‘Protests took a lot from us, but gave just as much’: how Georgians’ lives were reshaped by resistance
Monologues of Georgian protesters
For over 220 days, dozens — and sometimes hundreds of thousands — have taken to Tbilisi’s main thoroughfare, Rustaveli Avenue, blocking it every evening. The protests have continued without pause since 28 November 2024, enduring winter cold, long spring rains, and the summer heat.
Demonstrations are taking place not only in Tbilisi, but also on the main streets of Batumi, Akhaltsikhe, Zugdidi, Kutaisi, and Gori. In Martvili, a town in the Samegrelo region, a protester named Mzia Gabeshia has held a solo protest every day since 28 November.
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Continuous protests in Georgia began on 28 November 2024, after Prime Minister Irakli Kobakhidze of Georgian Dream announced that Georgia was suspending its EU accession talks until 2030.
This came a month after the parliamentary elections held on 26 October. The results of that vote were disputed by the opposition, civil society, and Georgia’s international partners, citing evidence of falsifications and serious violations during the electoral process — including breaches of ballot secrecy.
However, the roots of Georgia’s ongoing protest movement run deeper. It all began when the Georgian Dream government introduced the “Law on the Transparency of Foreign Influence”, which the opposition labelled “Russian” due to its resemblance to Russia’s foreign agent legislation. The government’s first attempt to pass the bill in spring 2023 failed following mass demonstrations. The second attempt in spring 2024 succeeded — despite equally large-scale protests.
The current wave of resistance unfolds amid a backdrop of growing repression: over 50 protesters are now behind bars, including actors, teachers, musicians, doctors, and poets. For the first time in Georgia’s history, a female journalist — Mzia Amglobeli — has been imprisoned. Opposition leaders have also been sentenced to jail.
For many, protesting has become a part of daily life — a “second job”, as some of the more active demonstrators put it. And this new routine has upended the lives of many.
JAMNews asked several participants of the ongoing protests in Tbilisi and across the regions to share how their lives have changed over the past year.
Nino Bekishvili, philologist and translator, Tbilisi
“I feel awkward writing about my personal story when so many people have been unlawfully imprisoned, and their loved ones are spending sleepless nights on Rustaveli Avenue without any support. On the other hand, our personal tragedies are part of a greater national tragedy — one that few people truly recognise or critically reflect on. If they did, things would be different.
Since 27 October (after the parliamentary elections — JAMNews), I’ve been mourning and protesting at the same time, in whatever way I can. At first, I felt deeply ashamed and blamed myself. I don’t anymore.
If we don’t draw a clear line between ourselves and the executioners, we are the ones who will suffer. If there is an executioner, then there must be a victim. And for the first time, I feel like a victim — it’s a painful and unfamiliar feeling.
After five months of standing outside every evening — and sometimes during the day — I realised I couldn’t change reality and was dying of boredom. So I decided to go see the ballet Giselle. Giorgi Potskhishvili was dancing, and I was curious what kind of Albrecht he would be. The performance started at seven, and I told myself I’d leave the moment the curtain fell — I felt ashamed to walk out with the rest of the audience.
It was already dark and raining. I walked toward parliament, crying. The tears came on their own — I don’t even know why. Probably out of despair and the dissonance I saw so clearly and chose to become part of. On one side — the protests; on the other — relaxed, carefree people, a familiar, beloved setting that somehow felt foreign.”
“But who goes to the opera now? These days it’s ordinary people standing in the streets — artists and audiences alike. As I passed the museum on Rustaveli, I pulled out my ‘gear’: a theatre mask, a hat, and a regular face mask. Standing on Rustaveli in a mask feels unbearably bleak. It’s offensive to have to protest while hiding your face — but it’s still better than not protesting at all.
I didn’t speak to anyone on Rustaveli. I stood there alone for two hours, crying. Probably for myself, and for my country. And I’m not usually someone who cries easily. It was just that kind of day.
On other days, standing on Rustaveli or outside the Public Broadcaster has had a therapeutic effect on me. It’s better to act badly than to be idle badly. Many of us who protest don’t make huge efforts — but the indifference and fear of others nullifies even what little we do. There should be many of us — but there are so few.
