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What  Are  Sites  of  Memories  For?  

Paper  for  the  Conference  
“Sites  of  Memory  of  Socialism  and  Communism  in  Europe”  
September,  2015  
 
Dr.  Nutsa  Batiashvili  
Free  University  Tbilisi  
n.batiashvili@freeuni.edu.ge  
 
 
 
“...if  we  are  talking  about  occupation  in  Georgia,  then  we  must  have  a  museum  of  Ottoman  
occupation,  Persian  occupation,  Arab  occupation.  This  land  that  we  stand  on  right  now  was  under  
Arab  occupation  for  400  years.  In  general  throughout  Georgia’s  3000  years  of  history,  Georgia  was  
occupied  many  times  by  different  countries  and  if  we  establish  museums  for  all  occupations  that  would  
just  be  wrong.”  
A  comment  made  by  a  protestor  in  2012,  in  front  of  the  Museum  of  Soviet  Occupation  in  Tbilisi,  
demanding  to  shut  down  the  museum.  
 
  When   we   think   of   the   lieux   de   mémoire   or   search   for   their   meaning,   we   usually   seek  
to   understand   the   ways   in   which   a   particular   group,   society,   or   nation   conceives   and  
commemorates  certain  historical  events  in  its  own  terms,  within  its  own  sociocultural  and  
historical   frameworks,   grounded   in   its   own   unique   experiences   and   relevant   to   its   own  
political  predicaments.    
In   the   years   following   the   collapse   of   the   Soviet   Union,   number   of   countries   in  
Eastern  Europe  solidified  the  memories  of  the  communist  “Empire”  by  way  of  establishing  
Museums   of   Occupation.   Among   them   is   “the   Museum   of   the   Occupation   of   Latvia,”   opened  
in  Riga  as  early  as  1993,  as  well  as  the  “House  of  Terror”  in  Hungary  (2002),  “Museum  of  
Occupations”   in   Estonia   (2003),   and   “Museum   of   Victims   of   Communism”   in   Romania  
(2010).  While  each  of  these  exhibitions  was  established  with  an  aim  to  portray  the  unique  
story  of  a  particular  nation,  a  “museum  of  occupation”  has  become  a  unifying  brand  in  its  
own   right,   a   borrowable   symbolic   form   of   a   sort,   a   standardized   signifier   that   embodies  
pre-­‐fixed  and  importable  meanings.    
I  came  to  realize  this  during  my  short  trip  to  Budapest.  My  friend  and  I  had  only  a  
few  hours  at  our  disposal  and  several  museums  we  wanted  to  visit,  including  the  House  of  
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Terror.  While  we  were  weighing  our  choices,  my  friend  noted:  “[The  House  of  Terror]  it’s  
pretty   much   similar   to   all   other   occupation   museums.”     Most   certainly,   such   description  
does  not  do  justice  to  any  museum  and  especially  to  the  one  that  represents  so  much  of  the  
