SELECTIONS for NYT
August 2025

1 - Finding Peace in Sound
2 - African Song with Yo-Yo Ma
3 - Hope and Creativity During Crisis
4 - Music as Mediator for Peace and Conflict

Finding Peace in Sound

Music’s power for social healing.

By Emma Luyendijk
July 25, 2016

Three days after the 2015 Paris terror attacks, an orchestra walked onto the UNESCO stage. The city was still in lockdown. The air was thick with grief and unease. And yet, musicians from dozens of nationalities, religions, and ethnic backgrounds picked up their instruments and played.What does music mean in a moment like that?Was it just symbolic?Was it naïve?I’ve often asked myself questions like these — especially since completing a training in Vermont with Musicians Without Borders (MwB), a nonprofit that deploys music in the service of healing and reconciliation. It's a global network of artists using music to drive social change.The program pushed me beyond traditional performance, emphasizing singing, movement, and improvisation over conventionality. As a classically trained musician, I thought I knew the art of performance. Instead, I found a space with no right or wrong answers, where inhibitions dissolve and exploration thrives. I found this disorienting. And freeing.MwB was founded on the belief that “we all have music in our bodies,” as founder Laura Hassler says. For those schooled in academia, it’s easy to forget music’s origin: our innate sense of rhythm, sound, and movement.Is a Mahler or Mozart symphony truly worth more than a simple, heartfelt melody sung by an untrained voice? What even defines a “musician”?Let me be clear: I haven’t abandoned Western classical music or its role in peacebuilding and cultural diplomacy. Instead, my conviction has deepened: all music carries the power to heal and connect when applied thoughtfully. Every MwB trainer I met balances a professional performing career with community work in music. The two can coexist.Back to Paris 2015, on that third day, when the World Orchestra for Peace offered a tribute, they did so not to influence policymakers, but to restore a shared humanity. Still, if the orchestra is truly international and inclusive, does it also confront the structural and cultural tensions it protests? And can music like this truly foster any lasting kind of peace? If so, how?These are complex questions. Performances like this don’t stop bullets, or change geopolitics. They affirm unity, empathy, and community — qualities often frayed by violence.At the training, we were introduced to a model of reconciliation that helped clarify this tension. Developed by peace scholar John Paul Lederach, it breaks reconciliation into four elements: Justice, Truth, Mercy, and Peace. When invited to physically place ourselves in the corner of the room that best represented our work, some chose Justice. Others chose Truth. I stood in the corner of Mercy.Justice seeks restitution. Truth insists on recognition. Mercy asks something harder: to offer forgiveness, compassion, and hope — even when the truth is disputed or justice never arrives.Music, I’ve come to believe, lives most fully in that space.Its value isn’t in data. You can’t graph empathy. You can’t quantify the impact of a song sung by survivors or communities in mourning. And yet, I’ve felt it. I’ve seen it. In the silence that follows a shared note. In the gentle shift in the room after someone sings their story.Since returning to Cape Town, I’ve felt a responsibility to apply what I learned. South Africa’s wounds are deep and recent. We face not only direct violence — gangs, poverty, sexual violence — but the quieter, structural kinds: inequality, racial division, cultural disconnection. I’ve often wondered if I should launch a project of my own, focused on xenophobia, interfaith dialogue, or gender-based violence. But with so many organizations already doing this work, I’ve started to ask a different question: What would it look like to bring peacebuilding principles into existing musical spaces?Right now, I volunteer with a remarkable secondary school choir in Bloekombos, a community shaped by forced removals during apartheid. It’s categorized as “low income.” There is gang activity. There is hardship. But the students sing as naturally as breathing. They carry rhythm and phrasing in their bodies. I went in thinking I’d have something to teach. Often, I’m the one learning.In the U.S., I was first introduced to the term white savior complex — the well-intentioned but deeply problematic belief that privileged outsiders can “save” vulnerable communities. It’s a familiar trap in the arts, especially when projects are framed as “outreach,” as if knowledge only flows one way. But if we’re honest, music — when shared intentionally — creates something much more mutual. A space of exchange, of listening, of shared vulnerability. That’s peacebuilding, too.I’ve been imagining a collaboration between the Bloekombos choir and another choir from Cape Town’s more affluent Southern Suburbs. Not a concert for charity. Not an act of “help.” Just an exchange — musical and human — between two groups with much to offer one another. Beyond the notes, they’d learn the skills our country so badly needs: cross-cultural communication, empathy, appreciation of difference.Music creates a space where words can fail. It becomes a kind of nonverbal dialogue, one we desperately need in a world where division and distrust are increasingly fluent.When I’m asked how music brings peace, I still answer honestly: I don’t know.But I know this: violence today is more complex than ever — insidious, structural, and often domestic. And so our responses must also be more creative, more courageous. We must ask: how can our talents build a more tolerant, empathetic society? How can I use my unique gifts to build connection in my community?Just as we need prosecutors and politicians to fight for justice, we need people who help communities hold what can’t be healed in court. We need people to remind others — quietly, consistently — that they are seen, heard, and human.For me, music is that reminder.For me, music is that gift.What will you use?—

