My mother died when giving birth to me and I grew up without her. I was a really beautiful girl, I sang well and my school let me study at the Gori music school. I met my future husband there, who sang in an ensemble. I was only interested in music. My husband was older than me and was a very charming young man. He often came to our village. When I was 15 years old, I gave up everything and married him. Why in hell would I do that?! I was a stupid little girl and it seems to be my fate to have been married and widowed at a very early age… I was 22 years old when my husband died in a car crash and I was left alone with two small children.

I had one year left at the Gori Music school when I got married. So, they came to my house after the marriage to ask me to continue my studies. My mother-in-law answered, ‘’If she wanted to study, she wouldn’t have married my son’’ – that’s how she humiliated me in front of them and kicked them out. In this family, education wasn’t important and I was not able to finish my studies. For years, I worked at different places – for a while in the Tskhinvali hospital, then some other places. I was so heartbroken that I said I would never go back to music. But in the end, I went back to music – to my true inspiration. In Eredvi, we had a very big Culture House with many different ensembles. I led the folk ensemble and raised many generations. We had many achievements together. At the Eredvi Culture House, I had a whole wall in my room full of trophies.

Many women were actively involved in the national movement. We often went to strikes in Tbilisi and I always stood in the front line with a flag in my hands. During one of these strikes in front of the government building, Georgian women came to me and asked to say in front of people, that Georgians and Ossetians should continue to live together. At that time, there was a Svan woman with a machine gun and when she heard I was Ossetian, she screamed at them, even dead Ossetians cannot be trusted; and you want to trust one that still breathes?! She said she already had collected 9 ears from Ossetian bodies and wanted to cut one from me as well. We were surrounded by many people and I was so scared, that I fainted. Although I only remember support from Georgians, I have to say that, when I was left alone, the whole of my village stood by me like a family. They took care of my children. How would this Svan woman know that Ossetians too perceived me as a traitor, because I considered Tskhvinvali to be a part of Georgia. When the Russians came to Eredvi and Disevi to punish the ‘’enemies’’ and ‘’traitors’’, I was on their list too. I was informed they wanted to take me, therefore, I didn’t stay home overnight and hid with others. On the day I was taken, I went to my house at five o’clock in the morning. It turns out the Russians were following me and took me to Tskhinvali. In those moments, I said goodbye to everything – my children and my home. But I decided that no matter what they’d do, I would not say anything to harm Georgia. I remember they showed me a huge iron ‘’barrel’, telling that they would boil me in it. Time to time they would open the prison door and tell me, that they would take me out soon and burn me. On the second day of my captivity, Georgians again stood by my side. My whole village was there for me, people rushed to Tskhinvali and blocked the roads. They said: if this woman wasn’t released, they would start a war. Their protest worked and I was freed a day later.

I remember one moment from this captivity. They brought one Ossetian woman to me, whose son was killed by Georgians. She was asking me to tell her where his son was taken, where he was killed. I, of course, knew nothing. Ossetians behaved the same way. Georgian boys were tied to trees, forced to sing about Georgia, and set on fire. Do you know, how many such stories happened there?! Ossetians have their reasons to be angry at Georgians. Georgians killed a lot of young Ossetians too, many Ossetian young people were killed, innocent families, who did nothing wrong, were left embittered. Many Georgian-Ossetian families have also been broken up by this conflict. There was a crime from both sides and innocent people were its victims. Eventually, after the 2008 war, we all had to leave and I’ve been living in Koda since then. I started working with children again here and I’m already raising my second ensemble.

Although no one would harm me here because of my Ossetian surname, I still switched to my mother’s last name and became Askilashvili. My husband was also Ossetian, but I also gave my children my mother’s surname; their children too. It probably was a protest on one hand, because the Ossetians have broken my heart on multiple occasions; and, on the other hand, I was scared of what I’ve heard from the Georgians’ towards the Ossetians in The 90s.

Author: Ida Bakhturidze
Photographer: Nino Baidauri
Translation: Mariam Kajrishvili

The post Luiza Dudaeva-Askilashvili, 72 years old, Eredvi-Koda appeared first on WomenOfGeorgia.

We knew that Eredvi had been attacked the day before and the captives had been taken away. As it’s known, a prison breaks from the inside. We, several families who have been active leaders, have been betrayed by Georgians themselves, they gave out information about our addresses, and the next day they came to Disevi too. At three in the morning, a number of IFVs encircled our house, we couldn’t hear anything and they attacked us in our sleep. We had a guest from Tbilisi – a friend of my husband, they took him and my husband in front of our three children. They put him in the vehicle. At first, I resisted and didn’t let them close to my husband. Then they took me too, dropped me in the IFV, but finally, they left me at home. At that night, I decided to go to Eredvi, to tell people about our boys taken from Disevi. The assailants suspected that I wouldn’t leave it this way and they patrolled the exits of the village with two IFVs. As soon as I tried to leave, they took me to Tskhinvali. I was in captivity for 5 days in the same prison as my husband, but we didn’t see each other there. I was under terrible psychological pressure. Every day they would make me watch a big pot of boiling water and tell me they were going to boil me in it. Many international organizations got involved because of me, and since they didn’t want to spread the news that ”The Russians killed a woman”, they decided to let me go. I was ”stolen’’ from the prison and, I was thrown unconscious in the outskirts of Tskhinvali. It was 5 o’clock in the morning when cold woke me up lying there. A woman pulled out a calf to graze in the garden and she found me. It turns out I was somewhere in some garden of Eredvi. I didn’t remember how I got there. In Little Liakhvi everyone knew me, but when they saw me barefoot, dirty and in such a condition, they couldn’t recognize me. After this, I became so sick that I spent a month in the National Railway Hospital in Tbilisi.