terror   and   misery   that   people   underwent   during   communist   regime.   But   it   led   me   to  
contemplate  on  the  ways  in  which  “museums  of  occupation”  may  have  come  to  symbolize  
standardized   form   of   mnemonic   expression   that   stands   for   something   else   beyond   the  
history  of  communist  regime.    
Here  I  want  to  discuss  the  case  of  Georgian  memory  debate  and  show  the  instances  
in  which  the  Museum  of  Occupation  (established  in  2006)  became  central  to  the  disputes  
that   were   not   so   much   about   the   past,   but   much   more   about   the   present.   To   be   precise,   for  
the   Georgia’s   pro-­‐western   government   (that   came   to   power   as   a   result   of   the   2003   Rose  
Revolution)  establishing  the  Museum  of  Occupation  was  part  and  parcel  of  the  multifaceted  
efforts   to   align   Georgia   with   Europe   and   redefine   the   nation’s   cultural   and   political  
landscape   as   inherently   European.   Within   this   paradigm   the   museum   of   occupation   was  
instrumental  not  only  for  institutionalizing  particular  forms  of  remembering  (or  forgetting)  
the   Soviet   occupation,   but   it   symbolized   certain   geopolitical   stance   by   importing   a    
“mnemonic  device”  that  already  existed  elsewhere  –  and  the  “elsewhere”  was  Europe.    
In  this  paper  I  want  to  examine  this  lieu  de  mémoire  on  two  analytic  levels:  first,  as  a  
form   that   embodies   cross-­‐national   symbolism   and   functions   as   a   geopolitical   marker.  
Second,   I   want   to   unfold   specifically   Georgian   Museum   of   Occupation,   as   a   site   of  
contestation  within  the  context  of  Georgia’s  mission  to  become  European,  its  challenge  to  
mend   relations   with   Russia,   and   its   predicament   to   overcome   internal   political   friction.   My  
paper   will   contextualize   the   disputes   surrounding   the   Museum   of   Occupation   by   tracing  
diverging  narratives  on  the  idea  of  a  communist  society,  on  the  legacies  of  the  Soviet  Union,  
on   the   figure   of   Stalin   as   “a   great   Georgian”   versus   “the   greatest   enemy   of   the   Georgian  
people,”   and   finally   on   the   Socialist   Democratic   Republic   of   Georgia   established   in   1918.    
While   this   conference   is   dedicated   to   exploring   the   sites   of   European   memory,   and   while  
Georgia’s  ‘Europeanness’  is  still  a  matter  of  a  discursive  or  individual  discretion,  this  case  
presents  somewhat  unique  triangulation  of  memory  of  communism,  of  Soviet  geopolitical  
legacy,  and  of  Europe  along  its  distant  margins.    
 
