Dear reader,
I am not writing to you as only a citizen of Georgia. I am a repressed citizen from my own state. I couldn't write this letter for a while as if I gave myself time to get over the fact that my 70-year old mother and my 9-year-old nieces, twins were oppressed, threatened, terrorised in the name of those who should be defending us - the police.
1
At 5 pm, I finished my live broadcast. My office is at the epicenter of the protests. On the sixth floor of the business center, there is an opposition party's office. Masked individuals, with their faces covered and no identifying marks, stormed in—they even delayed the guests of my show.
When I stepped out of the studio, I rushed to the newsroom—what happened?
"Did they arrest everyone?" I asked. There was an unusual silence. Then, some people said, "Something strange is happening to you too." Others said, "I called an ambulance to your mother’s house," and they assigned me a driver. I rushed to my mother.
My mother was showing signs of a stroke, and the children were in shock. When she regained consciousness, this is what she told me:
2
"Around 4:30 PM, there’s a knock on the door (the doorbell is broken). I move slowly because of my radiculitis and ask, 'Who is it?'
The response: 'I’m from the police. We’ve received a report that there’s a gas leak in your building, and I need to check it.'
I replied that I wouldn’t open the door because a gas specialist would come for such an issue.
'Open the door,' the knocking continued.
I asked them to check with the neighbors first, and if they confirmed it was the police, I would open the door. I also warned them that I had children with me. After 2–3 minutes of silence, the knocking turned into loud banging. 'The report is for your side of the building only,' they said, insisting. I never believed it was the police and threatened to call the actual police.
'But I am the police,' the voice shouted, now yelling, 'Open the door immediately, or we’ll break it down.' The deafening banging on the iron door terrified the children, who clung to me. Fearing they’d break the door anyway, I opened it. There were four—or maybe five—I couldn’t see clearly (it turned out to be four). They weren’t in uniforms.
I asked them, 'must all of you come in together?'
'Yes,' one replied, 'we need to check a few places.' He noticed the children and suddenly remarked, 'What beautiful kids!' Then he sternly told the others, 'Only I will enter.'
Feeling a bit relieved, I said, 'You need to wear shoe covers.' He obediently put them on and walked towards the boiler, taking a photo of the meter.
'Show me the gas stove,' he said, moving toward the room, even though the stove was right in front of him. Then he started questioning us:
'Why are the children here?'
'They’re with me - their grandmother.'
'Where do you live?' he asked them.
The twins answered, 'On Vera, Saburtalo, and Nakhalovka,' listing all our relatives’ addresses.
He became particularly interested in the Nakhalovka address. I told him, 'I don’t know exactly; I can find it, though.'
'I’ll tell you,' he said. I couldn’t hear the rest.
Then, his assistant said, 'There’s another report of a gas leak. What’s wrong with Vake?'
I responded, 'This house used to host Zviad (Gamsakhurdia), Merab (Kostava)... What does State Security Service want here?'
I explained that this was the house of Malkhaz Kvanchilashvili’s (my late father) family.
I checked on the children—they were pale.
Meanwhile, one of them showed me an ID and mentioned a name. Deme had quietly written it down, but we couldn’t find anything on them later.
'Can we go down in the elevator for free?' he asked.
I handed them my card roughly as they squeezed into the elevator, all four of them. My gesture conveyed fear, helplessness, and much more.
When I got back inside, I realized I needed to warn everyone—they’ll come for them too. That’s when I discovered I couldn’t speak.
I couldn’t see, but I could hear.
'Why is your nose not straight? Tell me, how do I call the ambulance?' - 9-year-old Deme asked. I mumbled.
Elene called her mom: 'Grandma got sick because of the police.'
Deme called his dad. That's when he said: 'They came to my house', and the children started screaming: 'Dad’s been arrested!' I don’t remember anything after that. I didn’t faint—it was as if I fell asleep."
3
Dear Reader,
In my family, all of us, to some extent—some more, some less—irritate the Georgian Dream government. My sister and brother-in-law, with their activism and social media popularity, probably the most. My mother, Marina, is a protesting teacher. I am an honest journalist. They despise the two of us - one destroys their ideology, and the other is part of an unacceptable class.
So, what did they do to catch multiple "rabbits" at once? Of course, they know exactly where Ana, Saba, or I live. But they followed Ana (my sister) to find out where my mother lives. They came precisely when they knew she’d be alone with the twins.
They’ll probably bother us many more times—especially after Irakli Kobakhidze's announcement that they’re ending cohabitation on all fronts. But they didn’t start with us. They started with a woman who lives alone and whose main purpose in life is her family.
So, dear reader (whoever you are), now you tell me: how can you find justice in a place where your state fights you, treats you as an enemy, and terrorizes you?
20 days since people have hit the streets for permanent protests to keep Georgia on an Euro-Atlantic track, after Irakli Kobakhidze told them, the Georgian Dream would not put the issue of EU integration on the agenda till 2028. More than 500 peaceful protesters have been arrested since then. More than 300 of them subject to torture and inhumane behavior. Not a single police officer has been punished yet.
There are smaller and bigger tragedies in this. Saba (my brother-in-law) has not been arrested, my mom and twins are healing from the experience, Ana and I continue to do what we believe in. There are much, much larger tragedies than ours.
But, dear reader, if you are reading this, hear my voice : 'I’ve lived through terror. Yes, today I can tell you this plainly'.
