Songs Are Born after Survival, Not Before
When I teach Parashat Beshalach, I sometimes begin in an unexpected place—with a movie.
The Prince of Egypt, the animated classic from 1998, remains one of the most powerful retellings of the Exodus ever put on screen. Its music still resonates deeply, especially the soaring anthem “When You Believe.” In the film, that song takes place when Moses and the Israelites arrive at the edge of the Sea of Reeds. Woven into the music are the words of Mi Chamocha and verses from Shirat HaYam – the Song of the Sea. It is a stunning moment – visually, emotionally, spiritually.
And every time I teach it, I gently point out the same thing: it is out of order.
The filmmakers took poetic license, and they did so beautifully. But the Torah insists on a different and deeper truth. In the biblical text, the Song of the Sea happens after the crossing. The people do not sing while the danger is still in front of them. They sing only once they have reached the far shore and can finally take in what they have survived.
At the sea itself, there is no music. There is movement and resolve. There is the courage to step forward without knowing how the story will end. Only afterward does the song rise.
That ordering matters. Judaism does not use song to avoid fear. We sing when survival becomes real.
This year, that insight feels especially close.
On Monday, after 843 days, Israel welcomed home Ron Givili, the final hostage. It was a moment of deep emotion—relief, gratitude, tears held alongside memory. It did not erase the pain of the past two years, but it allowed the heart to recognize something essential: a life was returned.
And here we are in the same week, reading Beshalach—the Torah’s great chapter of song.
The timing is striking. This is a week that invites rejoicing, not as denial of what has been endured, but as recognition of endurance itself.
Since October 7, Jewish music has been everywhere. Songs of grief and longing. Songs that carried sorrow, anger, and solidarity. Music that accompanied us through shock and loss, helping communities remain connected when words alone were not enough.
That music mattered. It still does.
But Beshalach points to a different kind of song. Shirat HaYam is the sound of a people realizing that they are still standing. Redemption songs are not written in advance. They emerge once survival can finally be named.
Israel’s strength in the months since October 7 has been quiet and steady. It has looked like endurance and responsibility, like people showing up again and again to do what must be done. Only after that work does the tradition invite song.
First comes the walking. Then comes the music.
According to midrash, Miriam brought a timbrel with her out of Egypt because she believed there would be a reason to sing. She did not know how the sea would open or when the danger would pass. She trusted that survival itself would one day demand music.
This week feels like that moment.
The return of Ron Givili allows the heart to exhale, even briefly. It creates space for joy that is thoughtful and grounded, joy that remembers how much has been carried to reach this point.
Shirat HaYam does not erase fear or loss. It gives them a place within a larger story of life and perseverance. Jewish song does not rush past pain; it insists that pain not have the final word.
That is why the Torah places the song where it does—on the far side of the sea.
And that is why this week matters.
Just as our ancestors lifted their voices once they had crossed, we, too, recognize this moment for what it is. A reason to sing. A reason to give thanks. A reminder that even after long crossings, the Jewish people know how to turn survival into song.
