the breeze, hov arek
The idea that the wind and the breezes will blow us trouble, as Billie Holiday once put it in the song Ill Wind — Blow, ill wind, blow away/ Let me rest today/ You're blowin' me no good/ No good — fascinates me. My adopted hometown, Gyumri, sits on the edge of a vast, flat and empty dry ocean bed. Somewhere out there, beyond anything I could see standing on the fortified walls that surround the western edge of the city, lies the ancient city of Kars, Turkey. The only thing that passed over the walls of Gyumri back in 1996 was wind; sometimes frightening in the winter, sometimes lazy in the dusty summer air.
The breeze, Hov Arek, is what Datevik Hovanesian sings about on her CD, Listen to my Heart/ Lsir Sirts. Throughout mythology and folklore the breeze has acted as an agent of change, a messenger for star-crossed lovers and a musician for those who cannot sing. However, the winds can also have a darker side; recording secrets, bearing witness to atrocities and keeping memory alive and it is important to keep memory alive.
I am ill from waiting for you — too long –
waited for you all — waited for you all.
I am ill with change. Daylong and nightlong;
changing unchanging, all restless. I crawl.
I stand. I faint. I – ill with signs. Sweating
in your breeze, hov arek. All so cold, shawl
cast down, eyes cast down. So ill. Shivering
desert. In all the cattle cars. Each wall
blocks you, little breeze, hov arek. Who pleads
for me? Who pleads? Listen to this dreadful
song I would sing. I would. My throat, bloody,
gags. I am ill. That is all. My throat bleeds.
My throat bleeds. That is all. Now my little
ill breeze, hov arek, you must sing for me.