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Something  Borrowed,  Something  Old:  “Europe  Started  Here”  

After   the   collapse   of   the   Soviet   Union,   in   an   attempt   to   reverse   seventy   years   of  
isolationism   many   post-­‐Soviet   states   resorted   to   the   idea   of   the   “West”   as   a   terrain   of  
renewed   belonging.   As   Katherine   Verdery   (1999)   has   pointed   out,   post-­‐socialist  
transformation  involved  “a  reordering  of  people’s  entire  meaningful  worlds”  and  this  open-­‐
ended  process  entailed  rewriting  history,  forming  new  political  arenas,  redefining  morality  
and   basic   values”   (p.   35).   In   Georgia   such   realignment   came   to   be   most   radically  
experienced  after  the  young  reformists  led  by  Mikheil  Saakashvili  ousted  President  Eduard  
Shevardnadze,   a   former   foreign   affairs   minister   of   USSR,   who   returned   from   Moscow   to  
lead  Georgian  government  in  1991  (see  Way,  2008).  The  government  that  came  to  power  
as  a  result  of  2003  "Rose  Revolution"  adopted  a  new  transformative  politics  geared  toward  
Georgia’s   modernization   and   Euro-­‐integration   (see   Wheatley   2005,   Jones   2010,   Mitchell  
2012).  Throughout  2004-­‐2012  discussions  of  “the  West”  and  “modernity”  gained  centrality  
in  the  public  discourse  as  both  espoused  and  contested  ideas.    
The  revolutionary  government's  rhetoric  consolidated  a  new  narrative  of  Georgia's  
future   with   a   re-­‐projection   of   its   past,   reinventing   the   country   as   a   European   state   and  
culture.  Such  a  re-­‐alignment  of  Georgia's  place  in  the  world  was  in  no  way  detached  from  
memory   politics.   Rather,   the   state   vision   of   the   nation’s   future   embodied   a   conception   of  
the   past   that   situates   Georgia   within   the   European   civilization,   as   one   of   its   legitimate  
members.    
On  the  one  hand,  the  principal  rationale  behind  inscribing  national  interests  into  the  
landscape   of   European   civilization   was   essentially   entrenched   in   the   desire   to   dissociate  
Georgia   from   the   Soviet   sphere   and   to   divorce   itself   from   Russia's   political   orbit.   This  
political   orientation   was   not   articulated   as   an   uprooting   of   the   country   from   its   origins;  
instead  it  was  presented  as  Georgia’s  historically  determined  mission  to  “regain  its  place  in  
Europe”   (Wheatley   2005,   p.   37).   President   Saakashvili   continuously   asserted   to   his   local  
and  global  audiences  that  "When  we  speak  about  the  European  future  of  Georgia,  we  must  
understand   that   this   is   not   only   today's   choice;   our   ancestors   chose   Europe   from   ancient  
times   and   defined   it   as   our   compass.   European   and   Georgian   civilizations   are   so  
intertwined  that  it  is  difficult  to  determine  whether  Europe  is  our  roots  or  on  the  contrary."  
(quoted  in  De  Waal,  2011  p.  31)    
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Most   state   performances   of   the   time   were   defined   by   triangulation   of   its   three  
distinct   publics,   in   that   almost   any   political   and   speech   act   was   addressed   to:   a)   its  
immediate   audience—the   Georgian   people,   b)   to   its   desired   ally—the   West,   and   c)   to   its  
enemy—Russia.   Tbilisi’s   Museum   of   Soviet   Occupation   is   perhaps   an   epitome   of   such   a  
triangulated  addressivity.  Its  very  existence  is  a  type  of  a  symbolic  expression  that  relies  on  
a  pre-­‐established  form  of  representation  for  its  referential  faculty,  for  its  capacity  to  “ring  
the  bell,”  to  bring  about  associations.  To  be  precise,  because  of  its  “recognizability”  for  the  
western  public,  Museum  of  Occupation  frames  Georgian  history  not  as  distinct,  unique,  or  
distant,   from   the   European   experience,   but   as   belonging   to   the   same   imaginative  
geography.   As   such,   museum   of   occupation   is   not   simply   a   national   project,   ideological  
attempt  to  propagate,  cultivate,  or  instill  national  narrative,  although  as  we  will  see  below  
it  is  entirely  embedded  in  the  idiom  of  national  myths,  but  beyond  that  it  is  a  geopolitical  
marker   that   addresses   both   local   and   global   public   and   employs   two   orders   of   symbolic  
codes  to  create  an  intelligible  message  for  such  diverse  audiences.    
