How Luxemburg was emptied in 48 hours

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During the war, in 1941, the communists deported the Germans then living in Luxemburg (Bolnisi) to Central Asia and Kazakhstan to the empty steppes, within 48 hours. It all happened so suddenly and so fast that they couldn’t take anything with them. My mom used to tell me, how trucks came to take the Germans, and how the hell started. My mother remembered this day as a horror – hungry cattle were mooing, dogs were barking and running here and there. Soon the robbery of Germans’ houses started as well. It was October, the grape harvest had already been collected and the Germans had their two- or three-floor cellars filled with the autumn harvest, for the winter. But they couldn’t take anything with them, even though it was already winter and the communists housed them in huts, where they endured many hardships – hunger, cold, and death as well. After Stalin’s death, Khrushchev allowed the Germans to return to their homeland from Kazakhstan. Part of the Germans returned to Bolnisi since it had already become their homeland. But later they were asked to become official citizens of the Soviet Union and they had to return to Germany. Even though they had been through a lot of trouble, they started a new life in Germany and continued their hard work. I have never met any other such strong people. The Schwabs were special people, from whom we could only learn the best.

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After graduating from high school, I became a little lazy – I became way too confident and, ignoring my spiritual needs, having fun became my first priority. I left everything in Tbilisi and returned to Khashuri when I was 17 years old. I worked as a music teacher in a Russian school. Along with working with children, I started creating choral works. Since then, for 54 years, I’ve been teaching. I worked in almost every school in our region. I went from village to village with my musical tools. Imagine, I made kids in these villages listen to, and taught them, the works of Ella Fitzgerald and Louis Armstrong. My mission became education and I liked this role very much.

For me, it wasn’t a surprise to see controversies, quarrels, and envy that existed in the art field. But I had many friends and relatives from this circle, who appreciated me very much. Therefore, I have nothing to regret except that I didn’t graduate from the Conservatory. Even though I was taught by geniuses at the music school, and later I also graduated from the Leningrad Institute of Culture.

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Our mother, who was a very good, hardworking woman, raised us and she was a father for us as well. There were two of us – me and my older brother – they couldn’t have more children. My mother tried her best to ensure that we had everything we needed. But it was a very difficult time for us. If someone was in the war, his family received help; but no one would help the family of the repressed. My mother’s family helped us and that’s why we weren’t left hungry. People didn’t have a bad attitude towards us, both my mother and father had a very good reputation in the neighborhood and nobody harassed us, in the opposite – they supported us. Obviously, they couldn’t do anything for us, but, for example, the village chairman was always trying to help our family and tried to stand by our side.

That’s how I grew up. I was a very good student at school with good notes. I used to come out with reports, with different things… I wrote a report and the director of the school read it in front of the teachers. There was one woman and she asked the director – when she’ll read that report and people ask whose child’s report it is, what would he say? That she is the daughter of a traitor?! The director told me, with great reverence, that I wouldn’t be able to read it and gave the spotlight to some of my friends. I was offended, of course, but what could I do…

When I became 10, I took a picture and sent it to my father, who was also in the 10th year of his exile. During this time, many of the exiled prisoners died there, they were unable to withstand the conditions. My father told me later, that once they were punished to eat only 200 grams of bread a day and many of them died thinking about it –before, they were used to eating a whole bread in one meal. He was an economist and he was a very moderate person in everything, in life, in food… When I sent him letters, he would check it for mistakes and reply: here, you have to use a comma. He raised me from there.

In 1947, my father came back. A sanatorium was being built in Kobuleti then and started working there. In 1949, arrests started again for those who had been in prison in 1937 and also for those who had been prisoners of war and came back alive. They took all of them and arrested them. My father was also arrested and this time exiled to the Krasnoyarsk. Stalin died in 1953, was rehabilitated in 1955 and they told my father: ‘’you were right, we didn’t have to arrest you’’ and he was released. He spent 26 years in prison, in total.

He came back and then worked in Ozurgeti, in state-owned trading, for a long time. He died at 82. He endured so much torture but still lived until 82. Despite everything, he wouldn’t say bad things, in general, if he said something. Maybe he was so intimidated that he had to keep his mouth shut. He was not afraid because of himself, but more because of us – that nobody would hurt us.