The ‘Russian law’, masked as the American FARA, has already come into force, and none of us knows what will happen next. A group of tourists, who also don’t seem to know what to do, walk past, trying not to notice the protests on the street.
I may no longer have a job. But one thing I know for sure: I cannot leave Georgia. I don’t know how to live anywhere else. I know that in countries like ours, people grow silent. But I can’t imagine being silent. So I’ll protest for as long as I can. Let them arrest me — I’ve read enough about the Gulag and prisons to know it’s possible to survive.
So many things break my heart — but most of all, the indifference of the youth and students. What gives me hope and strength is meeting so many bright and brave young people. I want to stand beside them and speak to them at rallies.
Regimes aren’t eternal. They end — usually in catastrophe for the executioners. That’s what I hope for most.”
(Nino Bekishvili sent us this text before her family member, the poet Zviad Ratiani, was arrested — JAMNews)
Guram Matskhonashvili, director, Tbilisi
“In December, I developed an amusing evening routine: after coming home from the protests, I would wash the toxins from the water cannons off my skin and clothes, then lie down and read. I reread many books, but soon realised that the works of the 1920s suited my state of mind the most.
Later, I moved on to more recent texts and came across this line from Akaki Bakradze: ‘These people created a society where everything is turned upside down: evil is called good, immorality — morality, betrayal — civic duty, spiritual adultery — consciousness, laziness — common sense, slavish obedience — order, a mixture of theft, fraud, and bribery — labour, lies — honesty, sycophancy — integrity, lack of principles — principles, hatred — love.’
Reading those words, I was once again struck by the power of language as a weapon. And how much more skilfully regimes use it than ordinary people. Propaganda strikes its target more accurately than art. It is only through the chaotic language of propaganda that two realities emerge — two truths, two Georgias. The ‘silent ones’ live in the second reality, continuing their everyday lives and routines, unaware that the more they try to expel politics from their lives, the deeper it will burrow into them.”
When a political system becomes totalitarian, it first seeps into everyday life — into the streets, homes, beauty salons, schools, public transport, shops, cafés — and drives out peace and calm from these spaces. That’s what has happened with Georgia’s political prisoners.
In The Divine Comedy, Dante Alighieri treats numbers with obsessive devotion and writes with manic symmetry from beginning to end. All 33 cantos end with the word ‘stars’.
The first letter from political prisoner Mate Dvalidze, sent from prison, read: ‘We are lighting up your hearts by joining the little stars.’
At his most recent hearing, as he was leaving the courtroom, he said:
‘[I go] in search of light in endless darkness.’
The 34th canto of the Comedy ends with the line: ‘And then we came forth, once more to see the stars.’
I prefer a more direct translation: ‘We would scream in the dark before we ever saw the stars.’
We are already in the dark — it’s time to see the stars. Whatever it costs, we must see the stars. Stars and freedom.
We never quite know what we mean when we talk about freedom, but in recent years, the regime has helped me narrow down my own definitions to just one: freedom is time.
And for now, the Bolt app keeps insisting I add Agmashenebeli Lane 64 — the address of the Tbilisi City Court — to my Favourites, because I go there so often.”
Taya Makharashvili, public policy specialist, former civil servant, Tbilisi
“In May last year, I was a jury member for the Technovation Girls 2024 competition, reviewing the projects of incredibly talented high school girls. Meeting these young women filled me with pride and gave me hope for the future. Technovation Girls is a global educational programme aimed at fostering leadership skills in teenage girls through technology.
The project was implemented in Georgia by the organisation Techdro, until the adoption of the ‘Russian law’ made its continuation impossible. A programme that gave 500 girls each year invaluable experience, support, and a belief that the future belonged to them — can no longer go ahead.”
Exactly a year after that moment, much in my life has changed. I was dismissed from my job for signing an open letter — a letter in which I, along with other civil servants, opposed the suspension of Georgia’s European integration.
It was the first time in my life that I filed a lawsuit. The first time I found myself without an income. The first time I’ve spent time at rallies with my young children.
