Eliso had
been up all night making the most beautiful cakes. Moist sponge soaked in peach
juice and topped with kiwi slices shaped like crescent moons filled her
kitchen. Cherries suspended in jelly, whipped cream adorning heavenly chocolate-layered
pieces sat on top of refrigerators and
cupboard tops and could rival any professional catering company. She had been
collecting china teacups for weeks. Bric-a-brac market stalls had been raided,
wedding sets donated, gifts from friends collected and family members had been
scouring antique shops since I first suggested the event. It is difficult to find English tea sets in
Georgia but she had gathered, washed and stored 80 cups and saucers for the
occasion.
I was
nervous. Not just because the Tea-Party was
being covered by the Public TV station, and not because I felt he was watching
me, but because the people I had invited to speak for 5 minutes over tea and
cake were an eclectic mix and included some who were seen, by their own people,
to be the enemy within. The idea was to mix up English and Georgian cultures
and to celebrate a long and positive relationship. The UK government had changed the visa laws
earlier in the year so a five-year practice of bringing Georgian artists to the
UK to share their music, food, song and crafts had come to an abrupt end. I
wanted to host something in Tbilisi to acknowledge all the hard work so many
people had put into the English- Georgian cultural relationship. Usually all
the accolades go to business people. I
also wanted to give people an opportunity to have a voice, to be heard and to
be acknowledged. By inviting Natia, a politically active and vociferous LGBT
representative I was taking a real risk. I had decided to follow my conscience.
How could I be selective and not invite a whole group of people so important to
the positive changes Georgia was trying to make, just in case it was
uncomfortable? I couldn’t. I had to do
what was right.
The people I
invited were mostly artists, musicians, alternative types. There was also the Archbishop of the Georgian Baptist
Church, an English Georgian Baptist Bishop and several academics from the UK,
all of whom with a vested interest in
encouraging Georgia to be a more open and tolerant society. There were
representatives from both of the main Georgian political parties, two extremely
well known traditional Georgian choirs, ex-pats, journalists, and quite
possibly, a spy or two. I had also
invited a member of the Georgian Orthodox church who had declined, as had a
representative from the British Embassy.
People
arrived on time, and the men were wearing trousers. This may not seem
noteworthy to anyone outside of Georgia but it was a small triumph for me.
Georgians are notoriously late. For everything. In fact, in our choir, Samzeo,
we joked about working to ‘Georgian time’. Musicians are often known to be
cavalier with things like this but add Georgian time into the mix and you have
got a whole new frustrating cultural challenge. Often, any protests about this
are met with a shrug of the shoulders and a ‘What can I do?’ Georgian men also always wear jeans a lot.
Anniversary? Wear jeans. Important meal
out? Wear jeans. Trip to the theatre? Wear jeans. Meet the Mayor? Wear jeans.
You get the picture. The invitation had specified (both in English and
Georgian) that the dress code was smart casual. NO JEANS.
So far so
good, no one had come in jeans. As usual, the women had made a huge effort and looked beautiful.
The central table was exquisitely decorated and laden with layers of cakes and teacups,
ornate and colourful teapots and soft scented flowers. It was very
English. The audience sat in a circle
around the table, the speakers strategically placed within the circular space.
There was no front and no back. Everything was designed to be circular, to
encourage movement and to break down barriers. This may have been a mistake.
The audience were looking for barriers even and they needed to feel secure in
their place. That was clear. People needed to know where the ‘front’ was. It confused them that the tea table was in the
centre. Where were they to look? At the cakes? In the end, the practicality of some presentations
needing a large screen and a laptop meant that a particular ‘space’ became the’
stage.’ That stage had become the
‘front’.
The
programme had been planned down to the minute and things were going quite well.
What became quickly apparent however was that some people were leaving immediately
after they had given their own presentation. The first tea break came and went
with lots of mingling and chatting. It felt as though stereotypes were being
broken down and I was pleased. Once people sat down again it became clear that
several more people had left. Perhaps they had only just read the programme and
decided to leave so that they would not have to listen to one of the most
marginalised and dis-empowered sections of their own society. Women and the
LGBT community.
The Programme for the evening was
sent out to everyone who was invited and was available in both English and
Georgian, 4 weeks, 3 weeks, 2 weeks and 2 days before the event.
Death Knell
About 45
minutes in, behind
The pleasant
clink
Chink of
porcelain
Flowers, Rhubarb and Cream
Tea, ‘Fall
in love with me’
Chocolate
squares, I heard
The chime of
The death
knell.
Tilting
slightly I watched as
My marionette
life
Tumbled
elegantly, pivoted was
Re-defined by
plotted
Scandal.
I watched
the sky
Fall.