Maxime Qavtaradze is following in the ancient traditions of the Stylites, or Pillar Saints: men of the Byzantine world who believed residing up pillars would remove them from temptation and provide ample opportunity for prayer and contemplation.
"For the first two years there was nothing up here so I slept in an old fridge to protect me from the weather," said the 59-year-old monk. Later, Christian supporters renovated a derelict chapel and built a cottage to provide him with a few creature comforts.
Onnik, who has done a lot of original work in the co-inhabited parts of Georgia, relayed a spot-on quote from an Azeri man named Ağarəhim:Dolma yeyənindi, Sarı Gəlin oxuyanındı — Dolma belongs to those who eat it, Sarı G(y)alin belongs to those who sing it.
TBILISI/PRAGUE — Georgia faces a serious and growing demographic problem. According to the United Nations, the ratio of newborn boys to girls in 1991 was 105 to 100. By 2000, it was nearly 110 to 10…
"Together with its neighbors in the South Caucasus, Armenia and Azerbaijan, Georgia is on a trajectory to develop a gender imbalance on a par with what has been observed in India and China.
According to World Health Organization and UN data from 2005, Georgia has 19.1 abortions per 1,000 women of reproductive age, one of the highest rates in Europe, although in the middle among former Soviet countries. The average woman in Georgia will have three abortions in her lifetime.”
Demobilized in 1946, he lived thereafter in Sukhumi working as a statal shop manager. Afilied PCUS in 1947. A year after the secessionist war in the region had begun he moved with his family to Moscow where he died two months later in December 1993 in the Kremlin hospital.
“Why Kazbegi? Why not Gori, Stalin’s birthplace and for decades after his death a stubborn shrine to him? Or Batumi on the coast? Maybe, as much as anything, because I was in a time of transition and felt like being someplace definite, and a town at the end of a mountain road carried with it the comfort of definition. After Kazbegi, there was no place else to go. Well, Chechnya, but I sure wasn’t going there.”
I tell myself that this will never happen to me. I am the kargi gogo, the adopted daughter. I sit with Eka at the kitchen table, eating her food and refusing her cigarettes. Over tea, I am effusive about the Georgian mountains, about the Black Sea, about the places I have gone or will go, about the marketplace I have discovered in the underpass beneath Pushkin Street, about the new French cafe hidden behind the synagogue. She complains to me about her daughter, Khatuna, brilliant but mulish, whose piercings and sitcom-English are at once a source of consternation and secret pride. I pay my rent three months in advance.