A small part of his diaries remain. You can’t imagine what nightmares are described there. How they spent 11 days in hunger – only people from this district; only Georgians. In 1937 there were “troika” trials – they would choose who to arrest, without any reason. They arrested my father in the same way. One from this triad worked as a postman and he used to visit us. My father knew who he was – he would offer him to eat with us and drink wine. Of course, he would never say anything to him.

When ‘’Repentance’’ was filmed, my father had a cerebral leak and was lying in bed. My daughter was a student, she came to him and told him about that movie. He listened to her and said that it was too early to make such a movie – the persons portrayed and their descendants were still alive.’’ – Such a great fear was still prevalent in them…’’

Author: Nino Gamisonia
Photo: Nino Baidauri
Translation: Mariam Kajrishvili

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I remember nothing like this in my whole life. We were scared, but we were careful, did everything we were told and taught: we didn’t go outside, or anywhere, for that matter; we stocked up on so much pasta and rice that it will probably last until next year. I know from my ancestors how people died from the black plague in my hometown, in the village Pkhvenisi, in Gori district. A very good young man died there when he was 26 years old. It was a long time ago, but we still have a picture of him hanging on the wall. He was a lovely person, the only son in their family. When her brother died, that woman couldn’t stand being alone and adopted my mother. She cried such burning tears that her skin was damaged for months. She couldn’t stand loneliness anymore, so she adopted my mother and raised her. My mother fell in love with my father and got married right there, in the same village.

Father

I was a cheerful child until I was 10 years old. My father was deported in 1937 when he was 33 years old. My father was the chairman of the collective farm, and the charges brought against him were silly and embarrassing. They appreciated him in the entire district. At the meetings, where the district heads were also present, they used to say – ‘’take an example from Ilo Petriashvili!’’. Some time passed and Ilo Petriashvili turned out to be a pest and an enemy of the people. He had a lot of enemies. Some liked his bravery; My father was a great man. He was not beautiful, but he was lovely to look at. He was deported to Sverdlovsk. It turns out that he was acquitted when he was still on the road, but they didn’t return him. It was a dark time for everyone, especially for prisoners. After so many days and months they arrived in Sverdlovsk, in the Ural Mountains. Then they took him to Solikamsk and he was forced to work in the mines cut down trees. My mother sent parcels every day. She would definitely send lard that she made herself, slice it, and put it in a package. She would also cut a soap bar in half, put money in it, and put the other half back on. Sending money was prohibited, the prisoner would be punished and we wouldn’t be allowed to send anything again.

My mother went from lawyer to lawyer about my father’s issue. There was one man – Chikvanaia, a republic-level prosecutor, and my mother was waiting by his door all the time. Sometimes they didn’t let her in, sometimes they denied her requests. When my father was taken away and the policeman told him to say goodbye to his family, he kissed the children first, then hugged my mother and said, that he was innocent and would be back soon. My mother told him, that she was not afraid, that she would put on iron shoes, hold an iron stick, and prove his truth anyway. She did – she put on iron shoes and took the iron stick; she was at Chikvanaia’s door all the time, but no one took mercy on my father. The war had already started when my father wrote to us that three of them sneaked out from the camp. He said they found a boat on the water and that they went to the shore, but some little boys saw them, called the police and they were brought back. They wanted to go to the war front and prove that they were not enemies to anyone.

There’s a neighboring village, Dzevera. The wife of a man from there informed us that she received a letter and asked us to come and read it. The river Liakhvi flows between us and that village. My mother and grandma had to step through it. The river has strong waves that neither my mother nor my aunt could cross. We had one strong relative, and he first took my mother, and then my aunt, over the river. The woman didn’t let my mom read the whole letter, only these two sentences – ‘’When Ilo Petriashvili was with me, a tree fell on him and he died.’’ They got the most horrible news. They cried their tears out… It destroyed my mother. The whole village came to mourn; only his enemies didn’t come. My father was a tough man. That was the reason he accomplished so much; if you don’t tighten up, you can’t be a leader. The peasants didn’t like it. They thought that members of the collective were chosen by Ilo Petriashvili. Even people who were considered educated at the time didn’t understand what was happening and made enemies with them. There was one chemistry teacher at school and I thought to myself if these people couldn’t understand what this collectivization was, or who created this collective if this man couldn’t understand it, why did he study for so long?! I mean the peasants – there were few really educated people.