That was the last time I saw my husband. He was killed with inhumane torture in Tskhinvali prison. He didn’t commit any crimes, he always defended both Georgians and Ossetians; he was against the conflict and even Ossetians confirmed that. When they tortured him by hanging him on a tree – Ossetians protested that “their Andro” was treated that way! Do you know why they tortured him? He was told to say that he wasn’t on Georgian land, but on Ossetian, part of Russia, and they asked to kneel and kiss the so-called South Ossetian flag. He answered that he would only kneel in front of the Georgian flag. They tortured him for a month. What I’ve buried was only a third of the body. What I went through was very difficult. I loved my husband immensely and I realized that we were one soul in two bodies. Even now I live under his inspiration and I used to say to my children when they were in pain and started crying – the right side is the mother and the left – the father. So, don’t cry, you have both – a mother and a father. After all of this, I still stayed in Disevi with my three small children – the eldest one was 9 years old and the youngest – two and a half. My husband had great friends, they would put me in a car, drive me around and talk to me a lot. Without them, I probably wouldn’t survive.

The municipalities were formed back then and elections were called. I have always been very active in public life and everyone could see that. Therefore, they offered me – maybe I should take over my husband’s position. (author – husband was the chairman of Disevi’s council). I ran in the elections and was elected in 1993, where I worked until 2006. I always had a relationship with the whole community and couldn’t even imagine not being by my people’s side. We grew up there and we love every inch of our land. I swear, I still miss even the muddiest streets of my village.

We always lived through shootings and fighting, but the 2008 war was still very hard for me and at the same time, unexpected for everyone. As soon as the airstrikes started, we were forced to leave the village, on the 9th of August. There was complete chaos, the government didn’t help anyone and we were trying our best to survive. When we went to the then-governor – Vardzelashvili to ask for help, he insulted us there – he asked who told me that there was a war and to go back to our homes. Arrived in Gori, on the 10th of August, I returned back to the village. The elderly were left there and a few people organized to take them out of there. The elderly were released with a big car, but when we were returning, the Russians caught us. I was waiting to be captured again, but on the way the car overturned, we took time and ran away. When we arrived in Tkviavi, was saw naked soldiers ran away, while the bombers bombed the military equipment and soldiers from the air. We, ordinary citizens, didn’t get attention from the state, but they didn’t care about military people either. Finally, we followed them and I still can remember the picture – when we were coming to Tbilisi, there were three wounded soldiers lying on my lap. At the exit of Gori, a wounded boy was lying on the ground, asking to take him so desperately, that I can still hear his voice and it kills me. We couldn’t stop because the bomber was following us til Shavshvebi and was dropping bombs in our vicinity on us nearby. When we arrived in Tbilisi, I was so confused that I couldn’t even think about anything. When I realized, instead of Saburtalo I was standing on the road to Rustavi. When I stopped the taxi, out of shock I couldn’t remember my own address. That night I came home devastated.

After this war, we could never return to our valley. We lived in a kindergarten in Didi Digomi for a year. After this one year, we were settled in Koda, a mixed population of different villages and communities. This was also a political decision. We were a cohesive community and could mobilize easily, which probably didn’t suit the government. Adapting to mixed people from different villages and communities wasn’t easy and took quite a long time. I remember there was a fight every day. Living in Koda turned out to be very difficult because of many other things as well. No one had a job or anything other to do. I had two students with me who lived in Tbilisi and I had to take care of them. Finally, women started collecting special plants in the yard, making brooms out of it, and selling it for 80 Tetris. We did this for a year. Then, community education centers have opened and I started working here, I thought I was born anew and started everything from the beginning. This saved me this time – taking care of others helped me to save myself.

Throughout this center our entire settlement has undergone adaptation, many of us have acquired a variety of knowledge and skills. It’s an adult education center and we have many programs for both children and adults. Everyone around me knows that I’m alive today thanks to this center.

I have always been against war. The earth is big enough to fit everyone. The main thing is to be peaceful. What does it matter if you are Georgian or Ossetian? If you live in Georgia, then it’s your country as well. In our region, there was almost no family where Georgians and Ossetians families weren’t related. My mother-in-law was also Ossetian and I have other amazing Ossetian relatives as well. In this war, Ossetians were suffered as much as we Georgians did. I understand that the Ossetian youth who grew up in the 90s grew up under different propaganda, that we are the aggressors and not the Russians. But the previous generation knows how we all lived together. Ossetians and Georgians shouldn’t blame each other for what happened on both sides. Georgians and Ossetians were both victims of this war.

Since I went through so much trouble and the Ossetians killed my husband, everyone thought I would raise my children with hatred. After the death of my husband, I even sheltered an Ossetian refugee in my home for six whole months. I know many people said bad things about me because of that, but I wasn’t scared of it. This particular person did nothing wrong with me except that he was Ossetian. I always taught my children, that the most important thing is to treat people fairly and never make someone pay for things someone else did. I would never let the hatred of Ossetians be in my children and therefore they have the same friendly relationships with Ossetians, as I do.

