Emotional comeback

The choir's performance at Beijing's Forbidden City Concert Hall in September was an emotional comeback. Out of its 15 members, three, including Yang Weiwei, have been with the choir since 2013. The oldest member is 21, and the youngest is 12.

Before the performance began, each audience member received a printed copy of a handwritten letter from a choir member. Most described themselves as quiet, and almost all expressed a simple wish: to find a well-paying job so their parents would no longer have to work so hard.

"Gratitude — that's the feeling I've received most often from these children," Zhang said. "Even though they were so often overlooked, or even ridiculed — sometimes within their own homes — they remain astonishingly tender, able to sense the heaviness in your heart the moment it arises."

In fact, some choir members might have learned to speak if not for the poverty they were born into. "They couldn't afford a cochlear implant — and even if they could, the cost of speech training and ongoing maintenance would still be far beyond their families' means," Zhang said.

The performance lasted an hour and included pieces performed in sign language, though the singing — accompanied by Zhang's specially composed music titled the Trilogy of Silence — remained its emotional core. As the concert unfolded, the music gradually brightened; its tempo quickened, and the singing began to bubble and skip like sunlight dancing over a river. "It's directly inspired by the children frolicking and playing with us," Zhang said.

At last, the music surged toward its crescendo. Each "ah" soared and stretched, striking against the very walls of the singers' vocal cords. The river became a roaring torrent — overflowing, resonating, and carrying everything, every strand of emotion, in its unstoppable wake.

"For generations, deaf individuals were simply labeled 'deaf and mute'. No one paused to consider whether they could make a sound — because sound without words was deemed meaningless. The Silence Choir tears through that assumption, revealing the truth and beauty of voices long dismissed," said Li.

"Our performers cannot hear what they sing — or, to put it more precisely, they can only hear it within themselves. Yet it is their voice — once lost, but ultimately reclaimed — that led us to search for our own voices."

For Zhang, the very name of the choir, contradictory as it appears, contains a deeply spiritual side. Laozi, philosopher and founder of Daoism who lived in the 6th century BC, once said, "True accomplishment wears the guise of incompleteness; true abundance carries the hush of emptiness … Great eloquence hesitates; and the deepest music whispers in silence."

"All we've ever wanted," Zhang said, "is for these kids to recognize themselves as creative individuals, entitled to live their lives to the fullest."

Li recalled a moment of profound silence at the end of the choir's performance in Xiamen.

"I was conducting on stage, my back to the audience. Normally, when the final note fades, you'd expect applause. But that time — nothing. Absolute stillness," he said.

"I waited, and the silence continued — so complete it almost rang in my ears. Then I turned around — and there they were, every single person, holding up their thumbs."