Botir Zokirov

Botir Zokirov!... A unique and whole world, incomparable and never to be divided... If only one could understand the artist's soul, which is as humble before the truth as it is proud before ignorance... Thinking of his heart—which felt the dreams and pains of his dreamy "Little Prince"—I want to listen to a heart that never betrayed him, never left him in the most difficult moments, and resembled no one else's.

Because this Heart of his always reminds me of the fate of a tightrope walker suspended on a high wire. The thousand and one arrows of society echo first in that heart, leaving marks with their pain as they pass through.

When listening to his songs, I feel strange changes in my spirit. It is as if the soul flaps its wings, leaves the narrow body, and takes flight into the heights. You involuntarily feel yourself in another world. Only in such moments does life, for me, lift the thick veil from its face and reveal its full beauty. In my opinion, only a heart that has been torn apart is capable of understanding the fate of a true artist. It seems to me that the artist's life resembles the destiny of a great slave, driven to this earth only to live in search of beauty. He is a Human who spends his life kneeling before beauty, begging, "give me this happiness." A person who becomes intoxicated by this moment and witnesses these priceless instances involuntarily remembers another world—a Great Truth that is higher than the reality surrounding him. And he longs for it with infinite suffering. When the feelings born from the aspiration towards beauty bring the soul to a silent prayer and make you realize your true self, then the great virtue called Art becomes understandable to the human race. Because you do not listen to the "Cho'li iroq" melody, Beethoven's music, or the songs of Joe Dassin or Botir Zokirov as an Uzbek, Frenchman, or German. When the artist squeezes the pains from his heart, drop by drop, into his works, he turns them into the pain of all humanity. Because his lament has echoed to the four corners of the world, for centuries mankind has seen its own brother, its own companion in fate, in the figure of the Artist. Naturally, in this process, the ancient concept of a nation itself recedes before the power of Art—Beauty. In this, just as language does not serve as a bridge between peoples, it cannot be a barrier for souls. Under the influence of these tones, you become a captive of a strange feeling—wonder—which is higher than a world that has no relation to the world at all.

Wonder is the highest point of sincerity and excitement. If the phrase is permissible, it is the meeting of beauty with beauty, the harmony of feelings and sufferings. Only through wonder does "man realize how far he once fell from such heights," that the original "fatal sin" always follows him, and that he is actually a child of the heavens.

Sometimes when we listen to a poem or a song, everything seems to be in place—the words, the music, the voice, the experience—but something is missing. It does not reach your heart. The spirit does not even stir. At most, you simply enjoy it in that moment. There is no trace of wonder or passion. The heart is not felt. It has departed. Why is this? Wonder is not something that can be learned or acquired over the years; on the contrary, it can be lost in exchange for moments of indifference. After all, the heart of a child is a whole world of excitement! When does it leave a person? When you go against your heart. As a result of going against our hearts several times, it abandons us. In the pursuit of a prosperous life, trying to compromise with the demands of the era that are alien to our nature and essence, we do not notice how the heart turns away from us. More than this, the values that are becoming the pillars of the world suffer. At the root of betrayals lies a person's betrayal of themselves, of their own heart.

Some people enter the world of art with lofty feelings and dreams... But in order to find their place, they begin to abuse their God-given talent. This is where their unhappiness begins. Because all efforts are focused on catching someone's attention. "If I get past this, it's enough; everything will fall back into place as before. The sky won't fall to earth because of this. After all, everyone has to fight for themselves." The tragedy is that even if they kill their soul for a while, they try to restore their glittering position in a society that cannot withstand the winds; unfortunately, the soul is not just helpless to leave for a while... No level of skill can fill the void of this hollowness.

Others are driven by capricious desires. Such people mainly consider the stage a display ground. Over time, they turn the display ground into a battlefield. In this process, the nature of people is wounded. Just as they scatter human feelings like berries, the wind of the years sweeps them all off the face of the earth. For such people, art is just a momentary mood, a distraction. The wisdom of Mawlana Rumi: "Music is like a woman. If you use her as a slave, you put the human in you to sleep and wake the animal" seems to apply precisely to them.