During Beria’s time, the acquittal for my father was approved and I received 7 Manats. My father was already dead. When I saw it, the justification, I was very sad. As if he died one more time. They acquitted the man who did nothing wrong. He held anti-state, Trotskyist meetings in his home, they said. I was little back then, but not that little that I wouldn’t see strangers coming to our house. Now, I would be able to say it openly, but it really wasn’t the case.

‘’The daughter of the Enemy’’

When my father was deported, had only my mother. We were 2 small children and an elderly – the sister of my grandfather, in whose house we still live today. We didn’t grow up happy. I was 10 years old, my brother was 5 or 6 and my sister was still a baby. We had land, but the land needs to be cultivated. If you don’t work, what would a land give to you?! My mother was a very smart woman, who, as they say, would squeeze the juice out of a stone, and she did everything she could. She was a gifted woman, she could sew and she sew us clothes. Once she sewed a dress for me, with different material on the front, the back was different, the ‘’coquette’’ was different and I was colorful as a bird. Not because it was in the trend, but because that’s all we had.

We had a grandfather – the father of our mother. He was in poor health but still offered my mother to move with him. But my mother rejected, she said, she wouldn’t leave Ilo’s home and she was ready for whatever would come. There was one man, Gogia Ghonghadze. My father did nothing wrong to him, we even had a good relationship before, but this man was a bit aggressive. My father was exiled for two years already. My aunt lived with us and studied outside in the front room. She had a table and a lamp there. She was just about to bring the lamp inside to lie down and boom! Something hit the room and fell on the table, where aunt Ano was sitting. My aunt jumped up at that moment, turned on the lamp, and saw a big stone on the table. She took the stone, ran out into the yard, and saw someone walking upstairs. At the top of the street, there was a club, an office, and other places, and she followed that men in the darkness. She asked men sitting there, who was the one that just entered. They told her who it was. My aunt went on the stage at the club, there were a lot of people including the chairman, the brigadiers, and some others sitting, the peasants – down on the chairs. She told them that Gogi Ghonghadze came and threw this stone at her and that she followed him to that place. Unfortunately, nobody cared about the story. There weren’t any charges neither against Gogia nor to anyone else. We were lucky enough, that the stone didn’t kill my aunt.

My brother is sometimes telling a story – we had the same math teacher at school, but he never insulted me like that. He used to put my brother in front of the children and draw on his face with the chalk; he said to children, that my brother was the son of an enemy. And my brother cried… Even now, when I think about it, I have to cry.

The War

I was in 7th grade when the war started. It was a tough time for us. They sent all of our harvests to the front and we had nothing left. But we found a solution – I was already 11-13 years old, my brother was a little older and my sister was 5. So, we collected wheat heads. We would collect a few bags and they gave us 300-400 grams from there. We planted corn and somehow, we were able to survive.

When the war ended, I was already an adult; I finished school. My mother and I were in the vineyard, we were planting corn. Suddenly my brother looked at the garden and said – ‘’Mother! Asmat! The war is over!’’. When we heard that, we threw our hooves away and ran so fast, that we left Koba behind. The yard of our club was full of people. I ran to the office and there was one of my friends – Marekhi Patarashvili. I congratulated her and hugged her like crazy. Everybody was asking, where Rezo was – the chairman of the collective farm. People said he should be in the field. I told Marekh, to come with me and make Rezo happy about the news. We ran so much, we couldn’t even breathe. “The war is over! The war is over! ” Rezo was shaking us both from joy. He said there was a bull in the brigade and it should be slaughtered for the occasion. The bull was slaughtered and the whole village celebrated that day.

Student

I was a student in Gori. None of our relatives helped me and I didn’t have anywhere to stay. So, my student life wasn’t easy at all. I stayed with one relative for one or two weeks, then they had trouble in the family and I had to move out, I spent two years like that. If I were standing in the line for bread in the evening, I would either get bread in the morning or not. The bread was made of corn, broom seeds, soybeans, and some messy things inside. They looked like bricks. It was hard to get even this kind of bread. My meal was one piece of cookie and Margarine. I would put it on the cookie like it was butter and it was my dinner, supper, and breakfast too. I didn’t have any clothes. My mother sewed one for me and I spent all my student days, winter, and summer in it. It was red, with white cops. We had a lecturer, we called him “Uncle Gabo”, he told us when he came to the first lecture, not to call him with an official name, just uncle Gabo. He was calling me ‘‘Ossetian Bride’’, since I was always wearing a red dress. I only had this one dress.

