By WILLIAM HARVEY

What does a composer look like? The question occurred to me when I sat down this past July with fellow Juilliard graduates Sarah Frisof and Ryan Murphy to plan workshops at Matthew Rusike Children's Home in Epworth, Zimbabwe, for our Juilliard summer grant project. In the course of two weeks, we wanted to teach 100 students from Epworth Primary School to compose. Many of these children are orphans who live at Matthew Rusike. Many are H.I.V.-positive. And none of them had ever looked in the mirror and seen a composer before.

William Harvey and students at Epworth Primary School finish rehearsing their piece. (Photo by Cindy Chapman)

Before that day, they didn't know what a composer was. Borrowing from a brilliant lesson plan by recent Juilliard cello graduate Chris Gross, Sarah and Ryan did some fun exercises with the students as they crammed the benches in the tiny cafeteria where we held our workshops each day. After the students had a pretty good idea of what a composer is, I talked briefly about Beethoven, pointing to his picture on my T-shirt and saying, "This is the face of a composer." Pointing to my own face, I added, "And this is the face of a composer." After pausing for effect, I continued, "Now look at the face of the person on your right. Look at the face of the person on your left. This is also the face of a composer."

But why would three classical musicians travel to a country scourged by AIDS and poverty to teach children how to compose? As the founder and director of Music for the People, an organization that promotes international cultural understanding through music, I love to come up with unusual ideas for projects, and this one had the most innovative premise so far.

In August 2005, I contacted Jayne During of the Kuaba Humanitarian Foundation, which supports orphans in Ghana and Zimbabwe. I wanted to collaborate with her but didn't know how, until I read about a grant that sought proposals combining art, science, and technology, focusing on fresh water. Eventually, I concocted the idea of teaching AIDS orphans to write music inspired by water, in order to call attention to Zimbabwe's water problems—all under the somewhat grandiose title, "Sound of Water, Sound of Hope." I didn't get the grant, but I had my project.

By coincidence, one of the schools whose students Jayne has clothed is Epworth Primary, which has no water. Therefore, we would focus our fund-raising efforts on building a borehole pump there. Now all we had to do was brainstorm a curriculum that would teach these children to compose.

During the first week we did all kinds of activities, ranging from an instrument petting zoo to a session on exploring music inspired by water. Never has Smetana's Moldau sounded so beautiful to me as when I played a recording of it at Matthew Rusike and watched as the children stared silently up at the boom box, their faces transfixed by the glorious music.

At the end of each session, we would break into nine "pods," small groups led by the three of us, some former orphans from Matthew Rusike now in their 20s, and three Americans (Cindy Chapman, Bekah Chapman, and Joe Dits) who had worked with Jayne in various capacities. On Thursday of the first week, we wrote poems in our pods, and the next day, we began setting them to music. The leader of each pod had a different method of coaxing music from the children. I recited a line of the poem they had written, and then asked for a volunteer to sing it. Other pod leaders focused more on musical motives, or on encouraging the children to create soundscapes reminiscent of water.

As the compositions developed, the children's outstanding creativity stunned us. Students in Sarah's pod crafted an astoundingly variegated composition, at times evoking Earl Kim, at other times suggesting a minimalist groove. Ryan's group dreamed up a world of sound exploding with rhythm and vibrant color, proclaiming, "Water is life, we must preserve it and keep it clean for all people." One look at the face of Morejester Hwande, a young girl in my pod, would tell you that she lacks adequate nutrition, but judging from her many contributions, she does not lack ideas.

During two benefit concerts we presented—one of which was at the home of internationally distinguished ophthalmologist Dr. Solomon Guramatunhu, chairman of the non-profit Eyes for Africa—we raised enough money to build a borehole pump at Epworth Primary.

Now that the project is over, the sound that lingers in my mind's ear is not of the water that students at Epworth will soon hear, but of the hope they created in their compositions. They live in a state of spirit-crushing physical need. The Kuaba Foundation addresses that need, but after their stomachs are fed and their feet fitted with new shoes, what of their spirits? These children do more than cope; they live with a zest and gusto that do credit to humanity. And yet, who has told them that their future need not hold an early death, that its only limit is their creativity?

Before their final performance, I wore my Beethoven shirt again and said, "Remember when we talked about this guy? Who is he?"

"Beethoven!" someone yelled.

"What does he do?"

"He's a composer!"

"Now you too have created music!" I shouted in triumph. "You also are composers!" I intended to ask them to give themselves a round of applause, but they started clapping before the words were out of my mouth.

William Harvey earned his master's degree in violin last May.