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Music and The Third Metric: The Silence of the Violin

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MIRI BENARI
Noam Galai

In sixth grade, I asked my mother, "Why do we study history?" I couldn't understand why events and stories that happened in the past could be relevant to my life today. My mother explained that we must understand where we are coming from in order to better understand who we are in this life. It took me many years to understand what she meant.

Coincidentally, it was also around this time that my teacher asked us to create our family tree as a school project. I remember walking into my grandparent's one-bedroom apartment in Tel-Aviv, holding a red notebook in my hands. They seemed to be very excited to tell me everything. My Grandma started, "There was a little girl in our town in Poland who played the violin very beautifully. When the Nazis came into town, they cut off both of her hands so she could never play the violin again." I sat down with them for many hours listening to their horror stories of pain and struggle. I will never forget that day, the only time I've seen both of my grandparents crying. The disturbing violinist story has stayed with me -- it was not a story for a sixth grader! -- especially because I had been already playing the violin for five years at that time and loved it. That day, I learned that the Holocaust was more than just a memorial ceremony in school.

It's amazing how kids process events. You may think that this experience could have helped me develop a sense of identity and encourage me to explore my past even more. In fact, the opposite happened; the memory of my grandparents' tortured souls and the notion that I had something to do with the Holocaust traumatized me. We never had another conversation about my family tree and my red notebook was put away. As a matter of fact, I made a conscious effort to avoid anything that had to do with the Holocaust and stayed away from related books and movies. The one thing I could not control was my dreams. In my recurring nightmare, I was hiding in the closet, just like Anne Frank, holding my breath so the Nazis couldn't find me. I used to wake up in the middle of the night, gasping for air and terrified.

My violin, which I continued playing very seriously, took me on a journey. After finishing my mandatory military service in Israel, I wound up in the Big Apple following my dream to become a professional musician. During my first couple of years in New York, I didn't feel comfortable sharing where I was from. I wanted to avoid it by being silent, just like my grandparents once did. I was playing and performing a lot of jazz, and then hip hop and R&B. I gravitated toward African-American culture and the community has embraced and supported my music since my very first performance at the Apollo Theatre in NYC. Although I was originally from Israel, I celebrated African-American culture along with my fellow artists and performed at many cultural and heritage-related events, tours and shows. These unique experiences helped me realize that people from different parts of the world can relate to each other through struggle. During one of my shows in Atlanta, I visited the MLK center and was inspired to compose a musical piece featuring Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr's timeless "I have a dream" speech.

When you look at the history of struggle against racism, although the stories, the players and the geographic locations of the events are different, the principle is always the same: a group of people who claim superiority over another group of people. My family story of struggle was all about racism. In my opinion, racism is ignorance; people are people, and we have all been given fantastic potential to fulfill in our lifetime. Yet, this monster has been running loose, annihilating cultures, killing people and even creating a "final solution" for my people. I sometimes wonder where people get this illusion that they were born "superior"?

One of the most beautiful things about music is that it allows you to express yourself in a unique and individual way while playing with other people. In my career, I have had the privilege of playing with different artists from all over the world; it's a great experience where everyone contributes their own unique voice and style to create music together. In other words, while playing together, the differences between us are being embraced, accepted, respected and help create something extraordinary. If only life could be that way!

Music helped me to eventually break my silence and accept myself for who I am. Sharing my family story with people made me realize how much we all have in common; I grew proud of my family history and my nightmares stopped. My healing process and transformation inspired me to found a not-for-profit organization, The Gedenk Movement, to promote awareness about how ignorance, bigotry and hatred have and can ultimately result in genocide. We encourage young people to break their silence while using creative outlets as self-expression. People have so much in common no matter who they are, where they are from and what they do. Let's be proud of our differences and focus on our common ground as we do in music!

As the years passed, I have learned that my grandparents never shared their family story with anyone else, not even with my father. They kept their past silent so they could have a normal life and raise a family. They broke their silence only one time, the day I came over to do my family tree project.

This post is part of a series produced by The Huffington Post in conjunction with our women’s conference, “The Third Metric: Redefining Success Beyond Money & Power,” which took place in New York on June 6, 2013. To read all of the posts in the series and learn more about the conference, click here. Join the conversation on Twitter #ThirdMetric.