The Family

I met my husband in the village Nadarbazevi where I was sent as a teacher. I taught elementary school and there were so few children, that two classes sat together in class. My husband was from this village, they were 4 brothers. They have emigrated from Kakheti. How I met my husband? I greeted him, he greeted me back, once, twice…
Then we moved to Tbilisi. We left the village, because of its poorness. It was not profitable at all. They only cultivated wheat, no apples, no plums, they lived on a desolate field. In the 90’s we went back to the village again, we built a house, the farm gave us a plot of land and we planted bread, wheat, barley, and corn. We had bees, cows, we had three cows. My children didn’t feel the 90s.
Overall, we were short on money but we were very happy. No one heard loud words coming from our family. That I could live without him, it’s only because of my children.

The happiest moment was when my daughter enrolled at the university. Arranging for the Law faculty was so difficult back then. When they were announcing the results, she wasn’t given a day-off at work so I went to find out the results – how could I stay at home?! When I was coming back home, I was so happy, that I wanted every passer-by to ask me, what my child has done. Of course, nobody cared who I was or what my daughter did. It was nonsense, but that’s what I wanted. I was so happy, that I thought I was the tallest and thought, that I was looking at everybody from above.

The story of my father is the most emotional for me. Even now, I cry. I loved him very much, I couldn’t watch him enough. I can’t help but cry when I tell the story of my father.

Author: Nino Gamisonia
Photo: Nino Baidauri
Translation: Mariam Kajrishvili

The post Asmat Petriashvili, 92 years old, Tbilisi appeared first on WomenOfGeorgia.

“I was born in Tbilisi, my mother was my father’s second wife. He was an actor and at the same time did manual labor. When the war started, he was transferred to a factory. Back then, the rocket launcher artillery, ,,Katyusha’’ was newly invented and they were making its parts in the factory. Actually, the war was won thanks to ,,Katyusha’’. When the war ended, my father left the factory, said that he was an actor and started acting again.

By Stalin’s decision, the Armenian troupe in Akhaltsikhe was closed and they were looking for Georgian actors for the new one. My father was a patriot, always looking to do something for Georgia, and he was the first to volunteer. I was 10-11 years old, and I had already lost my mother. She died with tuberculosis when I was 4. My father took me with him in Akhaltsikhe. He started working as an actor and I spent all of my time in the theater. My father had to be my mom too. What could he possibly do? Life was very hard back then. Nowadays everybody has bathrooms in their homes, but it wasn’t like that before. In these conditions, I was studying and we had a room in the theatre where we lived. I was spending all of my free time with a decorator. I don’t know how they do it now, but back then the big curtain was painted, it was called “Zadniki” in Russian and when they laid out this huge sculpture on the floor, I was running on it. That’s how I grew up in the theater – sometimes I was helping the painter as I could, handing him the brush or the paint bucket, sometimes when they needed a kid on the stage, I acted too. So, I finished 8 classes in Akhaltsikhe. I was already painting well and I loved every second of it. My father gave me a hand too. He often told me: ‘’Daughter, you can become anything but an actress, otherwise you’ll starve to death.” In a word, I left Akhaltsikhe and started studying in the Nikoladze art school. I completed my five years long course successfully. I was lucky to have great professors as well. I also wanted to get in the academy of arts, but I had such a hard childhood… A 4-year-old without a mother. In the meantime, my father was getting older and his pension was only 62 rubles. We were hungry half of the time. To say it briefly, there was a lot of struggle and that was the main reason why I couldn’t continue my studies.

My father was a great man. Our relationship was always close and open. He never treated me strictly and in my turn, I didn’t hide anything from him. Once, one boy had a crush on me (by the way, he later became Tbilisi’s chief architect). I was coming back from the cinema, it was late and he was hiding behind a tree by the road. Suddenly he ran to me and kissed me on the cheek. I was so ashamed, I couldn’t go out for a week. I thought everybody saw me. My father asked me what happened. I told him, how Givi kissed me. Only a kiss? – he asked. What else should have he done?! That’s nothing, nothing has happened, – he said. He was such a free thinker. And yes, did anything really happen? I was very shy and my father’s character helped me. If he would have been overly controlling, I’d probably had done something bad. In general, there is no need to control a child all the time.’’

