Dispatch – February 5: Law-Abiding Citizens
8 Minutes is a Georgian apocalyptic sci-fi short film about humanity figuring out how to spend the last moments of daylight after learning that the sun has gone out. “The light we see right now will disappear forever in several minutes,” a TV presenter warns, as deadly chaos and panic erupt. The people have about 8 more minutes, the time it takes for the last sunray to reach the earth before the eternal darkness falls. There is only one aging Tbilisi magician who keeps his cool, seizing the moment to throw the show of his lifetime and revive the childish astonishment in his now-grown, somewhat estranged scientist son. Abracadabra.
The film was released 8 years ago, back when people still (at least partly) trusted facts. What would it look like if humanity heard the same news today? Most would probably carry on as if nothing happened, while the more rational ones might find themselves in a sort of mental bargaining: whatever their trust in science, it would still be hard to come to terms with looming darkness as long as bright daylight persists.
At least that’s how it looks like in present-day Georgia, where the party in power has long abandoned the constitutional framework, the rule of law has become a joke, and yet people are yet to shed their instinct of obeying new laws designed to destroy them.
Here is Nini and the Dispatch newsletter to tell about Georgians’ struggle to learn how to resist dictatorship – by unlearning the life they once knew.
Rustaveli Blockers
It usually happens around 9 p.m., or some minutes after. The sidewalks in front of the parliament building on Tbilisi’s Rustaveli Avenue grow restless. There is whistling, chattering, and frantic shouting as police prevent demonstrators from occupying the roadway. Groups of activists on opposite sidewalks exchange flashlight signals. It’s easier when there’s a dynamic march heading their way, but that’s not happening very often at this particular time these days.
“Look, the sidewalk is crowded, pedestrians are having trouble moving, we need to occupy the street,” protesters can be heard telling police. But the phrase sounds more like self-reassurance, as the demonstrators try to convince themselves that they are not doing anything wrong. Blocking the road if the turnout is not large enough would expose them to court summons and hefty fines. But for the police, the turnout is never large enough, and the length of sidewalks the protesters can squeeze onto is infinite. No matter how many show up, the cops are there to gaslight you that what you are doing is illegal. The only way is for someone to find the courage to take the initiative.
“Every time you are afraid, think of those who are languishing in jail,” is one of many motivational phrases that have traveled from social media discussions to the minds of activists in recent weeks. “So much for brave, hot-headed Georgians” – pessimistic, self-critical thoughts creep in – “No way the Serbs are better at this” … “Only if we were like France” … “Think of Mzia” – thoughts now go to imprisoned journalist Mzia Amaglobeli, currently in hospital in the fourth week of her hunger strike. “It’s always the same folks blocking Rustaveli Avenue,” some complain.
It’s not that simple. The fine for the offense is GEL 5,000 (USD 1760), having recently been increased tenfold from GEL 500, one of many disproportionate measures introduced by the GD to crack down on freedom of expression (and more are on their way). GEL 5,000 is four times the median Georgian salary in 2023, the last time it was calculated. There are still crowdfunding options (so far), but that doesn’t make it any easier for a decent man to break the law: when they get a call from the court weeks after the alleged act (and many have been getting those calls), some still feel the urge to explain themselves publicly. “You did nothing wrong,” others console.
But that’s hardly helpful for a society whose entire struggle over the past few decades has been to put this stereotypical “hotheadedness” behind them, to make laws and learn to obey them, to become good, law-abiding citizens “like they do in normal countries”, “like they do in Europe”.
Sazmau Battalion
Then, between 9 and 9:30 p.m., someone finally does it — steps onto the street. Others follow with noise and cameras – as if recording it will help them in GD-loyal courts (it won’t). “Go! Go! Help them!” – can be heard from behind, encouraging the reluctant. Soon, Rustaveli Avenue is closed again, an act that has come to symbolize that resistance is still alive. It takes another 30 minutes to an hour for the “Sazmau people” to appear with drums and chants.
The folks of Sazmau – shorthand for Sazogadoebrivi Mautskebeli (Georgian Public Broadcaster (GPB) – are a group of dedicated, often left-leaning activists, intellectuals, and artists who have taken it upon themselves to reorient state-funded television from the ruling party to public. Despite initial successes in getting daily air and coverage of grassroots protests, the channel’s management has changed its mind and resumed broadcasting on its own terms. This, activists fear, leaves out groups and communities desperate to have their voices heard and expose viewers to more GD propaganda.
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When the Sazmau folks are done with their daily rally discussions at the GPB office, they start marching toward Parliament, about three kilometers away. It is during these long walks that the group is credited with coming up with the catchiest protest lines (Fire to the oligarchy! No justice, no peace (*in a way that it sounds authentic)…) and then combining them into a long, energetic chant. And when they held a big rally and march on January 29, the chant was picked up by the rest to become something of an anthem of the current resistance.
But even as “Fire to the Oligarchy” has become a common greeting with which protesters almost replaced “hellos” these days, there is growing concern that the protests still lack the fire it takes to actually burn the claws of the repressive oligarchy.
Highway Walkers
The first major test of this “fire” probably came sooner than many were prepared for. The highway blockade had been ingrained in the minds of protesters since they learned that Serbian activists had done it, and done it well. But soon after Georgians announced a rally with the same purpose, it took a single decree (a predictable but, according to experts, unconstitutional decree) for the GD government to make such an act a crime and expose protesters to up to four years in prison.
Complying meant that those in power would get away with eventually criminalizing any form of protest. Resistance meant jail – and these days, activists are routinely given long prison sentences. On February 2, when demonstrators gathered at the Tbilisi Mall, a designated rally site at the entrance to the capital city, they were met with an unimaginable police presence. The hours of demonstration caused major traffic disruptions, and on several occasions, the highway was briefly blocked.
But the ultimate feeling left by the February 2 rally was not one of success. Some blamed it on a lack of determination, others on a lack of courage, some thought there weren’t enough protesters for such a risky undertaking, and others attributed it to a huge police mobilization. There are many who say that blocking was never the goal, at least not that day. Bargaining continues, and still, dozens have been arrested, eight of whom now face years in prison for simply standing on the highway. Part of the detainees were beaten by the police.
After the exhausting rally, around 7 p.m., a group of demonstrators began a 15 km march from the Mall toward the parliament, in what looked like a walk of desperation, or a walk of perseverance, or a walk of contemplation. Part of them gave up after succumbing to exhaustion. Others, after walking about 10 km, were snatched by the police. The rest continued their 6-hour walk, facing continued harassment and humiliation by police who followed them in vans and pushed them onto often non-existent sidewalks.
(Flash-)Light at the end of the tunnel
It was 1 a.m. when the remaining group finally reached Rustaveli Avenue. Daylight was long gone, and it was thought that the protesters who had blocked the area around the parliament that evening had gone home. But then, as they approached the center, (flash-)lights started appearing in the distance, and sounds of cheering broke the Monday morning silence. People had been waiting, and the meeting between the two groups was one of the most emotional of the past 70 days of protests.
It was probably at that moment that many of us finally realized: the sun may have gone out in Georgia, but we still have flashlights. And maybe one day we will also learn how to make a fire.