“AFRICAN SONG"
(Abdullah Ibrahim)
with Yo-Yo Ma and
Emma Luyendijk

In 2016, Yo-Yo Ma first contacted me on LinkedIn after reading Finding Peace in Sound. It was the start of an ongoing dialogue.During lockdown in May 2020, his latest message revisited our initial conversation of 2016, and its core question: What can music do in times of trouble? Especially these.In collaborative response, we filmed a virtual performance to connect people through art when physical connection was impossible — a mission shared by so many musicians around the world at the time.A global act of peacebuilding through music, unprecedented before at such scale."African Song" — by South African jazz pianist Abdullah Ibrahim — reflects the pain, hope, and resilience of a nation under apartheid and beyond. After exile in New York, Ibrahim returned to fight systemic racism through his music, which chronicles South Africa’s journey to democracy and ongoing struggles.Alongside Yo-Yo Ma, his work shows music’s power to heal and unite.

Hope and Creativity
during Crisis

By Emma Luyendijk
July 14, 2020

It’s 1995. I’m dancing on our shaggy ‘80s carpet to Claude Bolling’s Suite for Cello and Jazz Piano Trio. Yo-Yo Ma’s joyful sound fills the room, and I follow his rhythm instinctively. That memory has stayed with me — not just for the music, but for the sense of possibility it sparked. Ever since, I’ve admired how Ma uses his artistry to promote justice, inspire dialogue, and to help us grieve.Decades later, that early inspiration sustains me through another kind of rupture: the COVID-19 pandemic. The deeply felt uncertainty touches everything — finances, family, dreams, and belonging. We’ve lost our sense of control. And artists, in particular, feel that loss acutely. Without venues, audiences, or collaboration, how do we create?Art relies on the belief in creative freedom — that our work matters and might resonate. That belief is hard to hold when the future feels stalled. Depression thrives in this uncertainty, feeding on hopelessness and silencing joy. For artists, it clouds any vision of creative possibility.As I prepare to begin my studies at The Juilliard School, I face many unknowns: How will I support myself in New York? What happens if funding falls through? Will I see my family again anytime soon? I have no answers — but I do have choices.That’s what art offers us: agency, even when the world strips it away. You don’t need to be a professional. Everyone has rhythm, color, and story. We can make bold choices — paint a sky orange, twist a musical phrase, write lines that don’t make sense to anyone but us. Even choosing to make bad art is a choice — and that matters.These small acts reclaim our autonomy. They remind us we're not powerless.Alice Herz-Sommer, a pianist and survivor of the Terezin concentration camp, once said: “Music brings to us an island with peace, beauty, and love... When the old, hopeless, and sick came to the concerts, they became young.”That quote is remarkable. Even more-so in full context: at Terezin, music was used by the Nazis as propaganda. Artists were forced to perform to create a facade of vibrancy. Music was a tool of domination.And yet — even in that grim setting — musicians exercised creative agency. Through tone and imagination, they reclaimed pieces of themselves. Despite exhaustion, they made music.I, too, am now learning not to take music for granted. Like many, I’ve grieved canceled performances and lost collaborations. But as the world shifts, music’s power becomes clearer.I don’t know where I’ll be next month. But I do know this: I have the freedom to create.We can dwell on what’s gone, or create in anticipation of what’s to come. Live concerts will return. So will collaboration. For now, I’ll play for my cat Claude, for my houseplant Wanda, and for the neighbors who share a wall with me. I’ll study Dichterliebe with the same devotion I would onstage. I’ll fail. I’ll make bad art. And that’s okay.I won’t earn applause or income from these private performances — but I’ll be ready when the world is. In the meantime, I’ll create because I can.This pandemic has stripped away many freedoms. And yes, I’ve grieved the loss of touch, routine, and the storybook version of my Juilliard beginning. But as that chapter approaches — whatever shape it takes — I’m shifting my focus.I’ve stared long enough at the broken branches. Now, I choose to look at the sky between them. To find small joys. To recognize the strength in each note, each brushstroke, each word.I have freedom. I have choices. And within those, I find hope.—

