I was performing at Rikers Island, a prison in New York, when one of the inmates raised his hand during a Q&A. “Why are you doing this?” he asked. At first, I joked, “I just like to be different.” And while that got a few laughs, the truth is… that’s actually the real answer. His question wasn’t cynical — it was honest. He wanted to understand why someone would choose to spend time performing in prisons when I could be out in the world, making money, playing venues, chasing recognition. And I get it. From the outside, maybe it looks like I’ve taken an unusual road. But the truth is, I’m not in this to chase the spotlight. I’m here to redirect it.

Using What We’re Given — For Something Greater

I believe that every gift we have — our talents, our voices, our skills — comes from G-D. And with those gifts comes a quiet responsibility. I didn’t choose to love music. I didn’t create my voice, or my passion for lyrics, or my ability to speak to people through a melody. Those things were given to me. The only choice I really have is how I use them. And I’ve chosen to use them in places most people avoid. I bring music to prisons, to people who are often forgotten. I use lyrics to plant questions, to stir the soul, to help someone look inward. Not because I think I’m better than anyone — quite the opposite. I do it because I know I’ve been given something… and giving it away is the only thing that truly makes sense.
There are brilliant people in this world. People with minds for business, bodies built for sports, or voices that could move souls. But none of those things are self-made. Even being in the right place to use your gift — that, too, is grace. It’s a gift to have a stage, just as much as it’s a gift to have a voice.

The Deeper Reward of Living for Others
Choosing this path hasn’t meant giving up joy — it’s given me more of it. There’s a different kind of satisfaction that comes when you know your work has helped someone think deeper, feel seen, or remember their worth. It’s not the kind of pleasure that fades the next day. It stays with you. It builds something inside.
Every time I leave a performance behind bars, I carry with me the feeling that I’ve tapped into something lasting. Something that doesn’t disappear like applause or fade like excitement. It’s a fulfillment that comes only from serving something bigger than yourself.
So when people ask me, “Why are you doing this?” — I now know how to answer clearly.
It’s because I choose to be different. Not to be special. But to be useful. To take what I’ve been given… and give it back.
— Gedalya