Georgians on Abkhaz Border Feel Abandoned
In the bullet-holed village of Khurcha, victims of August war say central government has forgotten them.
Georgians on Abkhaz Border Feel Abandoned
In the bullet-holed village of Khurcha, victims of August war say central government has forgotten them.
The village of Khurcha lies just seven kilometres away from Zugdidi, a town in western Georgia – but the road leading there is in such as poor state that the journey takes much longer than it ought to.
Once visitors get there, after crossing the bridge over the Inguri River and passing the Georgian police post, the village presents a gloomy sight, with bullet-riddled facades, lopsided roofs, broken windowpanes and fields yellow with uncut wild grass.
Khurcha lies right on Georgia’s administrative border with the breakaway region of Abkhazia, adjoining the Gali district, the only part of Abkhazia with a mainly Georgian population.
The appearance of an unknown car causes a stir at the local hangout, where villagers gather to discuss politics or simply share family news.
Journalists are rare guests, and, pleasantly surprised, locals folk vie with one another to play the role of hosts.
Shorena, a young woman, opens a cellophane bag she holds in her hands. “All my clothes and documents are in this bag,” she said. “I keep it in readiness, in case I need to flee from the village.”
That eventuality is not as far-fetched as one might think. “Three nights ago, they started shooting from there,” Shorena said, pointing towards the neighbouring village of Nabakevi, controlled by the Abkhaz authorities.
“We thought a war had started again. I don’t know where we ran; our only wish at that moment was to leave the border as far behind us as possible.
“We ran for two kilometres, finally reaching our relatives’ place, where we spent that night.
“This was not the first and, I’m afraid, not the last time such a thing has happened. We feel refugees in our own village.”
Shorena’s home is especially exposed. It is the last house in the village, divided from the border only by a rivulet that flows all year round, never freezing, even after severe frost.
The small courtyard in front of her home is neat and tidy, with lush green grass and blooming yellow daffodils.
Such well-groomed courtyards are a common sight in the village. “That’s our culture,” explained Shorena. “We like it when our courtyards are beautiful and neat.”
But the wooden cottage is hardly fit to live in. Bullet holes are visible in the walls – a trace of the last year’s fighting.
The rooms have no wooden flooring and the roof badly needs mending.
“In winter, wind blows through the bullet holes, and it’s no use then stoking up the wooden stove,” said Shorena. “When it rains or snows outside, sitting here is almost the same as being out in the open.”
Her small children now stay with relatives in Zugdidi. For herself, Shorena has remained in the village to take care of her small plantation of hazelnuts. Like many people in Khurcha, her family depends on such crops for survival.
Shorena and her neighbours say they have repeatedly asked the authorities for help – but in vain.
“After the August war, we thought they’d help us but this hope has since died,” Mzia Toria said.
“One of my neighbours went to the local authorities and they gave him two slate tiles to repair the roof of his house. We’re ignored.”
The deputy head of the Zugdidi district authority, Darejan Gabedava, denies negligence, saying only two villagers have applied to them for aid.
“One is Zaur Toria whose house the Abkhaz used for their headquarters in the August war,” she said.
“This man took our experts to his place, they evaluated the damage he’d suffered, and soon we will help him.
“We have already given the other [villager] a one-off payment of 100 lari (60 US dollars). As for other affected villagers, we know nothing about them.”
Khurcha suffered badly in the August conflict. A large portion of the population has since left to live elsewhere.
All houses in the village bear bullet marks and many have inscriptions in Russian or Abkhaz, which are still discernible despite the villagers’ efforts to erase them.
“The Abkhaz set up their headquarters in my house,” said Mzia. “When I returned, I found obscene words addressed to the Georgians written on the walls. We’ve never been able to completely wipe them off.”
On the door of Nelli Mamasakhlisi’s house, a human figure has been drawn. The multiple nicks in the wood suggest it served as a knife-throwing target.
“They must have been testing their marksmanship skills by throwing knives at the figure,” the woman mused.
“They took away whatever hazelnut stocks my neighbours and I had kept in our houses. Their tanks devastated our fields, sparing little of the crops that we had had no time to gather.
“This is what happened to the families who left the village. Those who stayed say they escaped damage. It turns out that I shouldn’t have fled.”
Apart from difficult living conditions, there is also a problem over transport.
Shorena says that just before the May 21 parliamentary election last year, the authorities pledged to allocate a bus service. “But this turned out to be just another of their stunts,” she said.
“A bus service operated here for two months but then it was cancelled.
“I remember [President] Mikheil Saakashvili coming here when he was still the minister of justice. He promised us the moon and the stars but has forgotten all about us. Let him come here now and see how we live.”
Khurcha has no school of its own, which means its children have to go to the neighbouring village of Koki for classes.
The only other option is to go the school in the Abkhaz-controlled village of Nabakevi.
Mzia said that option was hardly welcome – but many felt the Georgian authorities left them no choice.
