Telling more people about Georgia

I am immensely privileged to live in a city in Yorkshire where there is a flourishing spoken word and poetry scene. The Red Shed in Wakefield have been hosting Open Mic events during the Winter Months and I have been able to trial many of my Georgian poems  in a safe and supportive environment.


Every time I put a new piece up on here and pop it on my Facebook page, within an hour, over 100 people read it. This of course leads to others reading the other pieces and so, often, within 24 hours of each new piece going up over 500 people are reading about Georgia.


I feel incredibly humbled by this and it has given me the courage to share Georgia with a wider audience. I am now travelling to many spoken word events in Yorkshire to present my work and of course, Georgia's unique and oft time perplexing culture is rich soil in which to grow.


I wanted to put this little you-tube video here. It's a performance of the poem Erekle Street. I went on to read the short story that goes with it which is not, currently published on this blog.


Georgia has taken so much from me. But it has also given me much and for that I am grateful.


I hope you enjoy this little piece. My job now, before I return to Georgia to hear more of her stories,  try to understand further her complexities and continue to heal from the original trauma that took place within my relationship with her, is to tell more people about this maroon-grey-sunlight-black country so right now I am going to get out there and perform. I invite you to join me when you can.


https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7IeP0CuRQMI&feature=youtu.be

Flight Home

Ah, the complete

Utter, total

Reliability of the English

Family.

The game of

Travel Scrabble.

That solid certainty

Of the measured, considered

Conversation.

 

Assailed by pain

I leant forward

Quietly asked if Mother had any

Paracetamol was

Immediately rewarded with

 

Kind eyes and an innate understanding.

She saw the trauma.

I sipped, gratefully the

Spare water donated from her bag.

 

My exhausted tears spilled onto

 Scribbled poetry.

 

Drifting in and out of their

Conversations I heard  Father say,

Whilst discussing a dilemma,

 

‘It depends on

Where your conscience lies’

In the Departure Lounge

Waiting to board at Tbilisi airport I was struck by the irony of  signs everywhere that declared.

 

‘Tbilisi loves you’

What Happened Next?

37 left

36 stood up to applaud.

Oh Yeah… What she said.

 

Afterwards I was told by a Georgian journalist, who sat me down and said very firmly that,’ The whole event had been a disaster’.  I disagreed.   ‘As I was not Georgian I could never understand’ I was told. There was no mention of the astounding presentations by the artists, the strong voices of the other women, the incredible folk music, the clapping and cheering of the Georgian Funk presentation.  No, Natia had been too aggressive, too combative, contentious, too loud, too emotional, too intrusive.

 

Due to catch a very early morning flight the next day, after we had cleared up, bundled everything into the back of three taxis, got back to Eliso’s apartment and crashed out, left alone with my own emotions, I struggled to settle. I did not belong here and did not understand why I cared so much about a nation of bigots, homophobes, misogynists and sycophants. My cheeks burned. Who was I to even try to create a space for voices to be free?

 

How do you judge if an event has been a success? The attendance figures? The feedback  from people saying how much they enjoyed it? I would argue not. Indeed, if no one turns up then that’s a bit of an indicator that people aren’t interested. But people did turn up – a lot of them. Some left. That means they were engaged but either disagreed or were too scared to be seen there. (There are spies everywhere in Georgia)

 

The Tea Party engaged people in topics that are taboo in Georgia and they felt they had to leave. They left because they could and not because they could not, this is unlike many other events in Georgia where people have to be seen to stay for fear of reprisal. That means people thought about the content then and almost certainly thought about what they had heard afterwards. If what was said planted a seed in their minds which may grow or die, so be it. Only they can tell. At least they were exposed to an alternative view and it’s that which is important in the current Georgian society where the Orthodox Church constantly legitimises peoples prejudice and ignorance.

 

The fact that there were 36 people who stayed to  the end out of the original 100 who had come to speak not listen, eat free cake,  drink English tea out of china cups that were later stolen, showed me it was certainly not a failure.

 

If  one person now thinks about things differently then the tea party was a success.

 

Through the night texts and messages started coming through.  ‘Well done you– exactly right’, ‘More of it’ ‘Your bravery and vision is inspiring’, ‘Power to your elbow’.

 

When the alarm woke me up with a jolt just a few hours later, I could not wait to get on the plane and go home.  There had been no sign of him and I was exhausted.

Yeah... What she said.

 

As soon as Natia got up to speak this is what happened.

 

People left.

In disgust,

Apparently.

 

As soon as Natia had finished speaking this is what happened.

 

There was a mass exodus.

From 73 - 36

 

37 people felt tricked,

And were revolted,

Apparently.

 

37 people felt betrayed,

And utterly hoodwinked,

Apparently.

 

Now, apparently,

(And they mean this as the highest form of insult)

I am a lesbian,

Have always been a lesbian

And the whole event was designed

 

To humiliate them.

 

 

Natia said nothing that was controversial.  I wish she had.

She said nothing that would be out of place in a Citizenship lesson in any school in the UK.

What she said was thoughtful, informative, non-aggressive and honest.

 

What she said.

 

I was there May 17^th 2012

When 10,000 priests tried to kill me and 49 of my friends.

 

She said,

 

I was there May 17^th 2012

When the mini-bus I was bundled into by police officers

Who  had, before this point, stood by and watched until it was clear we would be trampled underfoot,

was rocked, side to side by a priest

With broken teeth

And wild eyes who beat at the glass until it shattered

And I thought,

I am only 24 years old.

 

She said,

 

Please look at me.

Please see me as a person.

See me for me, not for my sexuality.

 

She said,

 

See, my tears are real,

Hear, my sobs they chime to the same bells

That call you to church each day.

 

Here, take my hand,

Link arms with me,

I am warm, I am real,

I am me.

 

She said,

 

My mother loves me,

My father too, my brother loves me

My sister, my sister’s children, all love me.

 

I don’t want you to love me, or even like me

I just want you to stop beating me up

Slamming me down

Killing me.

 

What have I done to you?

 

Is it my mere existence you hate so much?

 

Is it because I am a lesbian?

Is it because I am a woman?

Is it because I am not you?

 

She said,

 

I am Georgian and I am proud.

Please see me.

Please hear me.

I am a proud to be a Georgian woman

I am

Proud.

 

37 left

36 stood up to applaud.

Oh Yeah… What she said.

 

I was proud of her, and of the choir members who stayed and sang, unifying all our remaining voices together in traditional folk song. To them I will always be truly grateful.