Back to the theatre

‘’Now I’m going to tell you the reason why I actually went to Poti. I have nothing to hide — one boy from Poti had feelings for me. I loved him too. He started studying at the academy the same year I finished mine and I was helping him paint. By the way, he later became a great sculptor. And that guy told me – if I leave you here, you’ll marry someone else, so I have to take you with me to Poti. That’s how I moved there. My father had a lot of friends in the Poti theatre and they helped me get a job there. I worked there as an actress for almost two years, but I couldn’t stand it any longer and I left. I moved to Gori and started working in the Gori Theatre. My father was known there too and they threw me on the scene right away. But I couldn’t endure working there for more than one year. I kept saying – ,,I don’t want to be on the scene, I’m not an actress’’. But it looks like I had some skills and I got roles. I’ll tell you why I left the theatre. Once the director called me and told me, there is a play – ‘’Emilia Galotti’’ and you can make decorations for it. I agreed. I was sitting for two months in the library and was reading about life in old England – what they wore, how they lived and I made 4-5 previews. One day I went to the theatre and I saw a list of actors and who was playing whom. And I saw the decorator’s job and across it there was another name, not mine. It turned out that at the end the director didn’t trust me and they didn’t even bother to tell me earlier. Even though they knew I was working on it for two months in the library, preparing myself for the performance. I was heartbroken. I left immediately. I didn’t write any statement or anything and after that I never returned back to the theater. And by the way, I did great to leave.’’

56 Years in the Gori Art School

‘’I already knew that there was a school of art in Gori, founded 5 years ago. I found the school by asking for directions. There was a small hut in the yard. I went inside and met Ana Peradze, whose name the school now carries. I told her my story. She saw my work and told me ,,Guliko, I don’t have any teaching hours available right now, but I am giving you my hours. You have to come and work at my school.’’ Since then I am working here, in the last October it has been already 56 years. I received a lot of support from Ana Feradze. I remember, I was living very far from school and she helped me rent an apartment near her house. She often invited me over for dinner. God, she had such great respect for me…
I had my first and only personal exhibition this year in Gori, which was initiated by the current director of the school. She is my former student and when she saw my work, she got the idea to organize an exhibition for my work. Actually, the length of the exhibition was one week but they continued it for three weeks. Students were coming from different schools, they were asking about the drawings and I was giving a lecture. Well, I spent three weeks in the exhibition hall. I was actually studying painting, but in fact, I was always working in graphics. I took graphics to the level of painting and probably I am distinct for this technique.

In general, whatever I did everything came out well. For example, I built my house with income from sewing. Nobody knew me as a painter… I was renting a room from one good woman. She lent me a sewing machine and I started sewing. Then I got so many clients that I was sitting 8 hours daily and sewing dresses. But as soon as I built this house, I didn’t continue. The sewing was a temporary work since I needed some money for the house. I didn’t want to be a tailor and wanted to go back to my main job. That’s why I didn’t give the new address to anybody. Thank god, I got back to painting.’’

The marriage of an artistic woman

‘’When people ask where I met Alexei Cherkasov, I’m answering in Africa. I’ll elaborate. Alexei was a pianist and was touring Africa for three months. At the same time the younger son of Ana Peradze was on a business trip as a pediatric in Africa. They got to know each other and became friends. Whenever Alex was touring in Tbilisi, he was staying with them. Ana Peradze had been dead for a long time and we decided on a remembrance of her. Since she also wrote poems, we made the remembrance about it. Of course, we also invited her family members. Coincidentally, Alexei was in Tbilisi too and he attended the evening with Ana’s son. By his request, Aleksei played some compositions. After the evening, we went to the restaurant, Aleksei asked me my address and I gave it to him.

After a week, I received a letter of seven pages, where he wrote his entire biography. I sent a short thank-you letter. After that, I received two letters every week, my mailbox was full of his letters. He wrote me his stories – where he was, with whom he played, etc. One day I get a telegram saying he was coming to Tbilisi, wanted to spend New Year’s Eve with us and asked me to pick him up from the airport. Of course, I complied. When we came home, he put his suitcase down and said “I am not going anywhere.’’ It was really a miracle – the man came as a guest and didn’t want to leave. He was telling my relatives and family members, I’m already in love with this woman, I am serious about marrying her. Everyone advised me to marry him, told me, he was a famous pianist and an educated man. He came from a good family – his brother was a well-known conductor and the chief musical editor in the Soviet television. His uncle was the lead actor of the movie ‘’Ivan the Terrible ‘’, buried next to Pushkin. And his father was a mayor. They lived in Leningrad and when the war began in 1941, Stalin gave to his family an amazing apartment in Moscow, where they moved. During the whole war, General Cherkasov was sitting in front of Stalin as an adviser, not letting him go to the war.