Music As Mediator: Manipulating Evoked Responses

Excerpt from academic dissertation Awarded Research Prize from The University of Cape Town

By Emma Luyendijk
December, 2015

Chapter 5: Music and Post-Conflict Peacebuilding5.1 - A Search for Common GroundAfter the 1995–2001 war, Bosnia’s performing arts struggled to survive amid destroyed infrastructure and political instability (Zelizer, 2003). Local and international initiatives, including Musicians without Borders, launched music-based peacebuilding projects to rebuild ethnic identity and social cohesion (Pettan, 2010; Robertson, 2010; Skyllstad, 2000). One example, a multi-ethnic, interfaith Sarajevo choir, performed over 100 concerts worldwide (Zelizer, 2003). Arts-based peacebuilding theory suggests the performing arts can create unique spaces for dialogue between former adversaries (Shank & Schirch, 2008). Just as music was used during the war to divide and homogenise, it can also promote reconciliation through healthy communication (Bergh & Sloboda, 2010).Drawing on Social Identity Theory, reintegrating the persecuted “other” requires challenging stereotypes and recognising the cultural nuances of different groups (Hogg, 2006). During the war, traditional Bosnian music was suppressed, often through ethnic cleansing (Baker, 2013). Today, many seek to reconnect with this heritage and challenge wartime notions of “the other” (Shekhovtsov, 2013, p. 43).5.2 - The Azra ProjectEthnomusicologists Pettan (2010) and Skyllstad (2000) sought to restore Bosnia’s “stability of culture” (Merriam, 1964, p. 32) through the Azra Project in Norway. This initiative created a cultural platform for Bosnian refugees while supporting their integration into Norwegian society. The project showed that peacebuilding through music need not occur in the place of conflict, as long as participants feel an emotional connection to the music’s cultural identity (Mitchell, 1996, p. 29).Azra fostered exchanges of musical knowledge and cross-cultural ensemble playing in an “ethnically neutral” environment (Pettan, 2010, p. 179). In practice, it incorporated sevdalinka, a genre linked to Bosniak tradition despite Turkish influences (A. Petrović, 1988), revealing how contested “traditional music” can be (Laušević, 2000b). Pettan argues that familiar songs evoking pre-war life can symbolise peace and belonging.The project aimed to promote dialogue similar to that seen in Northern Ireland, where music occupies a space between verbal and non-verbal communication (Pruitt, 2011b). Refugee interviews suggest it succeeded in fostering understanding (Skyllstad, 2000). As one of Merriam’s ten functions of music, communication is crucial for reconciliation (Merriam, 1964), though cross-cultural contexts require shared symbolic meanings — a point that remains debated.While the Azra Project offers insights into cultural identity restoration, it does not directly address reconciliation between opposing sides.5.3 - Most Duša ChoirRobertson (2010) examines Most Duša, a Sarajevo-based interethnic, multi-faith choir founded in 1996 by Jadranko Nirić. Initially rooted in the Catholic Church, it soon welcomed members of other religions — first out of necessity, later as a deliberate act of inclusion. Unlike the Azra Project, Most Duša highlights Bosnia’s multi-faith reality by performing music from all major religions, including Judaism (Poulton, 1998), to promote reconciliation through grassroots participation.Nirić ensures balanced representation by including at least two songs from each faith per performance and staging concerts in religious spaces of other traditions — for example, performing Muslim songs in a synagogue. This counters the wartime destruction of cultural landmarks, which undermined group identity (Toft, 2002; Chapman, 1994). In this way, the choir symbolically reclaims spaces once integral to Bosnia’s cultural fabric (Laušević, 2000).Audience and participant feedback suggests the choir’s diversity and repertoire inspire emotional responses and foster dialogue, identity recovery, and cultural reintegration (Robertson, 2010). Rather than focusing on lyrical content, its strength lies in embodying the multicultural Bosnia that war had fragmented.However, no known post-conflict music projects in Bosnia have brought together those aligned with Milošević’s ideology and those targeted by ethnic cleansing. This reflects the conflict’s complexity, involving shifting alliances and multiple interethnic rivalries (Gagnon, 2006). As Zelizer (2003, p. 23) notes, peacebuilding in Bosnia — artistic or otherwise — remains a profoundly challenging endeavour.—