Author: Ida Bakhturidze
Photo: Nino Baidauri
Translation: Mariam Kajrishvili

The post Madona Okropiridze, 61 years old, Disevi/Koda appeared first on WomenOfGeorgia.

The people of Gali remain in a very critical condition. They are waiting for food and primary supplies. At the end of the story, an account number will be printed to which anyone can transfer money that will be used to send the food to the children and the elderly that live across the Enguri.

26 years old

I’m one of the IDP women from Abkhazia. I currently live in the district of Gali. I’m ethnically Georgian, but we are getting such aggression from the Georgian side, that you can’t even imagine how it feels. I feel so uncertain – I don’t belong either here, nor there; I feel homeless and abandoned.

The law has no power here, not to mention justice. We can’t get fair treatment and as always, we are the most vulnerable people in the whole Georgia. At least, before quarantine, they were sending us food from the other side, but now, I don’t even know how long the stockpiled food will last for my baby, who has been born in exile.

The borders were closed shortly after the virus has been announced. You can only cross the border if there’s an official order in your name that says you have symptoms typical for the coronavirus. Nobody needs infected people here and moreover, nobody can take care of them.

While we barely got the local side to agree to let food, basic necessities, and medical supplies through, the Georgian border guards didn’t allow our relatives to bring it over. Children are our main concern. The rest will do their best to avoid hunger. People have nothing left: poor farms and measly government welfare – 45 GEL monthly. Additionally, during the quarantine, everything is in deficit and even if it weren’t, we wouldn’t be able to afford it. There is almost nothing we can buy, even with money. There is also the elderly who ran out of essential medicine. We’re in a hopeless situation and we’re waiting for international organizations to help us with humanitarian products.

Not everyone knows the real situation here. The so-called occupiers are still trying to force us to leave our homes. They are denying us ways to live. We just exist here, nothing more.

Our compatriots are taunting us, from the other side of those cursed barbed wires, that Russia should take care of us.

In fact, our families, our parents didn’t leave this place. They couldn’t leave the houses and they used the very small chance to remain in their own homes, even under threat of gunfire. They’re trying to survive every day and we, their children, are supporting them. Georgians living in Abkhazia are symbolic and I’m very sad, that they call us traitors because of that.

I remember, when I was a student, we routinely crossed the border silently to Zugdidi. We were constantly finding all possible ways to study. Once, I had to cross the border without being noticed. I had to cross two rivers. Along with having to swim, I didn’t even know how deep the water was. I remember motivating myself after each step in the water, that it wouldn’t be deep and I would be able to go to the end. I did that! My pregnant sister was walking with me, showing the way, and she got stuck in barbed wire. She barely survived. After I did that, I ran with all my strength. I had mixed feelings – I was running from Georgia to Georgia. We, like the rest of Georgia, feel that Abkhazia is part of Georgia. The only difference is that not only do we live here, but we’re also the most vulnerable Georgians.

The post 26 year old anonymous respondent from Gali appeared first on WomenOfGeorgia.

‘When we lost Abkhazia and the victorious Abkhazians came to the border, we took refuge in a family of our relative – in the village Orsantia in Zugdidi region. That’s where our misfortunes started. 

In the Gali district, this place was called a ”low zone”, as if it was a peacekeeping area; some people kept going there, but not young people. Mainly elderly people went to their homes to bring back any food they’d left there. We had to eat on this side too, right?! My mother was there when we found out that Abkhazians were coming and started the so-called ”cleansing” – meaning cleaning the territory from people. My father went there with my brother to help people stuck in the village come back. My brother was 24 years old. He allegedly didn’t want to go, but he accompanied father anyway… On their way back, the Abkhazians ambushed them near the border. My father was gunned down, hit with 14 bullets. My mother was wounded, my brother too was wounded and captured.

My mother, having her hand broken because of the wounds, recalls that one Abkhazian fellow was very nice to my brother. He gave him hot tea, cigarettes and kept telling him not to worry; encouraging him that he’d be set free as soon as father’s body would be handed over. But when the other, Chechen and Cossack fighters, saw how nice he was being to my brother and other Georgians, they took him away in an instant. There were four other people with my brother. After two days, he and another young man were tortured and then killed with a control shot. Others were forced to dig graves for them, then killed when they were done. The ground was shaking… There were also women from our neighborhood. They let them go and told them to send someone for the corpses and the wounded. Who would dare go in the rain of bullets.

My father’s dead body was laid in our yard, put in a coffin quickly assembled from four pieces of wood a coffin and buried there. If anyone had any medications in the village, they brought it all to my mother to avoid her hand getting rotten. They told us my brother was wounded, that they were taking care of him and they asked for a ransom. As we found out later, they killed him on the 11th of February and kept us in the dark until the 25th. We gave them the ransom somehow – some with gold, some with the money left, and we bought his body back to bury. 

When I was in Zugdidi in the hospital, there was no place to sit, even in the corridor. Some people came through the Svanetian mountains with their hands and feet frozen. Doctors performed one surgery after another. My mother’s hand was grown back the wrong way, so her bones needed to be broken again to regrow. My mother survived and so did her arm, but her husband and her son were killed. My mother didn’t let me leave my studies. I was in freshman year at the university when it happened. I kept studying, finished the Faculty of Law and became a lawyer. Life went on. When I was a student I lived in Tbilisi, studying and working, for 3-4 years. After that, I moved to Zugdidi and got married. I had complicated pregnancies. I had to leave my job since I couldn’t work since I was prescribed bed rest and had to stay home. I had a boy. During the second pregnancy, my elder one got chickenpox. Then it spread to his father, doctors didn’t detect it and it grew into pneumonia and we lost him within a week, not having a clue how. After 8 months, my daughter was born. Joy and sorrow were switching places over and over. 

