was only a song.

That moment represents what I have spent much of my life learning: music has an extraordinary ability to bridge worlds. Not because a song can erase conflict, and not because harmony magically creates agreement, but because music allows people to encounter each other differently. It creates a space where listening comes before judgment.

I know this because I experienced it myself.

What I discovered through the chorus was a world full of possibility.

We would sing together. Then we would talk.

The conversations were not always easy. We shared our identities, our experiences, and our perspectives. We came from different communities and often had different understandings of the same reality. There were moments of connection, but there were also moments of discomfort and disagreement.

Then we had to return to the music.

We had to stand next to each other. We had to listen to each other’s voices. We had to breathe together and create something together, even after hearing perspectives that challenged our own.

The goal was never to eliminate disagreement. The goal was to learn how to remain connected despite it.

In a society where separation is often easier than engagement, this model created something incredibly rare: a space where young people could encounter one another as individuals before seeing each other as representatives of a conflict.

Learning someone else’s songs is not just learning notes or lyrics. It is stepping into their memories. It is hearing the songs that played in their homes, the melodies connected to family gatherings, celebrations, childhood, and longing.

Music is cultural memory. To learn another person’s music is to say: your stories are worth hearing.

Over time, I began to see that the impact of this work could extend far beyond Jerusalem.

As the Jerusalem Youth Chorus began touring internationally, we brought this model of connection to communities around the world.

One of the most powerful workshops we shared was circle singing, a process where audience members contributed thoughts after a brief dialogue exercise, and we created melodies, rhythms, and words to transform those individual ideas into a collective song.

What began as a musical exercise became something much deeper.

We watched people who might never have shared a room in other circumstances open themselves up through music. Jews, Muslims, Christians, undocumented immigrants, black and white Americans, business executives, and people experiencing homelessness all stepped into the circle. They offered something personal, and together we created something larger than any individual.

For a moment, we were not defined by our differences, but were simply human beings creating something together.

One experience in California has stayed with me.

In 2020, a group of Jerusalem Youth Chorus alumni traveled to collaborate with the Voices of Our City Choir in San Diego. Together, we performed a fundraising concert to support both organizations.

When it came time for the donation appeal, one of the choir members stepped forward. He walked slowly toward the founder of the Jerusalem Youth Chorus, slightly unsteady on his feet, holding a single dollar bill in his hand.

This man had very little. He was someone who did not have the means to provide himself with stable housing. Yet he wanted to contribute. He handed over that dollar. I remember watching that moment with tears in my eyes.

By society’s standards, this man did not have much. Yet he was offering what he had. In that moment, circumstances that usually separate people – wealth, nationality, background, privilege – became secondary. We were connected by something much deeper: generosity, dignity, and belonging.

After October 7, it is natural to feel skeptical of ideas like these. When pain and fear run so deep, the idea that music can create connection can feel insufficient, even naive.

I understand that skepticism.

Music will not solve the Israeli-Palestinian conflict. It cannot replace political solutions, justice, security, or the difficult work required to build a better future.

But I have witnessed what music can do.

Scientific research supports what musicians have experienced for generations. A study published in Royal Society Open Science found that group singing can accelerate social bonding, with participants reporting increased feelings of closeness after singing together.

Music may not fix everything, but it gives people a reason to listen. It allows us to experience another person’s humanity before we engage with their differences. It reminds us that behind every political identity is a person with memories, a family, a culture, and a song that matters to them.

That is why I still think about that piano in Jerusalem.

Those young people were not suddenly in agreement about everything. They did not erase history in a few minutes.

They simply shared a song.

And sometimes, understanding begins there.■