Certainly   the   Soviet   Occupation   Museum   is   not   the   sole   material   embodiment   of   the  
revolutionary   government’s   attempts   towards   geopolitically   meaningful   signification.   For  
instance,  erecting  the  statue  of  Medea  in  modernizing  Batumi  (see  Khalvashi,  upcoming),  of  
a   mythical   figure   from   the   myth   of   the   Argonauts   is   part   of   a   wider   effort   to   create  
spotlights   that   mark   the   territory,   define   its   geographic,   geopolitical,   cultural   or  
civilizational  belonging.  Medea  is  a  mythical  figure,  daughter  of  the  King  Aeëtes  who  ruled  
an   ancient   Georgian   land   Colchis.     According   to   the   myth   the Argonauts   arrived   there   to  
acquire  the  Golden  Fleece  and  they  only  succeeded  with  the  help  of  Medea  who  having  had  
fallen  in  love  with  Jason  guided  her  lover  in  deceiving  her  own  father.  Medea’s  symbolism  
can   be   defined   as   a   signifier   of   a   Georgian   sub-­‐plot   of   a   great   Greek   myth.   In   her   mythic  
image   she   embodies   a   reverse   mythical   inflection   of   Georgia’s   belonging   to   a   great  
civilizational  space.    
But  as  a  national  metaphor  Medea  is  both  controversial  and  ambiguous.  Medea  is  a  
contested   archetype   as   a   limit   figure   who   commits   an   act   of   treason   against   her   father.   Yet,  
for   Saakashvili’s   government   whose   vast   investments   in   “remodeling”   urban   landscape  
capitalized  on  “recognizable”  symbolic  markers,  Medea’s  symbolism  is  significant  due  to  its  
capacity  to  encode  primordial  cultural  links  between  Georgia  and  Europe.  Its  value  is  in  the  
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node   that   it   embodies,   its   capacity   to   create   mythical   provision   for   civilizational  
consanguinity  and  a  linkage  between  Georgian  land  and  the  center  of  a  civilized  world1.  It  
empowers   the   position   for   claiming   Georgia’s   Europenness   not   as   an   outcome   of   present  
political   will,   not   even   as   a   secondary   cultural   formation,   but   as   a   primal   state   -­‐   a  
primordial   one,   that   makes   a   motto   like   “Europe   started   here”   (taken   up   by   Georgia’s  
department   of   Tourism)   meaningful   to   different   audiences   and   more   importantly  
meaningfully   legitimate.   Such   a   claim   pins   down   the   beginning   at   the   inceptive   point   of  
culture,  in  a  primordial,  ahistorical  time.    
With  Europeanization  being  both  a  cultural  and  a  political  project,  the  state  needed  
to  show  that  Georgia  was  part  of  the  European  history  at  its  most  important  stages.  It  was  
the  marginal  epicenter  of  almost  all  crucial  historical  processes  and  formations.  Museum  of  
occupation  sets  up  an  opposition  -­‐  occupant  vs  occupied  -­‐  that  links  Georgia’s  experience  to  
the   historical   processes   that   are   not   only   familiar   to   average   Europeans,   but   have   played  
definitive   role   in   forming   their   historical   identity,   political   sensibilities   and   geopolitical  
vulnerabilities.        
“Every  foreign  delegation  has  visited  this  museum  and  they  leave  here  with  a  very  
clear   sense,   with   a   clear   narrative   of   what   happened   in   this   country.   When   they   see   this,  
they  understand…otherwise  they  might  have  no  idea  who  we  are  or  what  happened  to  us”  -­‐  
Nika   Rurua,   one   of   Saakashvili’s   closest   allies   and   the   key   figure   who   was   endowed   to  
establish   the   Museum,   told   me   during   our   interview.   Nika   and   I   met   at   the   museum   and  
after   giving   me   a   personal   tour,   we   sat   down   in   one   of   the   corners   to   discuss   how   this  
museum   came   to   existence,   what   narrative   did   it   seek   to   convey   and   what   was   the   political  
motive   behind   such   an   enterprise.   “We   decided   we   should   have   one,   after   we   saw   the  
museum  of  occupation  in  Riga…  Misha  gave  us  three  months,  it  was  an  impossible  task  to  
be  accomplished  in  such  a  short  time,  we  did  what  we  could  to  open  this  in  time.”    
The  ensuing  discussion  and  analysis  will  show  that  such  a  sense  of  urgency  had  to  
do   with   much   complex   political   exigencies   that   Saakashvili’s   government   had   to   face   at  
different   points   of   its   heavily   reform-­‐driven   rule   both   on   a   local   and   a   global   arena.   This  