7 years passed after that. I broke off from work. It’s not easy to not work for 3 years, then go back and continue working with such pain. I thought I would raise my children until they were able to live, dress up and eat on their own. At some point, I gave up on my career and work. You start to lose interest even in taking care of yourself, getting a haircut and so on. The only thing you think about is to raise your kids. 

I’m raising my children. It doesn’t come easy, but my mother-in-law, sister-in-law and my mother are helping. All these years I only thought about loving my children. I didn’t want a nanny, already they didn’t have a father and I didn’t want them to grow up without their mother’s love. Now I realize that they need a lot more than love. We live in a rented flat, waiting for state welfare. If they assign us a flat for free, I can take earn enough for food and my children’s education. My colleagues ask me to go back to work, but I can’t. Not until I’m sure my children are safe with someone. That’s the thing that matters to me the most. I’m dealing with it right now and have hopes for the future. Let’s see”. 

Author: Nino Gamisonia

Photo: Nino Baidauri

The post Imeda Lomaia, 44 years old, Gali region, village Ganakhleba appeared first on WomenOfGeorgia.

It’s one thing when you make your own decision to leave home; but then there’s what happened to us…

I was 16 years old when the war began and we left Akhalgori. Even before that, a year ago, there were important changes in my life – my mother moved abroad and I was trying to get used to living without her. I had spent most of my childhood there and I think that the circumstances had an influence on my personal development, on my imagination and about my worldviews.

After the war, for about a year, I was still able to mostly live in Akhalgori. Before the border control got tightened. After the war the streets were empty and it felt like time had stopped. People who lived there didn’t realize the situation and often asked, what had changed? Everything seems to be the same as before. You ask yourself – What am I afraid of? There is nothing to fear.
Our house was on the outskirts – even before the war, nobody lived there except us, and after the war, it emptied totally. I remember the period after the war. My brother and father weren’t at home and I was alone. The door opened and a soldier entered with the gun in the hand. He told me something in Russian. Of course, I don’t remember what he said, he checked out all the rooms, bedroom, kitchen, corridor. And I was just standing there, without saying anything. As I found out later, he was looking for a fugitive soldier. It was usual in those days to count the number of military helicopters or the number of armored transporters crossing the road during the day.

In spring we arrived in Tserovani settlement. I remember this muddy and boring road, seemingly endless, and I felt like I was standing in one place, everything looked the same. I slowly realized that things changed for everybody and I wasn’t an exception.

In the beginning, the settlement was very similar to the Soviet Union structure. Symmetry, monotony, even dinner plates were the same – everything was counted. Everything was numbered with many different labels.

I still went to Akhalgori often. I missed the place. Once when I went there suddenly I asked myself – whether it was a part of my life or not. I lived there for 16 years, I remembered everything: streets, houses, curtains, all of the doors and my yard gate, but the people who lived there weren’t there anymore. There were not only Ossetians and Russians but also military soldiers, moving there with armored transporters and guns. Then you think again, there is nothing to be afraid of, there is no danger. I realized that I was questioning the 16 years I spent there, and I asked myself if it was still a part of my life; or even if I was still part of it. I felt alienated and even though I missed the place and I really wanted to go there, I couldn’t stay there anymore.

Then I decided not to think about my memories – I prohibited myself to even think about Akhalgori. As for everybody, my future too looked uncertain and vague. I have to say that in the settlement if someone had any kind of a plan, it was always linked to Akhalgori. Even a new purchase was made for the temporary “locked’’ homes. Every goal was related to it. For me, as a teenager, the struggle of these people was a good example of how to find a way to recreate the lost life. I believe that I grew up among strong people. It’s hard not to follow them and not to act as they do – struggle for a better future.

Despite the fact that the settlement is small, communication is still a problem. I was lucky that my first job was in the settlement. On one hand, it was my chance to find my vocation; on the other – interesting people for communication, of which everybody was starved. The social enterprise, which was established by the NGO, was interesting, relating to my work; in addition, the organization’s activity was very important. Discovering and solving the problems in the settlement turned out to be interesting for me.

After graduating from school, I first studied at the Ilia State University and later in the Academy of Arts. I believe that it was a step in the right direction, I found the way for me to be able to express my thoughts. At the end of my studies in the Academy, I created my graduation project, represented by 25 white cubes of the same size, containing clay houses. The exhibition is extended by the photos taken from the satellite in Tserovani IDP settlement, before and after the war. Also, Georgian villages that no longer exist.

This is a story of houses without people and people without homes.

The Idea of the work was born during the observation of the IDP settlement. It aims to show the attitude of people who left their homes and what they think about ‘home’ now. In addition, it’s meant to bring the difficulties of forced displacement to light.

The pottery, which is my main job now, has given me the opportunity to express my accumulated emotions and to break free.

Now I’m working on a new project, which is again related to my settlement and the people living there. 2002 pieces of ceramic clay will have an address in Tserovani engraved on one side and on the other the address where these people lived before, before the war. I believe it will simplify communication here in the settlement. On the other side, it will also be a memory of those addresses, which we were forced to leave and when thinking about them, we always ask ourselves – was it apart of our life and were we a part of it?!’’