For our artist Botir Zokirov, who never forgot this great truth, art was his fate. Such beings come once in centuries. When they do come, they manage to leave their mark on the cultural progress of humanity. Unfortunately, this existence seems to feed on and consume their sufferings and tears more than anything else. An incurable illness pursued Botir Zokirov from the time his childhood world had not yet left him until the end of his life—that is, for thirty-five years. It is no secret to his admirers that he sang while overcoming pain his entire life. Not only the pangs in his body, but also the wounds of society and the poor taste of people tormented him, and he felt lonely because of these; yet, all these situations, just as eyes sharpen only in darkness, further illuminated his consciousness. Thinking about this, I involuntarily recall the truth written by Dostoevsky, who entrusted the salvation of the world to beauty: "For people with broad thoughts and deep souls, suffering and pain are always necessary. In my opinion, it is no wonder if truly great people bring great suffering upon entering this bright world." Perhaps that is the reason why he lived without daring to look down from the stage, fearing to see meaningless, emotionless stares among those listening to the final farewell of a lover being led to execution—"Marobebus" ("Farewell Kiss")—or his song of separation, "Ey, sarbon" ("O, Caravan Leader"). Not only art, but also living his life clashing with ignorance was his written fate on this earth. The "Music Hall," which he organized through many hardships and sacrifices with the goal of introducing the nation's culture to the world, and which was appreciated in foreign lands but did not find enough appreciation in his own country—the dissolution of his dreams was yet another cruel test of fate for him. The whimsical ego of one of the authorities holding the reins of the country caused the artist's dreams to turn into a mirage.

...Botir Zokirov is a world that is never divided, incomparable, and whole, precisely because he could not abandon his human conduct, his self, and his faith for the sake of his status as an artist. As an artistic director, because the women in his group were not just performers but individuals with their own destinies, he could not be indifferent to their feelings being toyed with for the sake of general interests at work. Precisely in this process, the pride of a person who had worn his heels down walking on foot collided with the greedy desire of a transient person sitting on a horse, with his eyes clouded by drink. No matter how much such senseless clashes tempered him as an individual, he suffered much as a simple human, and it was always difficult for a broken, exhausted body to endure... Though authorities who could not rise even an inch above their own stupid "ego" could not digest the Artist's feelings, he could not trample upon his priceless Heart for their sake.

Human history bears witness that such Humans prove why they came into this world within their short, thorny, and bumpy lives, leaving their song for humanity. ... Mozart, Beethoven, Joe Dassin, Vysotsky, Botir Zokirov... Behind these names lie the history of nations, and unfortunately, along with the successes of peoples, their defeats as well. That is why they have become the unfortunate darlings of this mad, endless world. Only words from his heart could bring out the singer's infinite respect for this world and the pains he had to tell it. That is why each word helped him open the heart of the song even deeper. I, too, begin to read the notes in his diary and reflect them through myself in order to reach the singer's soul. "The theater director convinced me that the most important thing in my work is financial production. 'Regardless of what and how you sing, fulfill the plan no matter what. There is no other way.' I cannot understand one thing: how is it possible to reconcile a planned economy and art? These are two completely different concepts; they can never come close to each other." Or: "At the government summer house: music dedicated to the poems of Navoi and Pushkin flows amidst the clatter of dishes and smacking of lips. I had never felt so humiliated until now. O, my God, what savagery and lack of culture... How can one sing while someone is chewing a chicken leg while puffing? I am hitting myself against an impassable wall of indifference."

I begin to read the artist, in my own way, with the breath of today. Weddings and celebrations are places where the crowd gathers. Whether you want it or not, you account for the mood of the intoxicated crowd, you compromise. When different hands touch the singer's temple and reach into his pocket, the secret of art is revealed, its charm is damaged, and it begins to erode all wonder without being noticed. The crowd is condemned to dance, even if for a "short while," not to the singer, but to the beat of their drums. The bitter truth is that in that circle, the singer is not even an artist. After all, aren't such shows destroying so many talents?! The cultural nobility in Botir Zokirov did not allow him to sing even while people were eating. When I told my thoughts to a pop singer who is currently very famous as a serious vocalist and even addresses Mashrab's work, he replied: "Even world stars are performing at weddings now. Botir Zokirov is a child of another era, that is why his views are different. Times have changed. Views have changed, too. Today, if a singer doesn't perform at weddings, he can't get on the big stage either. Although, everything depends on the artist himself. Do it in such a way that people involuntarily put the spoon in their hand on the table. On the contrary, weddings sharpen the artist." That is probably the reason why the repertoire of today's singers who speak of "creative hardships" while calling themselves artists consists mainly of wedding songs. I don't want to analyze his words word-for-word, but I know one truth: Botir Zokirov's songs are far higher than the places the crowd's noise reaches... Neither "Arab tango," nor "Ra'no," nor "Majnun's monologue," nor "You were in my thoughts for a long day," which he sang almost at the sunset of his life, can be listened to in drunk circles consisting of noise and commotion. Not only at parties, but even listening in passing, just like that, is a waste of these songs and the feelings in them. After all, they contain the cry and scream of a transparent heart.