In recent years, like many others, I switched to online shopping. One day, instead of clothes, I ordered a masquerade mask — and laughed at what seemed like a strange but strangely necessary purchase.
I’ve lost all interest — not in the struggle, but in the little things of life. As if everything we women are supposed to want has become irrelevant to me: new makeup, a pretty dress, dyeing my hair. One of my recent purchases was a pair of khaki military-style trousers — and I love them. The whole country feels like a barracks now — myself and my fellow citizens included.
Last year I was saving up to renovate my home. That plan has been shelved. With the severance compensation I received after my dismissal added to my savings, I’ve decided to spend it on my children and urgent needs — at least until I find a stable job.
I’m not broken in spirit. My disinterest in everyday things doesn’t mean I’m depressed. I just can’t enjoy myself in a café knowing I’d feel much better standing among like-minded people on Rustaveli.
What worries me is how hard it is for me to focus on self-development now — even though it used to be my priority. I want to avoid losing that completely.
I think I’m more of a ‘crisis person’. Most people feel helpless when their plans fall apart. But I’ve never been one to make plans. I’m not someone who books a plane ticket six months in advance. That’s why I look to the future with a calm heart, trusting that what has knocked us down cannot last forever. Everything has its time.
I’ve never worked by deadlines — and now, more than ever, I’m waiting for something that can change everything in an instant. History remembers such moments. Now it’s our turn to fight for a future in which Georgia is truly free, independent, and developed.”
Tsiala Katamidze, activist, Batumi
“Just over a year ago, my life was completely different. I lived an ordinary life. For many years I worked in various civil society organisations, in the Office of the Public Defender, I was a civil servant, a lecturer, a reservist in the Ministry of Defence…
Alongside all of that, I tried to be a conscientious citizen, understanding my rights, duties, and responsibilities. Then came the ‘Russian law’ — first passed, then repealed, then passed again. And after that, so many other things followed.
Many of them changed my life. Everything around me shifted — except for my civic integrity. You know why I mention this? Because my state fined me — twice. A law-abiding citizen who hadn’t broken a single rule in 37 years. Once, for allegedly calling the police ‘slaves, pigs, and Russian thugs’. No evidence was ever provided. And a second time, for placing a sticker on the pavement that was said to ‘spoil the city’s appearance’. I was also removed from the reservist list and accused of breaching contract.
But this story is nothing compared to the hell that political prisoners are enduring. Difficult times lie ahead — in many ways, it’s going to be extremely hard…
I don’t think I can say anything the reader of this text hasn’t already thought at least once. Sometimes I feel optimistic. Other times I feel utterly defeated. Sometimes I’m overwhelmed by rage and helplessness, or fear and disappointment. And sometimes I feel nothing at all, moving through life on autopilot. But I do know this: I’m standing in the only place where I won’t feel ashamed of myself — of my past or my future.
That place is the intersection of Gamsakhurdia Street and Memed Abashidze Street, outside the Constitutional Court, where protesters are telling the world that Georgian Dream rigged the election, jailed dozens of innocent people, and is the enemy of our country’s past, present, and future!
It doesn’t matter how powerful they are, how well-coordinated, how endless their financial or other resources may be. How can people who act so immorally, who have built such bleak prospects for the country, possibly be stronger than us? However uncertain our situation may be, however often our resistance falters — how can they outmatch us?
Truth is truth, lies are lies, facts are facts. Where there is truth, there we are. No matter how corrupt those on the other side are, no matter how weak we may seem, our ally is truth — and truth will steady and strengthen us. Truth will help us win this war. We have no other weapon — not now, not ever.”
Elene Kaikhosroshvili, human rights defender, Tbilisi
“My life has changed so much that I barely remember what it used to be like. I don’t mean the protests, the new routine, or the political prisoners. I’m not saying everything was turned upside down and that I lost it all.
What changed were my priorities. Things that used to be rules to live by — or things I thought were important — no longer are. Pressure and the fear of loss forced me to focus on what truly matters.