Author: Nino Gamisonia
Photo: Salome Tsopurashvili
Translation: Mariam Kajrishvili

The post Tamar Berianidze, 26 years old, Akhalgori appeared first on WomenOfGeorgia.

I was 18 years old when I left Sokhumi and moved to Kutaisi to study. I loved the technical subjects and decided to become an engineer. My family, especially my father wanted me to wear a white coat, but iodine and cotton wasn’t exactly my thing. Then they advised becoming a teacher — I could be more at home and meanwhile, get a degree. But I had the ambition to take on something more difficult and prove that despite my gender I could master a “male” profession. 

I knew there was a multi-profile polytechnic university in Kutaisi. I chose the faculty of light industry, with a minor in Leather Technology and Construction. I met my future husband at the University, we got married and I stayed to live in Kutaisi.

I went through the happiest and the most difficult periods of my life in Abkhazia. Sometimes I think if I had a magic eraser, I would remove those tragic times from my memory. But remembering and rethinking the times of war is paramount for seeing historical mistakes. That’s why we have to talk about it.  

On May 9th, 1992 we got a call from Sokhumi that my brother-in-law was wounded at Gumisti bridge and he was flown to Tbilisi by a military plane. My husband and I immediately went to Tbilisi. He lived for 19 days. On May 28th, we flew with the military plane from Tbilisi to Babushera. We buried him in Abkhazia. 

It was almost a month since we left Kutaisi. There was no phone connection. Sokhumi was being bombed intensively. We had to leave Abkhazia immediately to survive. My parents didn’t come with us, first of all, because my brother, brother-in-law, and nephew were fighting and in addition, my father couldn’t imagine leaving his home. Sukhumi will never fall, he was saying and we all actually believed it.

Our family members and relatives, up to 12 people, traveled by foot to Babushera Aerodrome. The road was locked up at Tamishi by enemy forces and maritime routes were dangerous. We walked about 40 kilometers. The small aerodrome of Babushera, like a battled valley, was covered with wounded soldiers, mourning women, children and the elderly. 

I don’t even remember how many days and nights we waited for a plane that could take us to the safe place. It wasn’t like they weren’t flying, but only the parliament members would travel with them back and forth, the military wouldn’t let us near the planes, so we didn’t have any other choice but to wait for salvation. I remember the military cars were bringing freshly baked bread and giving to people, or to put it more precisely, they were just dropping off a pile of bread, which the hungry people swarmed. 

One evening, it was already getting dark when the soldiers finally noticed us and allowed us, only women and children, on the plane. I don’t remember how I got on the plane. As my husband reminisces, I couldn’t manage myself and some soldiers helped me up the airstair deck. Stress has erased my memories of this scene. I remember the fighters on the stretches, the plane full of standing people, never even dreaming about a seat. It was already dark when the plane took off. When we flew over Tamishi, the sky suddenly flashed and I saw two fireballs flying in our direction. We all held our breath. It was the end, I thought; everybody else probably thought the same. We stayed alive by a miracle.  The plane peacefully landed at Tbilisi airport.

Tbilisi seemed like a whole other country. People here were living as usual: On the TV  there were ads for Dubai charter flights, entertainment programs and only short news about the ongoing fight in Abkhazia, somewhere far away. People were living their own lives here, not even knowing what’s happening in the country. We had an existential shock. The bus driver wasn’t going to take us to Kutaisi since we didn’t have enough money. We promised him to pay after arrival. When we arrived home, we heard the neighbors’ children shouting – look at them, they’re alive, they survived!

My parents had to leave Sokhumi. My father believed until the last minute that he was only leaving for a couple of days and would be back soon. He left a little piglet in the yard, saved for his long-awaited grandchild’s birthday, and worried he left it without any food; he hurried to return as soon as possible. Sokhumi fell shortly after. 

We were worried about my brother and brother-in-law. We haven’t heard any news from them. I couldn’t look at my mom’s sorrowful eyes and tried to come home late. She looked in my eyes for answers but couldn’t find any. And then, at one sunrise, I heard voices coming from the yard. I went down to check and saw two muddy men – with strange voices, beards, and rifles in the hands. I could hardly recognize my own kin. They survived. We did too. Father couldn’t endure the pain; he died very soon at the age of 69. 

In our home, in Kutaisi, there lived about 16 refugees from Abkhazia. We lived on humanitarian support and coupons: humanitarian beans, rice, milk powder, egg powder, soap. My husband was leaving at 2 AM to bring some bread. When we prepared dinner, the children ate first, then the elderly and if there was anything left for us, we ate only then. If we had any guests, then all that was left for us was roasted chickpea coffee. 

I remember one spring. Easter was approaching. It was a rainy day and after work, I was going home, by the foot of course. On my way home I went by a ”commercial” shop and bought some eggs. I was happy to let them wrap 20 eggs in a paper bag – I imagined how we’d have 20 real, red eggs this Easter. I walked happily – my wealth in one hand and an umbrella in another. Suddenly, I heard a car braking and a girl screaming. I saw how two boys in military uniforms ambushed a girl and tried pushing her in the back seat of a car. They tried to close the door, but couldn’t get the girl to cross her legs and were beating her with the door. A second girl managed to run away. I instinctively folded my umbrella, ran to the abusive guy, swearing and hitting him as hard as I could. I saw the eggs falling out of the bag one by one. I realized I couldn’t do anything with hands full, freed my hands and pulled on him. I saw the girl wiggle out of his grip and run away. I imagined if someone forced himself upon my daughter like this. The abuser realized his plans were foiled and I was the only one at his hands. He took his rifle and put the barrel firmly against me. I hoped he would only hit me, not kill me. He cursed me and threatened to kill me.  Thank god, the second guy got his head straight, put the other in the car and they fled.

