INTRODUCTION
In the afternoon before an international flight, the sky – everything – was grey, and the commuter bus was full of students, young people heading toward city centres and shopping centres, meeting at restaurants for dinner and homes where their parents lived. Increasingly the bus became full of airport workers, people whose job it was to clean the seats and the aisles, to staff the check-in counters and the food kiosks. I got off with my bag at Terminal 3, where Richard Serra’s Tilted Spheres was a gateway to the waiting area. The sound of voices, of children and families, was amplified in the centre of this monolithic sculpture, and I wondered at the contrast of heavy, solid steel and the transitory path of people in the departure lounge.
Richard Serra. Tilted Spheres (2007). 4.35 x 13.86 x 12.11 metres overall. Toronto Pearson, Terminal 1, International, Departures
I was on my way to Tbilisi, Georgia – not Georgia, the Peach State, as I had to clarify to more than one person. The protests had been on the news already for several weeks already, and it was an unlikely destination: no one I knew had ever been there, and almost as many didn’t really know where it was located. I had a twelve-hour layover in Munich, which gave me time to explore the Dachau Memorial Site, just twenty kilometers from the airport, tucked in a small town after which the camp had been named. The memorial – including the administration building, the watch-towers, the barbed wire fencing and the crematorium – were all still there. Groups of German high school students listened to guides talk about the impossible cruelty perpetrated by members of the SS. I learned that U.S. soldiers, upon liberating the prisoners in 1945, had made people from the town of Dachau tour the camp, so there could be no denial of what had happened. And the Americans had invested hours – years – prosecuting war crimes during a trial on the very site – hundreds upon hundreds of people from the town had earned their livelihood working for the Nazis. Following the sombre and solemn visit to Dachau, my next stop at the Marienplatz, with its historical Christmas market and festive crowds of people drinking gluhwein, seemed off-key – inappropriate if not downright immoral.
Georgian Museum of Fine Arts, Shota Rustaveli Ave., Tbilisi, Georgia.
MUSEUM COMMUNICATIONS AND CONTEMPORARY ART AUDIENCES IN THE MIDST OF PROTEST
I was heading to Georgia for a conference about museum communications and contemporary art audiences. The conference took place at the Georgian Museum of Fine Arts, a large building on Shota Rustaveli Avenue right across from the Georgian Parliament. During the day we heard presentations by an international mix of museum professionals; at the end of the sessions, when we ducked out to get dinner, the protesters were just beginning to gather. For several nights I walked back from feasts of khachapuri (bread-like pastry with soft cheese), khinkali (dumplings), chkmeruli (chicken in a cream sauce), and wild amber wine, having to thread my way through dark streets packed with protesters to my hotel. I told a conference attendee that I had asked a policeman for an escort, since my hotel was in the protest zone; she looked at me uncomprehendingly, since Georgians don’t really trust the police, and especially now that the police are coming down hard on what she described as Georgia’s ‘freedom fighters.’
What did it mean to fight for one’s freedom, in this context, at a conference attended by Europeans, with representatives from Iran, India and Paraguay as well? Could I, if even for a moment, imagine along with John Lennon that there were no countries? That I could talk and laugh with any one of the conference attendees as if our national identities and politics meant nothing? It was tempting to shelve my apprehensions with these ideas, to conceive of this museum conference as a type of UN-style gathering where differences were addressed in a spirit of international cooperation. It helped that simultaneous translation was provided whenever someone presented in a language other than English. Freedom is good, right? And wasn’t that the thing at stake in these protests?
We heard from representatives from the Georgian Museum of Fine Art, who shared about an exhibition that combined anti-Soviet art from a time when Georgia had been a Russian satellite; the exhibition featured an unidentified bust of Lenin, laying on its side, as a ‘historical fragment.’ April 9, 1989 was the date on which 21 Georgian protesters were killed by Soviet troops, turning the tide on Communism and inaugurating the independent country of Georgia. At the opening reception of the conference, the head of the Georgian Museums Union said, ‘we were fighting for our independence in 1989, and here we are at it again.’ In the past few years, Russia was said to be exercising ‘soft power,’ the results of which brought greater numbers of pro-Russian politicians and policies into government.
I learned during an excursion that had been planned for the delegates that 25% of Georgia was currently under Russian occupation, the result of a Russian provocation in 2008 with military action that claimed the region of Abkhazia. Efforts which were made to preserve the intangible cultural heritage of the peoples living in this region were shared by means of a pop-up exhibition during a break in the conference. Conference attendees from the Ukraine shared images of their museum in Kyiv, which was emptied of all its artifacts, packed for preservation and transported elsewhere for safekeeping. Russian imperialism was not a world away; these individuals, who I could speak to, had witnessed its destruction and were affected – or threatened – by the loss of democratic freedoms. The visual presentation of this reality was convicting – the only appropriate and just response, it would seem, was one of solidarity.