1
 It  is  worth  noting  here,  that  the  Golden  Fleece  is  a  civilizational  paradigm.  It  had  to  be  returned  to  Greece  to  
avoid  the  downfall  of  the  civilization  and  as  soon  as  it  left  the  land  of  Colchis,  the  kingdom  collapsed.    
 
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period   was   marked   by   government’s   constant   effort   to   claim   Georgia’s   rightful   place   in  
Europe   and   to   create   performative   space   or   spaces   through   which   a   “foreign”   audience  
would   recognize   Georgia’s   true   European   nature.   In   some   cases   this   effort   took   form   of   a  
certain   type   of   stamping   or   branding   practice   through   importing   borrowable   symbolic  
forms  that  yield  iconic  expressions.    In  others,  it  rested  on  rhetorical  practices  that  sought  
to   “remind”   western   allies   of   their   obligation   to   support   Georgia’s   sovereignty   and   its  
integration  into  the  imaginative  landscape  of  Europe.        
“Do  you  know  what  this  is?  You  should  have  this”  Nika  handed  me  5  copies  of  the  
booklets   he   requested   from   the   MO   curator.   In   his   opinion   part   of   the   story   that   was  
missing   from   the   exhibition   could   be   found   in   this   text:   “Communist   Takeover   and  
Occupation  of  Georgia”  -­‐  a  special  report  by  the  House  of  Representative’s  83rd  congress.    It  
was   in   1953   that   the   US   House   of   Representatives   created   a   special   committee   to  
investigate  the  incorporation  of  the  Baltic  states  in   the  USSR  and  the  report  on  the  state  of  
affairs  in  Georgia  was  part  of  that  document.      
There  are  two  important  dimensions  in  which  the  booklet  matters  for  the  purpose  
of   our   analysis   and   with   respect   to   the   argument   of   this   paper.   The   report   is   the   only  
printed   material   the   MO   provides.   On   my   first   visit   in   2007,   the   museum   guide   handed  
them   to   us   for   free.   Published   both   in   Georgian   and   in   English,   this   report   is  
instrumentalized   to   frame   the   narrative   of   occupation   in   a   legitimate   language   both   for   the  
western   audience   and   for   the   Georgian   public.   In   the   first   case,   the   investment   is   in   the  
attempt   to   inculcate   one   culture’s   historical   truth   into   another’s   space   of   authority.    
Through  it  Georgia’s  story  is  not  only  told,  but  also  authenticated  in  the  eyes  of  a  westerner.  
On  another  dimension,  it  speaks  to  the  vulnerabilities  of  Georgian  public  and  the  issues  of  
trust   between   the   state   and   the   citizens.   In   that   MO   devises   third   party   perspective,  
nonpartisan,  disinterested  evaluation  to  make  claims  on  the  “objective”  truth.    
This   is   a   crucial   point   for   contemplating   how   transposing   Georgian   story   into   the  
semantics   of   the   “Western   world”   empowers   the   narrative   of   “occupation”.   More   so,   the  
1955   report   is   devised   as   a   way   of   validating   the   word   “occupation”   itself.     In   both  
instances,  the  text  functions  in  a  way,  which  Mikhail  Bakhtin  refers  to  as  an  “authoritative  
utterance.”   While   authority   is   constructed   in   socially   specific   ways   and   its   functioning   is  
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context   bound,   it   seems   that   in   this   instance   authoritativeness   of   this   utterance   hinges  
upon   two   distinct   forms   of   legitimacy   that   the   report   emanates   for   the   Georgian   vis-­‐à-­‐vis  
western   publics.   When   thinking   about   the   role   of   the   1955   report   in   Tbilisi’s   Museum   of  
Occupation,  one  can  think  of  it  as  a  borrowed  word  -­‐  a  word  that  has  more  authority  than  
one’s   own.   One   of   Mikhail   Bakhtin’s   ideas   on   the   theory   of   utterance   could   be   aptly   applied  
here:  
 
“When  we  select  words  in  the  process  of  constructing  an  utterance,  we  by  no  
means   always   take   them   from   the   system   of   language   in   their   neutral,  
dictionary  form.  We  usually  take  them  from  other  utterances    that  are  kindred  
to  ours  in  genre,  that  is  in  theme,  composition  or  style”  (p  87).    
 
The   point   here   is   that   often   times   we   devise   utterances   with   a   specific   expressive  
power  and  that  our  intent  is  to  latch  on  the  embedded  legitimacy  or  authority  inherent  to  
either   the   words   or   the   ultimate   author   of   the   words.   The   dual   addressivity   of   this   text   and  
of   this   museum   in   general   is   evident   in   many   ways,   through   displays   as   well   as   textual  
material,  but  some  of  Nika’s  comments  during  our  interview  shed  more  light  on  this  aspect.    
“Have  you  been  having  visitors  come  here?”  Nika  asked  the  curator.  “Oh  quite  a  few.  
Lot  of  people  are  coming.”  The  curator  seemed  satisfied.  “Mostly  tourists  and  youngster  I  
suppose?”   Nika   asked,   clarifying   later   that   in   his   opinion   if   Georgians   expressed   any  
interest  it  was  possibly  a  younger   generation  who  had  no  personal  memories  of  the  Soviet  
Union.   Counter   to   his   expectation   it   turned   out   that   just   as   many   Georgians   visited   the  
museum  as  the  tourists  and  the  audience  was  not  confined  to  the  youngster.    
 