I sat there on the sidewalk; it was raining, but I couldn’t feel anything, my every muscle hurt. I don’t know how long I was sitting on wet asphalt. When I came home, my husband listened closely, his face white in fear. I don’t know who the girl was, but even today I’m happy I was able to save her.

The times were changing fast and an engineering profession became less interesting.

In 2001, I started working in the Public Defender’s Office and in 2002 my friend and partner invited me to work in a newly established NGO.

The Norwegian Refugee Council gave great development opportunities to the Pedagogic Union “Education and The Universe”. We’ve gone through a lot of educational training. It was in 2002 when we first realized the meaning of human rights, informal education systems in the schools, raising the society’s awareness, gender issues and tolerance, feminism and participation, women’s and children’s rights. The participation and engagement of women on all levels. That woman can have their personal space and time for their own interests.

The first training was conducted in conflictology. During the simulation game, we split into groups and I got to play an Abkhazian. I realized that I would have to protect the Abkhazian interests and I found myself empathizing with Abkhazian people and that’s when my aggression and rejection to Abkhazians ended. We’re popularizing peaceful education and fight to restore the trust. Involvement of women and girls in public diplomacy is important.

On all levels of teaching – elementary, secondary and higher education — it’s necessary for the teaching process to be performed democratically, interactively and cognitively.

Children can’t be taught with dictatorial disciplines, but with playing games, cognition and allowing them to express their own opinions.

Today we’re facing new challenges and accomplishment of new ideas. We are planning new projects with the participation of Abkhazian and Osetian partners. We’re promoting peace in education and pursuing the European pro-western teaching methods. Georgia has already made its historical choice and will stay on this course.” 

The post Meri Lobzhanidze, 62 years old, Kutaisi appeared first on WomenOfGeorgia.

Actually, my home is just a few kilometers away from Zugdidi. The distance is small, but the road is so difficult and risky you never knew if you could make it alive. 

As I mentioned, we didn’t have any documents to cross the border legally. That’s why we were choosing the trail through the forest. My aunt lived near the borderline; she was called ”the conductor”. She knew all the trails of the forest and helped Georgians cross the border. She’s been in danger countless times and has even been arrested by the Russians.

Once I looked death in the eyes. It was the 14th of October, 2009. My grandmother, my aunt, my mother, my mother’s friend and I had to go to Zugdidi. I don’t know how Russian border control got the information, but suddenly gunfire has emerged between the Georgians and Russians. We ran back home and hid in the basement. The shooting didn’t stop. In our yard, we had laurel trees and bullets were tearing their leaves apart. The air smelled like laurels. We realized that the gunfire was approaching the house and my aunt warned us there was no point in staying, so we better head to the forest to hide. We ran, but they caught up to us soon. The soldiers were wearing masks; I still remember the feeling to have a gun to my head. It scared me so much that my blood ran cold. I thought it was the end. They didn’t kill us, probably because I was still a kid, but they took us back to Saberio. Every time I go to that place, I feel the bullet in my back and the smell of death – the scent of laurels. Such were the days we, the Georgians living there, went through.

People from Gali are often blamed for not leaving our homes. I don’t think that leaving is the answer. On the contrary, considering what living there on both side of the border costs us, living there, speaking Georgian, it’s our way of protesting. We risked life and limb to stay there. When my classmates gather, we remember what we got through… My father prefers to live in fear and poverty than to leave his home. Aside from that, we have nowhere to go, we don’t even own anything. 

My heart breaks when I hear saying, Galians are not Georgians. In this winter when we were in Gali, my grandfather died. During the funeral, borders were closed due to swine flu. We were isolated for a month, our jobs and all of our resources in Zugdidi, we had nothing to eat and nothing to buy food or medicine with. I remember how we Georgians celebrated when they opened up the borders. To understand what we felt, you have to know how it feels to live between two borders. During this period, I was following people’s reactions on social media and we didn’t feel any compassion. Contrarily, they criticized us, telling us – you reap what you sow. But they don’t know how we struggled to protect our homes. You walk down the street and Russian soldiers are following you everywhere. Even if they put a gun to my forehead nine times, I would still cross the border for the 10th. I love being there, even for a week, breathing that air gives me strength. If we leave those houses, it will be destroyed like the others already are. 

For me as a young adult, it was probably a better decision to move to Zugdidi. I advanced my career. I do polymer pottery, make some bags, jewelry, often participate in different projects, teach the craftsmanship to socially vulnerable women and refugees. I won some grants, among them in ”Enterprise Georgia” and now I have my own workshop. My main source of income is selling the items I make here. Sometimes I get big orders, my husband lends a hand and we together help out parents in Abkhazia.

Usually, we send goods with the bus to the border and they meet it there. Our parents don’t have a farm. Farming is not developed in there, except for hazelnut picking, but in recent years the yields decreased from 3-4 tones to 150 kg. And even that was useless, they weren’t able to sell it.

The youth is in a hard situation. There is no work for them, boys can still find work in brick factories or dams, but there is nothing for girls. I want to teach my handwork to women living in Abkhazia for them to have an additional source of income. However, this idea requires financing, because the materials are costly and they can’t afford that. They can’t move here either since they don’t have any possessions or connections.