The protests in Georgia had been precipitated by an election at the end of October, widely denounced by European and Western observers for electoral irregularities such as ballot stuffing and intimidation. The new government passed legislation restricting the political freedom of institutions, and pressed pause on the country’s EU aspirations, postponing EU candidacy talks until 2028. Several Georgians at the conference professed that belonging to the EU was written into their country’s constitution, and almost everywhere the Georgian flag flew it was paired with the flag of the EU. Before I left for Georgia, I understood that many Georgians were interested in drawing closer to Russia for the sake of peace, and I envisioned I would learn something about balancing principles with pragmatism. But the anti-Russian sentiment was real amongst the Georgian conference attendees, and the force with which they held to this had the character of a moral argument. Amongst those attending the protests, members of the press wore helmets and protective gear, since the rumour was that Russian thugs were beating up journalists, and that Russian reinforcements were brought in to help the police. When a few of us ventured into the streets one evening to witness the protests, I found myself deeply uncomfortable with how close the peaceful demonstration was to violence and chaos. For myself, the unspoken question was: when will this become a revolution?
Protestors Gathering on Shota Rustaveli Ave,, Saturday, December 7, 2024.
ARCHAEOLOGY AND FAITH IN GEORGIA
Georgians were proud of their country. The head of the National Museum gave a keynote address at the beginning of the conference which described the archeological basis for national marketing ‘brands.’ For example, the archaeological evidence pointed to a very early viticulture presence in Georgia, leading to the intentional presentation of the country as a ‘cradle of wine.’ Aside from the fact that a majority of current varietals had historical routes in Georgian vines, Georgians had for thousands of years been making what is now known as ‘wild’ wine with environmental yeasts using clay fermenting vats buried in the ground. ‘Amber’ and ‘wild’ wines were routinely featured on restaurant menus, and the selection and quality of wine was excellent. A Soviet era 65-metre aluminum monument had been erected in Tbilisi featuring ‘Mother Georgia,’ holding a glass of wine in one hand and a knife – for protection – in the other. Wine was a symbol of the sophistication of Georgian culture, whose historical depth rivaled the Greeks.
Vani Archaeological Museum, Vani, Georgia.
Speaking of the Greeks, we were also to learn about a pagan settlement in the town of Vani, historically part of an area known as Colchis. In the 5th and 6th century B.C., high-ranking members of the society there had been buried in richly furnished graves. We visited a museum with lavish displays of gold, clay vessels, armour, jewelry, sculpted figures and other items which had been found in excavations of the hills surrounding the museum. Aside from underscoring a unique link between the geographic origins of these archaeological finds, a tour of the excavation sites – on a hilltop directly across from the museum, accessible by a suspension bridge – showed that the pagan ritual cultures of Colchis had given way to Greek religious influences. An altar site dating from the 3rd and 2nd century B.C. was exposed – we could walk on it – and stone vessels used for pressing wine and making oil were littered across the landscape. Homes were there too: part of the dance was in getting permission from property owners to access these sites where artifacts were likely to found. The archeological museum had won international awards almost annually since it was built.
Ritual Grave Furnishings, ca. 5th century B.C., Vani, Georgia.
Historically, Colchis had been renowned for being rich in gold, and the ritual burials demonstrated that. The Greek myth of Jason and the Argonauts, who set off to distant lands in search of the golden fleece, had a historical, evidentiary basis in Colchis. Actually, the story was that residents of Colchis had submerged sheepskins in the water of the rivers to catch flakes of gold drifting in the current. With the Greeks came classical sculptures and ritual vessels: incredibly refined lamps and statues had been found in a hoard that had been buried in expectation of an invasion. Weapons, including the iron head of a battering ram, and spherical stones meant to be used with a catapult, were also found there. Some of these artifacts had a modern, contemporary sensibility, as if they could have been made today by creative craftspeople. The level of detail and the refinement of the artistry was remarkable.
On our way out to the archaeological museum we went through Gori – infamous for being the birthplace of Stalin – and stopped at Mtskheta Church of Holy Cross, perched high on a hill overlooking the convergence of two rivers in the valley below. This church was built between 586/7 and 604/5, when Georgia became Christianized following the conversion of their king and queen. The story I heard is that a missionary prayed for the queen, on account of the fact she was quite ill, and that she recovered – becoming a Christian in the process. She then persuaded her husband to adopt the faith and, decreeing that Georgia was to turn away from pagan religions toward Christianity, they erected a wooden cross at the top of the hill we were standing on. The church was built around the cross, the wooden stump of which had been preserved by the monks who worshipped here. The church was closed, unfortunately – our guide explained that the monks liked to sleep in from time to time – but the walls and silhouette of the church seemed to boldly protrude from the historical context, fueling the imagination.