What kinds of emotions I had on his insistence on marriage? I was 42 years old and I had never imagined having a husband before and I didn’t want to be married. I thought I will just be on my own, painting, why do I need a husband? But what could I do? I couldn’t let him go. I can’t lie, I didn’t have enough time to fall in love with him. But we had great respect for each other and I think it’s essential for a couple.

It surprised me too when Aliosha moved to Gori. He was saying, I feel calm and relaxed here. He started working in the Tbilisi concert hall. Everybody knew him – the whole musical society and the whole city. Of course, he toured often, but he loved his life in Gori. In general, he was a very good man – loyal and hospitable. For example, he prepared food and brought to construction workers. Then he told me excitedly, you know how interesting these people are, they ask for my stories and I’m hearing theirs.

However, artistic men demand a lot of time and support. He was playing piano for 8 hours every single day. When a man goes to work in the morning and comes back in the evening, that’s acceptable. But if the husband is at home the whole day, you are going to work and he is waiting for you at home, it’s a terrible feeling.

For me as an artist, my husband was very disturbing. We were 11 years together and I have done only three works in all those years, no more. ‘’You have to paint, you have to paint!’’ – He kept telling me. I have to, but when?! I am working, then I have to come to the home, prepare food and all those stuff, then we played backgammon, so when could I actually paint? I was worried that I couldn’t paint that often, but I never regretted living with this man. We were happy, we respected each other and traveled together a lot. Aliosha would never leave me and always kept me by his side. 11 years spent with him was exhausting but very interesting.

If I had an opportunity, I would probably be a musician too. By the way, I played the guitar very well. Then I said, there is no place for two musicians in one family and I stopped playing. Do you know what Aliosha did once? He was playing Rachmaninoff’s second concert and I was sitting in the next room. He took the wrong chord by purpose. Of course, I heard that and knocked on the wall. He entered the room and said: ‘’Oh, you bitch.’’ I loved music from childhood and I have great hearing. That’s why I could understand him, as an artist.

In 1988-1989 Aliosha was invited to work in Paris. He hated communists and was telling me ‘’Gulinka, soon the communists will be extinct, the borders will be open and we will go. You’re painting, I’m playing the piano, we don’t need any other language there and we’ll be just as happy.’’ I nodded, but I was thinking, how I can leave this place?! I couldn’t leave Georgia even if they gave me my weight in gold. I inherited patriotism from my father. Even though I didn’t feel appreciated in this country or in this city, I still don’t really want to talk about that… If Aliosha didn’t pass away in 1990, I’d probably go to Paris.’’

Author: Ida Bakhturidze
Photographer: Salome Tsopurashvili
Translation: Mariam Kajrishvili

The post Gulnara Chitadze, 82 years old, Gori appeared first on WomenOfGeorgia.

Back in the day, women were not allowed to get an education, but in my time that custom was significantly declined. Therefore, my family was not against my education. First I studied at the university in Grozno. Back then the Chechens didn’t allow women to study. So the dean of the Grozno University came to Pankisi and brought us there, both girls and boys, to study. Something went wrong, we had to leave and we moved to Tbilisi to continue studying. I lived in one room with my cousins and sister-in-law. I graduated from an elementary education faculty in 1965 and returned to Pankisi. I got married the same year and started working at the Jokolo public school. I worked at the school for 47 years as an elementary school teacher.

I and my husband didn’t get to live together for more than ten years. I was 35 years old when he died. He built us the house and left us all alone… I raised three sons alone. My kids were studying well, but I didn’t have the means to pay for their education. All of them were drafted, then they got married and did manual labor. That’s how we have created our lives…

Men are often against women’s education, work or involvement in any fields, but if I didn’t work, how would I have raised three boys? My relatives were not rich either to help me and my children. It was hard to handle that alone. I woke up at 7 o’clock every morning, prepared breakfast, and took care of the cattle. Back from work, I took care of the vegetable garden and then worked in the cornfield.
I think women and men should have equal rights in everything. I and my husband didn’t live together for more than ten years, but I suppose a man and a woman should take care of the family together. A woman shouldn’t have different rights than a man. Women are excluded from politics and those who don’t have an education are especially against women influencing the government. One of my grandchildren, Luiza Mutoshvili, ran for the local office. Of course, we supported her and we really wanted her to win. But there were some ”deviations” from the region and she was 12 or 13 votes short, or she would have been elected.