It is hard to live between two different places.

The world is cheerful on this side and black and white on the other. People are different too, aged by a hard life. The roads are damaged and the food is twice as expensive. Here, you can do whatever you want. But there, you do as you’re told. Freedom – it’s the word that draws the dividing line between the two worlds.

Author: Maiko Chitaia

Photo: Salome Sagaradze

The post Malo Kotua, 27 years old, Gali district, Saberio/Zugdidi appeared first on WomenOfGeorgia.

It’s hard to remember the story of the Abkhazian war.  First of all, it’s because so many young people died. Young men, who really had their hearts burning and really believed they were fighting for Georgia and its independence. But in reality, we were sacrificed, left there by the government as a fodder. We stayed there until the last minute. Until they got to us and started killing us one by one, we stuck together as one.

On 28th September in the morning, we started walking the Tsebeldi road. We were on the road for 12 days and I got sick in Sakeni. I had a fever of 41 degrees from walking in the rain and snow. I developed pyelonephritis – a kidney infection. Spending those 12 days in Sakeni was terrible, nobody cared for us. Every three days a helicopter dropped bread from the air, but wherever the bread dropped people were fighting for it to the death.

All of our groups were camped. My relatives were coming with me, we were like a family. Once, because of the weather, the helicopter couldn’t fly for three days in a row. We were hungry for three days. Once, I was able to take 6 pieces of bread, ”bricks of bread”, as they were called. Three pieces in one hand and another three in another. 10 people were waiting for those bread… How bitterly I remember that day. Many were left without bread. While going back to my group, an old man I met told me he was hungry for days, asking for the bread; I gave one to another acquaintance of mine too. I got four left, walking back, and I saw an old man with two freezing, barefoot children. Seemed like they left only with their clothes on. He stood there, shaking the child back and forth, and told me the kid was hungry for 5 days. I gave him all four pieces of bread. I got back to my relatives without any bread, but I swear on my only child, I felt so full that day, I didn’t even get hungry. Such were the days I went through.

On this road, there was a 3-kilometer-long hole cut in the road, you’re walking in this hole and all you see is the sky. I told to my niece jokingly, when someone gets lost back in Samegrelo and people think she’s dead already, they mourn a prop instead of her body. So maybe if we didn’t return on time, we’d get mourned the same way too. My niece replied, maybe we’re dead already and we went to hell. We had the feeling we weren’t alive anymore.

Human psychology gets to a point when you think you may not be alive anymore, the horror goes on, you’re going down this alpine road, there’s a dead body and you can’t bury it — the ground’s frozen, and you have nothing to dig with. You pass the body coldheartedly, knowing full well that if you stay, the same fate awaits you, and some sort of a survival instinct helps you get through.

Somehow, I managed to arrive at Jvari, then from Jvari to Zugdidi, from where I wanted to go to Tbilisi, because my wounded sister was there in a hospital, she had been sent from Sokhumi to Tbilisi by an airplane. I wanted to go there and see her, but how would I? The roads were blocked. I went to Poti, from Poti to Batumi and hopped on a bus going from Batumi through the Goderdzi pass to Tbilisi. We had been robbed in Khashuri. The passengers were coming from Turkey, bringing back wares. Some brought shoes, some – dresses… I was already exhausted; not caring about anything anymore, I went down from the bus and asked the robbers what they were doing. They asked me who I was. Told them I was coming from the war, that I had worked in the military hospital; told them not to touch anything and asked where were they taking all this stuff. They told me they were going to bring it all to the homeless children’s shelter. “I saw you take four pairs of shoes; show me a kid with 42-size feet” – I told them. “You can take it only over my dead body”. They took only a few things and left. Now I think fighting for something always makes sense. On the way back everybody blessed me, asking for my address and I had nothing but my name left. I didn’t have a passport or an id card. Do you want to know what I was wearing? The military uniform, which I have retained til now; I had a white doctor’s coat over it. The women traveling with me got me to take them off; one gave me a sweater, and the other – a pair of pants.

“A Home Without Borders”

I’ve always wanted to open a shelter for the elderly. When I saw so many people in the gutter, so many people living in poverty, I knew I had to do something. I have chosen a very symbolic name for this shelter. I don’t recognize any borders — even though it is difficult to communicate with the Ossetian people, I’m there If they’ll need my help.

I got married while in exile and this house in Khurvaleti belonged to my mother-in-law, after her death my husband inherited it. The house was closed since 2008 and we lived in Tbilisi.

Until I opened the shelter, I went to the villages door-to-door, taking a group of volunteers and conducted a census – how many people were living alone, recorded their age, made a list of disabled people, a list of the socially vulnerable, etc. All of this was written down and we created a database. After that, I won a tender to get a social enterprise financed.

The success came after hard work, the project was partially financed by me, I put in material resources  – this huge house, also chairs, tables, beds, mattresses, etc. There were many things from my personal belongs. In addition – 17000 GEL. A funny thing – later, my project coordinator told me that when she read about this project, about the land, house, furniture, and thousands of Lari, she thought this woman was either crazy or a liar.

The shelter is designed for 13 people. Now I have 12 elderly. If someone dies, another one will be transferred.