Fear  and  Trembling:  Occupant  vs.  Occupied  
The   Museum   of   Occupation   as   a   distinct   representational   form   is   a   staged  
exposition.  To  be  precise,  many  objects  on  the  display  take  on  meaning  as  affective  triggers.  
Two  thematic  elements  shape  the  order  and  the  experience  of  the  museum:  terror  and  the  
stark   delineation   between   occupant   vs.   occupied.   Both   of   these   themes   function   not   so  
much  as  narrative  schemata,  but  rather  as  meta-­‐frames.    
Terror   is   experienced   affectively,   through   visual   representation,   through   stark  
juxtapositions  of    imaginable  and  unimaginable,  such  as  imitation  prison  cells  for  instance.  
 8

As  expositions  they  have  much  less  educational  or  narrative  construing  purpose,  but  rather  
become   part   of   memory   through   our   body;   bypassing   cognitive   schemas   they   arouse   bleak  
emotional  sensations  by  inflicting  pain.  We  sense  fear  and  trembling,  terror  and  cruelty  not  
because   of   ethnic,   national,   political   affinity   to   the   people   who   suffered   under   these  
regimes,  but  we  experience  them  as  bodies,  imposing  these  states  of  unbearability  on  our  
human   flesh.   In   most   museums   of   occupation   this   performative   aspect   is   the   defining  
feature   of   demonstration   technique   and   such   forms   of   representation   create   mnemonic  
affects   that   override   linguistic   forms   of   conception.   Unlike   narratives   they   provide  
experience   that   is   depersonalized,   non-­‐wordy   and   narrative-­‐less   (see   Velmet,   2011   for   a  
revealing  analysis  of  Baltic  museums).  
The   entrance   to   Tbilisi   Museum  of  Soviet  Occupation  is  bleak,  dismally  dimmed  in  
red.   It   is   not   so   much   a   separate   museum   as   an   exhibition   within   the   building   of   the  
National   Museum   (see   Figure   1).   The   display   is   confined   to   two   dark   halls   where   the  
contrast   is   felt   from   the   outset,   as   one   steps   from   the   sunlit   hallway   into   the   murky  
darkness   of   the   Soviet   past.   The   terror   is   what   one   stumbles   upon   from   the   very   first  
moment.    

 
[Figure  1:  Facade  of  the  National  Museum  on  Rustaveli  avenue]  
 
 9

On  the  left  side  of  the  entrance  is  a  movie  theatre  screen-­‐size  installation  of  an  old  
photograph   depicting   soldiers   with   rifles   standing   over   a   heap   of   dead   bodies   and   a   wagon  
with   uncountable   bullet   holes.   On   the   opposite   side   of   this   entrance   hall   is   a   screen   playing  
a  video  collage  of  images  taken  during  the  2008  Russian-­‐Georgian  war.  Right  beneath  the  
screen  is  what  may  seem  like  a  glass  coffin  with  a  full  set  of  traditional  Georgian  costume  
resting  in  it.  The  dress  belonged  to  a  national  hero  -­‐  Kakutsa  Cholokashvili  -­‐  who  in  1924  
conspired  to  organize  a  rebellion  to  liberate  Georgia  from  Soviet  occupation.  The  effect  is  
three-­‐fold  here,  on  an  affective  level  the  photo-­‐installation,  the  screen  and  the  wagon  incite  
terror   from   the   past   and   spark   fear   in   the   present.   Presence   of   Kakutsa’s   coffin   is   a  
subliminal  clue  to  the  mythology  of  national  resistance;  it  is  a  moral  invocation.    With  the  
time  map  forged  through  these  objects  Russia  becomes  a  perennial  occupant.  This  is  both  
the  beginning  and  the  end  of  the  museum's  narrative  plot.      
 