Perhaps views change due to the times, but there are such values that have been holding the axis of the world with their own truth for centuries, and even the storms of time are helpless before them. Only because of these does the sea of eternity never stop. Only these remind us of where the true bed of the mighty and wild rivers is. I think that is the secret behind why the phenomenon of Botir Zokirov grows and grows, remaining only a dream, and why his songs become a longing yearning.

Constantly watching Bertolt Brecht's dramaturgy and reading his works, the singer did not understand the directors' excuse that there were no serious works to stage. Whereas the playwright in his works left behind the great truth that where there are no great goals, great art cannot be created. That is, he considered it a natural state that as goals become petty, art also becomes childish. In my opinion, there is a lack of logic in expecting wonder from the performers, or more accurately, the weapons, of the cruel game called "show business" today, who are walking around with claims of being artists and honestly believing that the world is ruled only by interests and physical strength. After all, they themselves doubt that love lies at the foundation of this world. Naturally, in these situations, you cannot be free for a moment from the crowd's shouting and indecent whistling. In such moments, there seems to be a mysterious wisdom in our Artist leaving early, without becoming a spectator or participant in this noisy, mad world. This, too, is the final opportunity given by Allah to His beloved and helpless servant for the sake of sparing him. Unfortunately, as stated in ancient Eastern wisdom, the heart-piercing sound of the reed often remains hidden under the noise of the drum.

The portrait of my singer who transferred the hot temperature of his heart into melodies... Messy hair... I am absorbed into his wonder-filled gaze shining from under a broad forehead. These deep black, large eyes look at the world with such great love that if you don't say "wait, wait," they might embrace the world with their eyes. He wanted to share wonder not only with his songs but also with his eyes with this life he himself wondered at. He loved his Motherland with this sharp gaze, wide open, with pain. Because He knew well that one cannot love the Motherland with closed eyes. Vladimir Vysotsky and Iosif Kobzon were his dear friends. They understood each other. But unlike his friends, he could neither become a court singer nor could he rebel through songs by tearing his throat. He just burned and sang about happiness, about Man, saying, "Where are you, happiness, where is your bright face?" He sang without sparing his heart, until his body turned into embers. He wanted to see his fellow countrymen as representatives of a great nation. That is why he searched, saying, "How poor my country is with its monotonous music. Or are we poor for not understanding it? Where can I find the key to the treasure of songs that is understandable to any person regardless of their nation?" And on the way to finding this key, since he kept encountering large and small locks, he followed the path led by his Heart, suffering: "... I cannot tolerate them; I don't even want to say hello. After all, the narrow-mindedness and blunt taste of these officials rise to a certain level and become a standard. O, what weakness... But even so, unlike Ikrom (composer Akbarov - I.Q.), I have no intention of leaving the republic; I will continue to do my work as long as my strength, my patience, and my nerves endure," he suffered.

As I set off, accompanied by my thoughts related to the artist's beautiful personality, my eyes fall on yet another eye on a large poster. However, for me, this is an absolutely strange, alien eye. It stares at the world with such bitterness and spite, shamelessly, that your heart involuntarily draws back. If you let it, it would swallow the world in two gulps like a witch in fairy tales... No, one cannot sing with these wretched eyes and a ruined heart. With these eyes, it is a sin to sing about Man and his dreams... Only with these eyes can one deceive and confuse people and insult feelings. Of course, this is my personal opinion. But it was the rich world of the priceless Botir Zokirov I knew that taught me this truth.

"Listening to magical music, you feel yourself in which heaven. There is no trace of bitterness and pain, only and only melodies, melodies, melodies... They turn into your wings and take you towards the horizon where the golden thread of the sunset is stretched across the earth. The melodies, like flying birds, take you to the highest heights, towards the sun. Now you are feeling its warmth, its light. All the dirt and dust in your heart have lifted... The bitterness and pain have dissolved into this vastness. Now suddenly the violin began to cry, and you notice the tears seeping from your eyes. They are born in such depths of your heart that you haven't even imagined these until this day. As the poet says accurately, 'My sorrow is bright,' you cannot express it."

Another one of his pains was that he always felt he would not reach the destination he aimed for. "Today I watched the 'Alisher Navoi' performance and was left thinking again about the question of what is my purpose in life. I start to get scared when I begin to think about the purposelessness and meaninglessness of it all. Singing - songs. After all, they are forgotten the very next day. Well, what remains for people after me? What is necessary to do to leave something very important for people from yourself. These are enormous and unsolvable questions for me..." He suffers, saying "what can I leave for people." A person aware of the genius of Beethoven, if he recalls his confession that "A true artist keeps away from pride because he sees the infinity of art... he feels that his goal is very far away," will understand the artist's pains and the reason for his dissatisfaction with himself. That is why the artist cannot remain just a child of only this world.