I buried one old man by myself and it was very hard for me. He was from Gori, with cancer. He was transferred from another shelter, I prefer not to tell its name, they threw him out because of his diagnosis. I couldn’t directly ask him who to contact in case he died, so I asked about any of his relatives in case he fell ill, but he wouldn’t. He died and I was the one who put him in a casket. Then I went through his phone and called a number I found and told them Mr. Tamazi died. Someone answered and told me he didn’t know him. Then I saw a Russian number and I called there too, and that was his niece in Vladikavzkaz. When I informed her about his death, she gave me her mother’s number. And that was exactly the number of the person who told me she didn’t know Tamaz. I called there one more time, and told them Tamaz died and I already took care of everything. She asked if he was buried on a stretcher. I elaborated that he was buried in an appropriate, Christian way and that I have done everything properly, took his body to the church and buried him here, in Khurvaleti. After a number of days the lady came and reburied him in Gori, in their family cemetery.

The elderly arrive for different reasons. Some of them are victims of violence, some of them are homeless, some of them have been thrown out from their homes, some have been thrown out by in-laws; we have such people as well. I have one elder here since the day of establishment. Nobody has left here except by the way of nature.

In the future, I have a strong desire to open a new shelter for people with Alzheimer’s. I’ve already laid out the plans as well. “

Author: Nino Gamisonia

Photo: Nino Baidauri

The post Ludmila Salia, 61 years old, Khurvaleti, Gori municipality/ Sokhumi appeared first on WomenOfGeorgia.

“I was among those who left Sokhumi on the day it fell. I stayed till the end. My brother and son were fighting and how could I leave them?! When we heard artillery shots, we went running to bunkers for shelter. We were not warned [about the danger], we just intuitively knew we had to run and so we ran. We did not lite candles at night to stay invisible so as not to become targets.”

Lia Tchitanava:

“I don’t know when the conflict between the Abkhaz and Georgian people started. It surely did not start naturally. My sister and I both remember how we used to help each other during feasts and funerals, how we stood by each other. Abkhazian friends used to bring food to us during the war time too. They took care of us. When Sokhumi fell, the Abkhaz people took us to the Svaneti road by car: “Don’t go, maybe you can manage to stay at your home; where would you go there?!” Sometimes I think maybe it would have been better if I had really stayed there, in my house. Maybe I would not have spent 25 years in the expectation of the allowances…”

Guli Tchitanava:

“When Sokhumi fell, they came and told us to go. I broke out laughing hysterically; I thought they were joking. I grasped the reality of the situation when I joined the line of hundreds of displaced people on the Tchuberi road, winding on the mountain road like ants. It was September 11, 1992. That’s the “velvet season” in Sokhumi but in Svaneti it was winter. We were walking, wearing sundresses and flip-flops and it was snowing on the road. “Don’t go, maybe you manage to stay at your home. It will be difficult for some time but soon we can overcome the difficulties together,” I constantly regretted rejecting this, when I saw the men and women dying in the endless ant-like line.”

Lia (Tchitanava):

“The fallen were themselves asking to be left on the spot. Everybody was on their own. People were trying to survive and the fact that we had a conscious realization of this was the biggest tragedy of all. Mothers buried their children on the way. There was a woman walking next to me; she was holding a saddle-bag close to her heart for two days. I thought she was keeping food in the bag. She did not speak at all. Later we discovered that she was keeping her dead infant hidden from us in the bag, because she did not want to leave her child in the forest of Tchuberi. The men buried the baby afterwards.”

Guli Tchitanava:
“The men could not stand the difficulty of the road and the emotions. My neighbor Shukri fell off the rock in front of his wife. He could not continue the road and go through that horror. We endured all human tragedies that one can imagine – cold, hunger, death. They used to drop bread from the helicopters but often the packages fell into the unreachable places, in the rocks. The men walked down the rocks to fetch the bread at the risk of their lives. When we finished eating our pieces of bread, we’d find men collecting breadcrumbs from the newspaper and eating them.”

Lia (Tchitanava):

“I could not hold back tears when I watched the shivering men standing in the line for some hot porridge, holding their iron bowls. On the 11th day people met us ready with hot food and warm clothes in Tchuberi. We felt that we were not alone. They told us – “don’t go” – but we were glad that we had left and survived.”

Guli Tchitanava:

“Initially we were settled in the communal shelter in Zugdidi. They promised us to give permanent accommodation but it has already been 25 years and we still have no property. We could not recover [from poverty]. A relative, who migrated to Russia, gave us their house in Anaklia and we have been cultivating their plot for three years already. One day the relatives will return and we will have to leave this place too. With the festivals [in Anaklia] we earn some money. [During the festivals] I work in the local canteen, bake Khatchapuri and then live on that money throughout the year. We have low scores as an indigent family but get only IDP allowance. At some point they told us “you are not our IDPs”, later they even dared to tell us “you are no longer IDPs.” Who are we then? Where are we from? Who do we belong to?!”

Lia (Tchitanava):

“Recently I saw my house on the internet. They have opened a hotel in my house and they rent out rooms for 50 USD. Abkhazians are the owners. I cannot recall when this conflict started between us. It is all political games; we had such a good friendship; we supported each other. They even told us “don’t go.” Maybe I would have had a better life there if I had stayed there, in my house.”

Author: Maiko Chitaia
Photo: Salome Tsopurashvili
Translation: Nino Tlashadze

The post Guli Tchitanava, 68, Sokhumi/Anaklia Lia Tchitanava, 66, Sokhumi/Anaklia appeared first on WomenOfGeorgia.