“On Georgian television, they’ve made a lot of noise about the Abkhaz introducing Russian as the medium of tuition in our schools and banning the Georgian language but why don’t they think about our children?” she asked.
“Isn’t it a shame that our kids have to go to Gali to receive an education?”
Electricity in Khurcha is also in the hands of the Abkhaz. The transformer that used to bring Georgian electricity to the village broke down more than a decade ago.
Since then, the villagers have relied on a power line that has been extended from Nabakevi, in the Gali district.
“We pay the Abkhaz for the electricity we receive,” Valeri Morgoshia said.
“At the end of every month, we collect 10 to 12 laris from every family and our representative takes the money to Gali.
“It’s far less than what we would have to pay if we were liable for Georgian tariffs but we’d still rather have our own transformer repaired.
“What if the Abkhaz take offence at us and pull the plug on the power supply? We’d be reduced to living in darkness.”
The situation remains volatile in the border zone. In Khurcha, the peace is disturbed all too frequently.
In mid-February, Abkhaz border guards detained a villager who crossed into Nabakebi to cut firewood for his family. They beat him severely and only released him ten days later.
The man agreed to be interviewed, provided that we did not publish his name.
“I fought in Abkhazia and ever since have avoided crossing over there,” he said. “But in early February we ran out of firewood. I have a sick sister, and I had no other option than to go to Nabakevi.
“But I was caught and when they found out who I was, they beat me up brutally. I thought they’d kill me, but they set me free several days later.”
The talk at the village hangout mainly focuses on political issues.
Villagers come here to share views as to whether a new war may break out, whether the government will stay in power and what will happen in Tbilisi on April 9, when the opposition plans to launch rolling street protests, demanding Saakashvili’s resignation.
But the most heated discussions concern events in their immediate vicinity.
“In the villages of the Gali district, the Abkhaz force locals to take Abkhaz and Russian passports, and Nabakevi is no exception,” one man named Lasha said.
A young Georgian who lives in Nabakevi angrily disagreed. “That’s a blatant lie,” he said. “You don’t have the slightest idea what is happening there.
“You’re saying things to journalists on behalf of the Gali population, and spreading disinformation. Do you ever think about us, the Georgians, who live on the other side of the border?
“The Abkhaz watch television too, and after that they take it out on us.”
As dusk descends on the village, the acrimonious discussion breaks up. People drift back to their homes to catch up on the latest news on TV.
Taking leave, Shorena repeats that the authorities have forgotten all about them.
“You are now our only hope – just write the truth,” she said. “If someone learns of our problems, they may take them to heart.
“We don’t ask for much, we just want to have our most elementary needs satisfied.”
Irakli Lagvilava is an IWPR contributor.
Once visitors get there, after crossing the bridge over the Inguri River and passing the Georgian police post, the village presents a gloomy sight, with bullet-riddled facades, lopsided roofs, broken windowpanes and fields yellow with uncut wild grass.
Khurcha lies right on Georgia’s administrative border with the breakaway region of Abkhazia, adjoining the Gali district, the only part of Abkhazia with a mainly Georgian population.
The appearance of an unknown car causes a stir at the local hangout, where villagers gather to discuss politics or simply share family news.
Journalists are rare guests, and, pleasantly surprised, locals folk vie with one another to play the role of hosts.
Shorena, a young woman, opens a cellophane bag she holds in her hands. “All my clothes and documents are in this bag,” she said. “I keep it in readiness, in case I need to flee from the village.”
That eventuality is not as far-fetched as one might think. “Three nights ago, they started shooting from there,” Shorena said, pointing towards the neighbouring village of Nabakevi, controlled by the Abkhaz authorities.
“We thought a war had started again. I don’t know where we ran; our only wish at that moment was to leave the border as far behind us as possible.
“We ran for two kilometres, finally reaching our relatives’ place, where we spent that night.
“This was not the first and, I’m afraid, not the last time such a thing has happened. We feel refugees in our own village.”
Shorena’s home is especially exposed. It is the last house in the village, divided from the border only by a rivulet that flows all year round, never freezing, even after severe frost.
The small courtyard in front of her home is neat and tidy, with lush green grass and blooming yellow daffodils.
Such well-groomed courtyards are a common sight in the village. “That’s our culture,” explained Shorena. “We like it when our courtyards are beautiful and neat.”
But the wooden cottage is hardly fit to live in. Bullet holes are visible in the walls – a trace of the last year’s fighting.
The rooms have no wooden flooring and the roof badly needs mending.
“In winter, wind blows through the bullet holes, and it’s no use then stoking up the wooden stove,” said Shorena. “When it rains or snows outside, sitting here is almost the same as being out in the open.”
Her small children now stay with relatives in Zugdidi. For herself, Shorena has remained in the village to take care of her small plantation of hazelnuts. Like many people in Khurcha, her family depends on such crops for survival.
Shorena and her neighbours say they have repeatedly asked the authorities for help – but in vain.