Mtskheta Church of Holy Cross, built between 586/7 and 604/5, Mtskheta, Georgia.
The excursion did allow for us to witness one service, an evening mass at Bagrati’s Cathedral in Kutaisi. The gorgeous sounds of polyphonic music echoed off the stone walls, which were lined with dozens upon dozens of icons. Richly dressed clergy officiated, blessing one another with words and incense, while worshippers lit candles, observing from a distance – there were no pews or chairs to speak of. The building, about 1,000 years old, had been designated as a cultural heritage site by the UN; we were told by our guide that it had been removed from the list following a restoration. Outside, ancient walls surrounded the church and a grassy field gave way on the northwest side to views of the city, beyond and below, framed by the setting sun and the Caucasus Mountains beyond.
Bagrati’s Cathedral, built 1003, Kutaisi, Georgia.
I learned two words in the Georgian language: Gamarjoba, meaning hello, or victory to you; and madloba, meaning, thank-you. The Georgian alphabet consisted of 33 characters, including 5 vowels, and was unique amongst languages, allegedly sharing no resemblance in terms of its origins or character to any other languages. The people I asked routinely spoke a few words of English, but the Georgian language seemed difficult to learn – impossible, even. We were given to understand that there was a rich literary culture in Georgia, at least historically, when salon-type events hosted by Ilia Chavchavadze and his wife in Tbilisi brought together people of many different convictions for conversation. Chavchavadze himself was a public and political figure, an education reformer, and a poet, occupying a house in whose basement was a newspaper printer, and whose one floor also served as a type of hospital for people who could not otherwise afford health care. This home, in fact, was preserved as a museum, showcasing both the contemporary and historical ways that the Georgian language was at the centre of cultural life. For our guide, Chavchavadze was more than a historical figure; he was actually a hero, raising the value of freedom over that of life itself. This was evident in the circumstances surrounding his assassination and, in assuring us of its basis in historical fact, the guide helped us to catch a glimpse of what was at stake in the protests.
In short, the key to understanding the protests didn’t just boil down to the geo-political context. The tricky thing to understand is that independence cannot simply be reduced to a particular configuration of government, or to a particular position on a critical policy issue. A number of people spoke about how they or their family members were involved in the April 1989 protests. Invoking this experience was more than just about establishing their credibility to speak on an important topic. It was about establishing their independence alongside the independence that Georgia enjoyed as a result of April 9. April 9 was the beginning of a story in which Georgia could actually be part of the European Union, a story in which they enjoyed the same democratic freedoms that were enjoyed in the West. With the sham election in October, this story was coming to an end. The protests were fighting for the beginning of another story; the question was not about when Georgia would become part of the EU. The question, instead, was about finding freedom in this new story, and the concessions that would be made in the name of independence. This wasn’t my fight, but it certainly invited questions about the nature of the independence that a person might otherwise take for granted.
CONCLUSION
In fact, the Georgia people impressed me with their warmth, their generosity, and their impeccable hospitality. Before I had arrived in Georgia, my hunch was that this experience would teach me something about balancing principles and pragmatism. Thus, when I thought of the protests, I had something else in mind – something like the WTO protests that occurred in Seattle when I was a university student in 1999. This was the time when, perhaps, I could have been persuaded to join a protest, when the physical experience of resistance would have been a key to my intellectual development. But then, as now, I had risked a lukewarm response to the protests; on the one hand, I liked the idea of freedom; on the other, I had been so conditioned for personal comfort and safety that I couldn’t imagine a type of independence that was worth fighting for. Had I become complacent – or even, a coward? I thought of Revelation 6, where John describes the lukewarm acts of the church in Laodicea; neither hot nor cold, it was good for nothing but to be spit out. This is certainly not the kind of attitude one can take in the face of an imperialist neighbour like Russia, and in their bold claim on independence, the Georgians had actually taught me about how coming out strong was a risk worth taking. This is what I brought back with me. For their sake, I hoped it made a difference.
Reflecting on my trip a month or two later, I concluded that independence has two faces. On the one hand, no one can be truly independent, even in a Western country which enjoys many types of rights and freedoms, since any individual person lives in relationships of accountability and responsibility to others. Relationships with our families, friends, colleagues, fellow church members, and neighbours all involve expectations of reciprocity, generosity, consideration and care. We ignore the demands these relationships place on us at our peril. On the other hand, independence is the result of work and choice, and though this tends to look a lot like freedom, its public bearing invites questions and possible disagreement. In Georgia, saying ‘no’ to Russian-style laws was about preserving the conditions for both these types of independence. Extrapolating from my own case, the existential evidence appeared to suggest that people, without exception, must answer to someone – or something. Independence, then, is the character of how a person deals with that truth.
Timothy deVries: February 17, 2025