I had just watched No Other Land, the Academy Award–winning documentary about the destruction of a small village in the West Bank by Israeli settlers and their military. The stark images of a fractured land clung to the screen like lingering ghosts. Even the presence of the security detail was a sobering reminder of the fear, tension, and danger that still surround this reality. Though the Palace Theatre was full, a deep stillness hung in the air, the kind that follows a film that leaves everyone changed in some way.
Afterwards, I waited outside for my ride. Anger simmered beneath the weight of what I’d watched while despair pulled at my hope. A quiet shame pressed at my conscience.
I was still caught in the swirl of my emotions and thoughts when a sudden flurry of motion pulled me back to the moment. Two figures with small Palestinian flags clutched in their hands, were running toward me, their voices a rising wave of excitement.
“Ms. Karen! Ms. Karen! Is that you?” one called out, a little breathless.
The other echoed, “Do you remember Gehad and Dia? We sang in the choir!”
Their names caught me off guard, unfamiliar at first as I was still processing everything. Then a moment of recognition.
“Ah yes!” I said, as their faces and voices came rushing back. “You were children!”
The memories sharpened: two young Palestinian girls, their presence in the choir gentle yet bright, their young voices blending with the full choir at our Pete Seeger concert in 1994. That day was filled with anticipation, and I could almost hear the hopeful lines of Jane Sapp’s Watch Out Children’s Power Is On the Move echoing across the years.
They were just eight and nine when they started singing in the choir.
“We still sing some of those songs,” one said. “Like that lullaby you taught us in different languages. I sing it to my child every night. And Siyahamba from South Africa, we still sing that too.”
We hugged tightly, laughter and tears mixing as we caught up. Now in their 40s, they told me about their lives and the young children they’re raising.
“We learned so much in the choir,” one of them said. “It wasn’t just about singing. It was a place where we could talk about things that mattered.”
“You gave me a solo when I didn’t think I could sing,” Gehad added. “I had never done anything like that. It helped me find my voice.”
They spoke with the ease and honesty that only time and trust can bring.
“You treated us like we mattered. You really wanted to hear what we had to say. The songs got into our hearts.”
And in their words, I felt the quiet truth of what the work in the choir really means.
“You make a difference in so many lives,” they said. “You helped us belong.”
My heart was full. Connecting with them in such an unexpected way was powerful. It reminded me how deeply our interactions can resonate through a lifetime.
This is one of the choir’s most precious gifts: the countless children over the generations who have learned, sung, and carried the seeds of peace and justice within their hearts.
My own heart felt lighter. I understood, seeing them there, that the things we do for what we believe in, they don’t just vanish. They take hold in unexpected ways and can truly blossom in people’s lives. In their kind words, I heard the echo of one of our choir’s most beloved songs:
“We cannot do all the things that the world needs now, but the world needs all the things that we can do.”
And in that moment, on a Syracuse sidewalk with these two women who carried the choir songs of their childhood with them, I felt the full weight and meaning of those lyrics.
Help Us Carry the Song Forward
For 40 seasons, the Syracuse Community Choir has created a space for music, belonging, and justice to take root and grow. Stories like this one remind us that what we do together echoes far beyond the moment.
If this story moved you, consider supporting the choir. Your contribution helps us continue nurturing voices, building community, and singing for a better world.