“After the August war, we thought they’d help us but this hope has since died,” Mzia Toria said.
“One of my neighbours went to the local authorities and they gave him two slate tiles to repair the roof of his house. We’re ignored.”
The deputy head of the Zugdidi district authority, Darejan Gabedava, denies negligence, saying only two villagers have applied to them for aid.
“One is Zaur Toria whose house the Abkhaz used for their headquarters in the August war,” she said.
“This man took our experts to his place, they evaluated the damage he’d suffered, and soon we will help him.
“We have already given the other [villager] a one-off payment of 100 lari (60 US dollars). As for other affected villagers, we know nothing about them.”
Khurcha suffered badly in the August conflict. A large portion of the population has since left to live elsewhere.
All houses in the village bear bullet marks and many have inscriptions in Russian or Abkhaz, which are still discernible despite the villagers’ efforts to erase them.
“The Abkhaz set up their headquarters in my house,” said Mzia. “When I returned, I found obscene words addressed to the Georgians written on the walls. We’ve never been able to completely wipe them off.”
On the door of Nelli Mamasakhlisi’s house, a human figure has been drawn. The multiple nicks in the wood suggest it served as a knife-throwing target.
“They must have been testing their marksmanship skills by throwing knives at the figure,” the woman mused.
“They took away whatever hazelnut stocks my neighbours and I had kept in our houses. Their tanks devastated our fields, sparing little of the crops that we had had no time to gather.
“This is what happened to the families who left the village. Those who stayed say they escaped damage. It turns out that I shouldn’t have fled.”
Apart from difficult living conditions, there is also a problem over transport.
Shorena says that just before the May 21 parliamentary election last year, the authorities pledged to allocate a bus service. “But this turned out to be just another of their stunts,” she said.
“A bus service operated here for two months but then it was cancelled.
“I remember [President] Mikheil Saakashvili coming here when he was still the minister of justice. He promised us the moon and the stars but has forgotten all about us. Let him come here now and see how we live.”
Khurcha has no school of its own, which means its children have to go to the neighbouring village of Koki for classes.
The only other option is to go the school in the Abkhaz-controlled village of Nabakevi.
Mzia said that option was hardly welcome – but many felt the Georgian authorities left them no choice.
“On Georgian television, they’ve made a lot of noise about the Abkhaz introducing Russian as the medium of tuition in our schools and banning the Georgian language but why don’t they think about our children?” she asked.
“Isn’t it a shame that our kids have to go to Gali to receive an education?”
Electricity in Khurcha is also in the hands of the Abkhaz. The transformer that used to bring Georgian electricity to the village broke down more than a decade ago.
Since then, the villagers have relied on a power line that has been extended from Nabakevi, in the Gali district.
“We pay the Abkhaz for the electricity we receive,” Valeri Morgoshia said.
“At the end of every month, we collect 10 to 12 laris from every family and our representative takes the money to Gali.
“It’s far less than what we would have to pay if we were liable for Georgian tariffs but we’d still rather have our own transformer repaired.
“What if the Abkhaz take offence at us and pull the plug on the power supply? We’d be reduced to living in darkness.”
The situation remains volatile in the border zone. In Khurcha, the peace is disturbed all too frequently.
In mid-February, Abkhaz border guards detained a villager who crossed into Nabakebi to cut firewood for his family. They beat him severely and only released him ten days later.
The man agreed to be interviewed, provided that we did not publish his name.
“I fought in Abkhazia and ever since have avoided crossing over there,” he said. “But in early February we ran out of firewood. I have a sick sister, and I had no other option than to go to Nabakevi.
“But I was caught and when they found out who I was, they beat me up brutally. I thought they’d kill me, but they set me free several days later.”
The talk at the village hangout mainly focuses on political issues.
Villagers come here to share views as to whether a new war may break out, whether the government will stay in power and what will happen in Tbilisi on April 9, when the opposition plans to launch rolling street protests, demanding Saakashvili’s resignation.
But the most heated discussions concern events in their immediate vicinity.
“In the villages of the Gali district, the Abkhaz force locals to take Abkhaz and Russian passports, and Nabakevi is no exception,” one man named Lasha said.
A young Georgian who lives in Nabakevi angrily disagreed. “That’s a blatant lie,” he said. “You don’t have the slightest idea what is happening there.
“You’re saying things to journalists on behalf of the Gali population, and spreading disinformation. Do you ever think about us, the Georgians, who live on the other side of the border?
“The Abkhaz watch television too, and after that they take it out on us.”
As dusk descends on the village, the acrimonious discussion breaks up. People drift back to their homes to catch up on the latest news on TV.
Taking leave, Shorena repeats that the authorities have forgotten all about them.
“You are now our only hope – just write the truth,” she said. “If someone learns of our problems, they may take them to heart.
“We don’t ask for much, we just want to have our most elementary needs satisfied.”
Irakli Lagvilava is an IWPR contributor.