We often talk about what the protests have taken from us. Yes, they took a lot — but they also gave just as much. My circle of communication changed. Or rather, I changed emotionally. Rage and other so-called “negative” emotions aren’t always bad. It was resentment and anger that pushed me to make the right decisions.
If someone doesn’t see value in fighting for the country and the society that raised them, I don’t want anything to do with that person. If someone thinks it’s acceptable not to stand by me in hard times — emotionally or physically — that’s not a “difference of opinion”; that’s rejection. Of me. And it’s painful — but inevitable.
Compared to that, the fact that I can’t buy a new dress, books, or other things seems irrelevant. Nothing I’ve lost this past year can break me. What I’ve lost has already been replaced by things that match my current priorities more.
There’s no greater ‘adventure’ than participating in the protests. I don’t romanticise what’s happening — but for me, it’s an experience that’s broadened my perspective. I observe the world around me more deeply than ever. I’ve discovered new interests and a stronger motivation to take care of myself. I couldn’t have gained this view of life any other way.
Of course, it hasn’t come without cost — I’ve spent a huge amount of emotional energy. But none of it was wasted. Should I have spent it on something else? On something more important than protesting for my wellbeing and the protection of my rights and opportunities? Do you think this energy is gone forever, never to return? Of course not!
I’ve gained enormous resilience — and I’ll use it for everything that matters to me. Today, that means protesting. Tomorrow, it will mean something else.
My family went through all this with me. They came to my court hearing. They saw that I wasn’t exaggerating when I, say, used strong language on social media. After all we’ve been through, they’ve stopped criticising the way I speak about what’s going on. They’re still worried — but they no longer ask me to ‘calm down’.
It’s not me making my parents anxious. It’s the brutal regime of Georgian Dream. And I have a role to play in ending that regime.”
Archil Todua, regional coordinator for Transparency International Georgia, Zugdidi, Samegrelo
“Greetings, friends — today marks another day of continuous resistance in Zugdidi…” That’s how I begin my speeches at the ongoing protests here, where each day I reflect on the high price we are paying for freedom — and just how vital this struggle is.
In 2024, I took part in 48 straight days of protest against the ‘Russian law’. Since 28 November 2024, 224 days have passed — and throughout all this time, we have been protesting against injustice, the erosion of democracy, and the rise of authoritarianism in our country. This is a pivotal chapter in my life — not only as a citizen, but as a parent, a professional, and someone who truly believes in a better future for Georgia.
My motivation is both simple and powerful. This is my homeland, which I love deeply — and these are my three children. I want them to grow up and live in a free, democratic, and European Georgia — a country where human rights are protected, power serves the people, and politics is free from corruption. With that vision in mind, I have stood — and continue to stand — in the streets, protesting alongside my fellow citizens.
That same motivation guided me when I monitored the parliamentary elections in October 2024 — elections which, unfortunately, were rigged and failed to reflect the will of the Georgian people.
Yes, I’m tired. Standing outside through rain, snow, and heat is not easy — but that exhaustion is a price worth paying for freedom.
I do not expect defeat. No one has ever won a battle against their own people — and they won’t now. Because the people’s struggle comes from love, responsibility, and faith in the future.
I am certain Georgia will return to its European path. Our strength lies in truth and unity. Zugdidi has stood, is standing, and will continue to stand guard for freedom — alongside Tbilisi, Batumi, Kutaisi, and other cities fighting for liberty. I believe we will build a better country — for our children and for all.”
Dodi Kharkheli, digital communications specialist, Tbilisi
“When people ask how I’m doing, I have one answer: ‘Better than ever!’ And every time I say that, they smile and nod: ‘Yeah, me too.’ No matter how bad things get, they’ll never be worse for me than for a servant of the regime — someone who lives in fear, invents excuses, walks the streets with bodyguards, and holds their breath in the airport. Even abroad, they worry someone will call out and name them a traitor.
So why should I feel bad? I’m doing something I truly believe in. I’m surrounded by people I trust more than I trust myself.