 
[Figure  2:  Main  Hall,  Museum  of  Soviet  Occupation,  Tbilisi]  
 
The   centerpieces   of   the   exhibition   in   terms   of   both   their   location   and   visual  
magnitude   are   several   prison   doors,   an   imitation   prison   cell   and   a   massive   writing   desk  
(see   figure   2).   "Look   at   this   one,   this   is   the   door   of   Stalin's   prison   cell,   when   he   was  
imprisoned"  -­‐  one  of  the  first  things  that  Nika  pointed  to  when  we  entered  the  museum.    He  
knocked  on  it,  to  show  that  the  door  was  a  wooden  one  in  a  steel  frame.  "…and  this  one  is  
 10

already  from  the  period  when  Stalin  ruled  the  Soviet  Union,  you  see  the  difference?"  This  
one   was   solid   steel   and   his   point   was   to   underline   the   monstrosity   of   Stalin’s   figure   who  
remains  a  multivalent  mnemonic  symbol  for  some  Georgians.  ”It’s  ironic"  Nika  smirked.    
The   theme   of   a   terrorizing   regime   is   represented   alternatively   through   such  
performative   objectifications   vis-­‐à-­‐vis   informative   narrations.   The   exhibition   was  
punctuated   by   the   tables   providing   information   on   periodic   purges   taking   place   in   the  
Soviet  Union.    
  While   terror   unravels   as   an   embodied   state,   ‘occupant   vs   occupied’  
dichotomy   frames   this   affective   experience   in   a   certain   meaningful   meta-­‐discourse.   By  
definition,   museum   of   occupation   as   a   form   of   representation   does   not   allow   for   any  
alternative  interpretive  schemas  within  which  to  conceptualize  social,  political,  or  cultural  
relations  within  the  regime  -­‐  one  is  either  an  occupied  or  an  occupant  and  the  line  drawn  
between  them  is  that  of  pain  and  trauma  that  runs  along  the  boundaries  of  nationality.  The  
Museum  creates  an  adept  narrative,  which  skillfully  silences  the  role  of  local  perpetrators  
in  carrying  out  the  regime’s  tasks.  By  evading  the  identities  of  the  individuals  involved  with  
the   regime   and   while   personifying   both   victimhood   and   resistance   of   eminent   Georgians,  
the   exhibition   obscures   the   theme   of   collaborationism   and   amplifies   the   dichotomy  
between  the  occupant  and  the  occupied.      
Representation   is   a   classificatory   act   in   and   of   itself   (cf.   Duncan   1991,   Anderson  
1991).   More   so   in   case   of   this   museum,   the   very   purpose   of   which   is   to   produce   and  
reinforce   an   acute   dichotomy,   to   create   the   demarcating   line   between   good   and   bad.   But  
beyond   that,   Tbilisi   Museum   of   Occupation   was   intended   to   produce   a   sense   of   kinship  
between   two   publics   -­‐   European   and   Georgian   and   legitimize   both   occupation   and  
Georgia’s   Europreanness.   In   this   it   capitalizes   on   affective   faculties   of   the   objects   displayed  
while   employing   both   semiotic   and   optic   intertextuality.     The incorporation   of   US   congress  
report  in  the  museum  representation  is  one  such  example.    But  there  are  more  examples  of  
such   historical   intertextuality.   Some   of   the   very   first   exhibits   that   describe   Democratic  
Republic   of   Georgia   declared   in   1918   provide   limpid   demonstration   of   this.   The   museum  
narrative   from   the   outset   inscribes   Georgia   into   the   European   orbit,   first   by   marking   the  
 11

“beginning”  with  the  early  19th  century  map  of  the  Georgian  borders  as  recognized  by  the  
League  of  the  Nations  (see  Figure  3).    
 
