Regardless of how thoroughly extensive the cruelty of hatred can be, the Hebrew people have done more than just survive: we have thrived. “To thrive,” however, has nothing to do with tangible success; the Hebrew tribes celebrate the mere yet potent joy of being alive. Throughout history, our community has been forced into diaspora where we were chased by the Santa Inquisicíon, decimated by the rise of the Führer, faced the Russian Pogroms, had our practices outlawed by Colonel Mengistu Mariam in Ethiopia, and were once again forced into exodus by several Middle Eastern countries at the latter half of the 20th century. So, it is simple. Every waking moment that a Jew gets to be alive is a reason to rejoice. What is the lesson of our history if not to never take life for granted? Organized by Brandeis’ Hebrew Department and the Schusterman Center for Israel Studies, 100 Years of Song and Poetry had this joy precisely as its central goal: to be a marker of our resilience, celebrating the modern revival of the Hebrew language and a unified Hebrew people. 

The concert began with an unfortunately somber atmosphere. Israeli Jewry has found itself in mourning since Hamas’ terrorist attack on Oct. 7, 2023, and global Jewry — regardless of whether they shared “Zionist” beliefs — has dealt with an overwhelming increase of hatred against our communities. On Feb. 28, 2026, one day before the Brandeis concert, there were coordinated missile strikes between President Trump’s and Prime Minister Netanyahu’s governments against the Iranian regime, which awakened an odd wave of hatred. Even though the Islamic Republic of Iran has been largely criticized by Persians — as documented in the graphic autobiography and movie adaptation “Persepolis”  — this hydra-like hatred has already manifested itself to the detriment of Persians and Jews, peoples who have been allied since biblical times. Sunday’s concert pierced through this atmosphere with Leah Goldberg’s  “מזמור לילה” (“The Night Chant”). In unison, the crowd sang and rocked along to the orchestra’s music and Goldberg’s lyricism. What better shir (song/poem) could uplift the Hebrew within us, rise our deepest held truths? Describing a night with a darkness so strong that there are no stars or candles, the poetess responds with one succinct and repeated motivation: יִזְרַח הָאוֹר (the light will shine). This line of hers contains a certain blind yet brave devotion to what others would consider a hopeful — if not baseless — claim; after all, how could these people who have endured so much be so certain that the light will come? This doubt, however, is nowhere to be found — not within the crowd, not within the lyrics, not within our souls. יִזְרַח הָאוֹר awakens the deepest and truest part of us. Just as we have survived the evils of the past, so will we survive this present night; through this darkness, Goldberg pushes us to rejoice and be devout to the spirit of hope. And to my Persian friends, whose plights I have listened to throughout the years, begging Western media not to ignore the cruelty of the morality police and whose dreams have been renewed as their nation roars back into existence: the light will shine. 

Another notable poet discussed was Leah Naor, particularly her “את כל פלאי הקיץ” (“All The Wonders of Summers”). “All The Wonders of Summer” is joyous through and through, with cheerful descriptions of honey, grasshoppers, coolness and all those happy sights and voices. She goes on to mention the glee that is living far from the secretive actions, the knives, the fires. Leah Naor’s joy is, yes, superficial. However, it is only superficial because it has the power of keeping every horror of the past below the surface. This ability to keep your emotions positive, to be able to nurture your children so they may have the normal glimmer of infancy in their eyes, is only made possible when our joy is so loud and strong that it overpowers the screaming mobs that have and continue to chase us. “ את כל פלאי הקיץ” assigns us a responsibility to be joyous, to have the voices of our love and wonder be greater than the voices of their aggression. As Hebrews, joy is much more than an emotion; it is a duty.

The final artist whose piece I must report on is the composer Corinne Allal, and her work in the song “אין לי ארץ אחרת” (“I Have No Other Land”/ “I Have No Other Country”). Her music accompanies Ehud Manor’s stanzas, delivering a soft message. This is not a powerful, loud piece like Naor’s nor is it a cheerful song like Goldberg’s as Allal’s tunes do not feel performative. Its vibrations ricochet with a genuine call, a notion carried deep in the hearts of many. In modern anti-Jewish rhetoric, one will often hear calls such as “go back to Poland” — an order that is impossible to follow. Many of the Jews who fled the Holocaust saw their villages turned into concentration camps, and Hitler burned away any proof of their existence. Now, many of them have attempted to claim Polish citizenship but are unable to pass through the government’s bureaucracy since they have lost all proof that they were once Polish. Years later, a process with the same result would occur as many Middle Eastern Jews were forced to leave their homes, now having no nation but Israel. The same would occur with Ethiopian Jewry later on, a sect of the Hebrew community fittingly called Beta Israel (House of Israel). These Jews have not shared the luck that many Jews found in, for instance, the American continent. The descendants of these fortunate Jews would hold the privilege of holding a diasporic citizenship, of not having Israel be their only option, the only possible place they could survive in. Allal’s shir therefore connects to the situation of these Jews who were not granted diasporic privilege, those for whom Israel is not only the homeland of their people, but the only nation that they have.  

This is the sentiment of the Hebrews. We have been resilient throughout a cruel history, thriving with the notion that being alive is enough reason to be joyous. Goldberg’s poem reawakens our Hebrew hope, Naor’s to empower our happiness, to make our love and cheer louder and greater than the hatred inflicted upon us and Allal’s connects to many Jews who have nowhere else to live but Israel whilst reminding Jews who were granted diasporic privilege, Jews like me, that not everyone had the same luck as our families. Allal’s poem claims that only the Hebrew word can pierce through her veins and soul, and with that in mind, I conclude this article with two Hebrew messages: דַּיֵּנוּ (Enough!) and עוֹשֶׂה שָׁלוֹם (Make Peace or A Prayer for Peace).