I didn’t always think like that. I remember, when one of my grandchildren, Leila was born, I was so scared that I cried. Now Leila tells me sometimes- “Grandma, do you remember crying when I was born?!” That’s the way women are… I always wanted to have a boy and I was scared my daughter would have more girls. Now I think differently of course. For example, why should be there any difference between a girl and a boy?! I don’t have any brothers from my father’s side but does it mean that I’m not a human being? Shouldn’t I have gotten at least a part from my Father’s house and land? I didn’t get anything, even though my father didn’t have any other kids. If I were a boy, of course, I would’ve gotten everything. I have often thought about that and my heart’s broken. That’s why I think women often get the wrong end of the stick. Isn’t the daughter a child too?! Neither did I even ask to get anything, because I was a woman…”

Author: Ida Bakhturidze
Photograph: Sopo Aptsiauri 
Translation: Mariam Kajrishvili

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I lost my apartment in Rustavi. So my son and I rented a place. Then he committed a felony and was caught. He is educated, a graduate of a technological institute in Russia. He was sentenced to three years and served a year and a half. I wrote so many appeal letters that he was released but only conditionally so there is nothing much he can do. There are no opportunities for him, as if he were still behind the bars, he does not have a job, he doesn’t have anything. I don’t know what will become of him.

My heart is torn apart. I am here and I have all I need but how about my son? Some people have put him up. Now he is renting a place but I am worried about how is he going to pay the rent.

In March, I will have been here for 4 years, but my heart is breaking because of my son. Why can’t the government help him and offer him some reliefs? He acquired hepatitis C in prison and his analyses cost 350 GEL. Where will he get this amount?! He turned 46 and he is fine and all, but what can he do? He cannot even marry until he finds a decent job. He doesn’t want to be supported by his wife. But When? How?”

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“My official name is Mortula, but everyone calls me Gulo… My dad gave me the name.

I am originally from Samachablo, the village of Akhmaji. The village is right at the border and Russian troops used to be deployed at three locations, but now only one military unit has remained. I wish they left soon so that I can return home. My house was demolished but still… It is hard for my physically to leave the place where my father and grandfather lived, or else I would set off right now.

I worked in Rustavi Azot Plant for 20 years and then I went back to the village. As we had a countryside house, my husband and I decided to return there. You know what happened afterwards – the August war… and on March 6, my husband died. I was left alone, with only grandchildren. I was through many hardships, but today I am here, doing all right.

I had to move to Rustavi because I had many close people here. Currently, I am living in a retirement home. My children and grandchildren live in France and I moved here two years ago to avoid loneliness. I am quite happy here.

I miss my home though. I have worked so hard and suffered… and for what? It is abandoned… All those who lived there have left. They all scattered… Right now, my brother-in-law lives there and it is relatively peaceful, however when the Russians entered, life was hard; my grandchildren would tell me: “Granny we’ll take something to them”… They would pick apples, potatoes and took them to the soldiers. They would then salute children by raising hands.

My child was 42 years old when he/she died of hemorrhage. We could not save him/her. I even sold my house, everything I had, but still couldn’t do anything about it. All was in vain… Now I live and he/she is buried in the ground. What is there to do? Life is a staircase they say and it is true. I had to put up with it and, little by little, I did.

The life I had and the way I lived was great, but… but my life was not in vain, not at all.”

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My spouse passed away here, so we buried him in this area. I got married at the age of 18. I have five children. I loved my husband that’s why I married him. My sister got married in Znauri. I met my husband when I was visiting my sister. We knew and courted each other for 3 years. I was a well-dressed girl and he was a handsome guy either. I did not look as ugly as I look now, I was a cute girl. I married a person I loved but I wish I had a different fate not to end up here. When I married him he was in the army for 4 years and 10 months in Leninakan. I missed my husband but who would have brought him to me from the army?! So I visited him three times myself. I did not lack anything when I was young, but I lack things now, in my old age. I wish I had never gotten married, I would not have had so many things to worry about now. My husband and I lived together for 74 years.

We went through difficulties and built our life to be left with nothing! We live here in this “plywood”. I had a big house and a lot of land plots, vineyards, orchards… I worked with my own hands. I did have everything and did not need to ask for anything. I worked so hard there but now I am nobody.“

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