The protest has changed my daily life. These days, I mostly meet friends on Rustaveli or at marches. I’ve distanced myself, more or less, from those who don’t take an active part in the resistance. I have two children and a civic duty — I simply don’t have time for other kinds of socialising. So I’ve made new friends and reconnected with old ones.
Every day, I decide who I’ll be that evening: a mother or an activist. Will I stay at home with my kids or head to Rustaveli Avenue? On the days I can’t go out, I create or share content about the resistance — trying to do something, anything, to help the movement.
Someone once asked what makes me most angry, and I had only one answer:
I will never be this young, this beautiful, this energetic, and this strong again. My children will never be this little again. The regime is stealing time from me — time I will never get back.
My lost time is nothing compared to the years lost by prisoners of conscience, but I’m still furious.
For the first few months, I was entirely consumed by the protest — but I soon realised I couldn’t keep going like that forever. I began taking care of myself: setting aside time for exercise, rest, and being with my children.
In early December, uniformed police officers detained me outside my child’s kindergarten. They then searched my home and confiscated all my electronic devices. The night before, we’d been planning to buy a new chair and place it beside the sofa. We still haven’t bought it. Every time I think about ordering one, I remember that stressful day. But I will buy it — because I want my home to be more comfortable. I’m not going anywhere.
I’ve thought a lot about how all this will end — both the best and worst-case scenarios. And what comforts me most is that I’ve found an answer: even if the protests end tomorrow, the resistance won’t. Even under the Soviet Union, people found ways to resist. There will be an underground press — and I’ll be the one printing leaflets.
If I end up in prison, I’ll send letters from there. Others will raise the flag in my place. Even if I’m the last one standing, I’ll still be home. I don’t need to count heads — not on Rustaveli, not anywhere. I am here — and for me, that’s enough.
Covid already destroyed my long-term plans once. Now, I know what I’m doing for the next week — after that, we’ll see. The unknown used to make me anxious, but now I’ve learned to ride the waves. It’s been a hard year, but I’m grateful for it. I’ve stared down all my fears — and I’m ready for whatever comes.”
Tamuna Uchidze, regional coordinator for Transparency International Georgia, Akhaltsikhe, Samtskhe–Javakheti
“I often say that the world around me will never be the same since the adoption of the ‘Russian law’. By ‘world’, I mean the society I live in. I can no longer maintain relationships with childhood friends and relatives who support this law. Of course, I still love them. But when people I’ve known for years, who see the work I do, still agree with Georgian Dream that I should ‘stop’… how can we speak of friendship?
If they’re able to look at the corruption within Georgian Dream — at, say, the asset declaration of the mayor of Akhaltsikhe — and still believe that the problem lies with me, then our relationship simply cannot remain the same.
This isn’t just a matter of differing opinions anymore. We are at war with Russia — a force that’s taking our country, our beloved work, our people, and our freedom from us. And somehow, these people have ended up on the side of the enemy. It’s incredibly painful.
Since the elections, I’ve lost all interest in music. I can’t listen to it anymore. Every day, I witness so much injustice that I’m overwhelmed with rage. When I see how Georgian Dream is tormenting people, dragging our country closer to Russia and further from Europe, I feel I have no choice but to resist and fight.
Yes, what’s happening now is crushing — but I’m convinced that we’re at a decisive moment in our country’s history. If we surrender to Russia now, our country — at least my generation — will be in chains for years to come. That realisation has changed me. I no longer have time for polite diplomacy.
Transparency International hasn’t paused its work for a moment. I continue to expose corruption schemes. For six months now, we’ve been out on the streets of Akhaltsikhe, protesting the Russian regime — and at the same time, I’ve been investigating how the mayor of Adigeni is funnelling public funds to friends and family through state procurement. It’s because of these investigations that the regime wants to silence and destroy us. I’m terrified of Russia. I can’t live in Russia.
What frightens me most is the possibility that I’ll have to leave the country — that I might never see my mother again, or my seven-year-old nephew Sandro, who, in a few years, could be conscripted into the Russian army.
I don’t even want to imagine that kind of hell. That’s why I cannot hand over my country to Russia. I cannot imagine giving up Georgia — the country we have worked so hard to build.”
