Some performances feel less like concerts and more like ceremonies, moments that blur the line between past and present, between what is sung and what is remembered. Kurbasy’s Songs of the Ukrainian Forest was one of those rare evenings. It didn’t simply perform; it reached, branching outward from deep cultural roots and carrying with it echoes of survival, sorrow, and hope.
Before the first note was sung, the Weis Center was already steeped in reflection. The pre-talk, led by Heather Almer, Assistant Director of International Student & Scholar Services, set the tone for the evening with both warmth and understanding. With her awareness of Ukraine’s history, she led the discussion with just the amount of gentleness it needed. Representing the ensemble, Vsevolod Sadovyi spoke with quiet sincerity. “This is music that survived hundreds, if not thousands, of years,” he said. “It is not fashionable; it does not come and go. It carries advice, half of it sound, and half of it spoken.”
Those words lingered long after, shaping the experience that followed. When the performance began, the room seemed to shift. The stage felt alive, breathing with movement and light. The voices of Mariia Oneshchak and Nataliia Rybka-Parkhomenko intertwined beautifully with the sounds of Vsevolod Sadovyi, Severyn Danyleiko, Artem Kamenkov, and Markiian Turkanyk. Together, they built something that felt sacred. The harmonies were rich and haunting, filled with both strength and tenderness, moving between moments of piercing power and delicate restraint.
Each song carried its own landscape. Some began in whispers that grew into waves of sound, while others opened with sudden bursts of rhythm that felt like the heartbeat of the earth. The cello and double bass grounded the melodies with a steady pulse, while the violin and traditional Ukrainian instruments wove threads of light around the voices. At times, the singers circled one another on stage, their voices echoing like calls through a forest. The movement was minimal yet deeply intentional, each gesture an extension of the story the music was telling.
Even without understanding the language, the meaning was clear. The music carried stories of love and loss, of nature and war, of people who found strength through song. Each note felt deliberate, each silence a breath between centuries. The performance drew from the landscapes of Polissia, Bukovina, Podillia, and beyond, carrying the weight of generations and the rhythm of a country that refuses to be silenced.
The visuals told a story of their own. Soft hues of green, gold, and blue moved across the stage as images of Ukraine’s people, land, and history appeared and faded. They blended so naturally with the music that the two became one, sound and memory intertwined. The pacing was steady and thoughtful, letting each image and note linger just long enough to be felt.
There was a deep sense of connection in the hall, a unity as if everyone present understood that this was more than a performance. It was a preservation of memory. The audience sat in quiet awe, completely immersed in the soundscape unfolding before them.
For many international students in the audience, the evening felt personal. There was something familiar in the longing, in the way music became a bridge between home and distance. Through their songs, Kurbasy captured what it means to carry one’s roots while reaching toward something new.
When the final note faded, the hall erupted into a standing ovation. It wasn’t just applause; it was gratitude. The performers stood together, proud yet humble, reflecting not victory but endurance. Through their music, they reminded everyone that culture does not break under hardship; it bends and grows stronger, like branches reaching for light.
That night, the Weis Center was transformed into a forest of sound and soul. The branches of Kurbasy’s music stretched far beyond the stage, carrying with them the stories of a nation and the resilience of its people. It was a performance rooted in history and reaching toward hope, a living reminder that even in the hardest seasons, the tree still grows.
-Shaheryar Asghar, Class of ’28