  Few   displays   apart   from   it   one   reads   a  
quote   by   Noe   Zhordania,   leader   of   the   1918-­‐
1921  Democratic  Republic’s  government:    
  “…What   do   we   have   to   offer   to  
the  cultural  treasure  of  the  European  Nations?  
-­‐   The   two-­‐thousand-­‐year-­‐old   national   culture,  
democratic   system   and   natural   wealth.   Soviet  
Russia   offered   us   military   alliance,   which   we  
rejected.   We   have   taken   different   paths,   they   [Figure  3:  Map  of  the  Democratic  
are   heading   for   the   east   and   we,   for   the   west.   Republic  of  Georgia]  

We   would   like   to   yell   at   Russian   Bolsheviks:  

turn  to  the  west  to  make  a  contemporary  European  nation…”      
  Right   below   this   board   two   portraits  
are   hanging,   that   of   Sir   John   Oliver   Wardrop,   United  
Kingdom’s   first   chief   commissioner   of   Transcaucasia  
in   Georgia   and   of   Friedrich   Schulenburg,   consul   of  
Germany   in   Georgia.   The   caption   in   capital   letters  
“ACTIVE  SUPPORTER  OF  GEORGIA’S  INDEPENDENCE  
AND   SOVEREIGNTY”   can   be   seen   below   the   title   on  
Wordrop’s   portrait,   while   Friedrich   Schulenberg   is  
credited  for  being  the  “CO-­‐AUTHOR  OF  THE  TEXT  OF  
THE   FOUNDING   CHARTER   OF   INDEPENDENCE   OF  
DEMOCRATIC   REPUBLIC   OF   GEORGIA”   (see   Figure  
4).    
 
[Figure   4:   Display   board   from   Tbilisi  
 
Museum  of  Soviet  Occupation]    
 
 12

In   light   of   these   examples   it   becomes   evident   how   invoked   references   to   the   Europe  
and  the  west  amplify  the  dichotomy  between  Russia  vs  Georgia  and  Russia  vs  Europe.  It  is  a  
classificatory   attempt,   an   invocation   that   employs   the   third   “other”   (the   west   or   the  
Europe)  and  works  in  complex  ways  to  validate  the  claim  of  occupation,  to  assert  Georgia’s  
right  to  sovereignty,  to  create  clear  lines  of  alignment  between  Georgia  and  Europe  vis-­‐à-­‐
vis  Georgia  and  Russia,  and  fix  Europe’s  position  toward  these  issues  in  a  historically  valid  
image.      
 
 
Site  of  Spontaneous  vs.  Tamed  Memories    
     
Tbilisi   Soviet   Occupation   Museum   opened   on   May   26,   2006.   On   the   opening  
ceremony  president  Mikhail  Saakashvili  stated  the  following:  
“This   Museum   is   dedicated   to   the   great   patriots   of   Georgia,   Kakutsa   Cholokashvili  
and   his   sworn   brothers.   This   museum   is   dedicated   to   a   number   of   underground  
organizations  that  had  been  created  throughout  this  period.  This  museum  is  dedicated  to  
the   Georgian   clergy,   better   part   of   which   has   been   almost   entirely   exterminated.   This  
museum   is   dedicated   to   Georgian   officers.   This   museum   is   dedicated   to   my   great  
grandfather  Nikusha  Tsereteli,  in  whose  family  I  was  raised  and  who  spend  many  years  in  
one  of  the  camps  in  Siberia.”2  
Saakashvili’s  statement  capitalized  on  the  main  thematic  points  of  the  museum  and  
both  his  words  and  the  exhibition  entered  into  the  dialogue  with  multiple  voices  present  in  
Georgia’s   discursive   space   at   the   time.   Yet,   in   terms   of   its   semantics,   both   Saakashvili's   and  
the  museum's  rhetorical  line  build  on  pre-­‐existing  cultural  symbolic.    Karp  and  Levine  have  
rightfully   asserted   that   “every   museum   exhibition,   whatever   its   overt   subject,   inevitably  
draws  on  the  cultural  assumptions  and  resources  of  the  people  who  make  it"  (1991,  p.1).  
Among   other   things,   this   implies   that   construction   of   the   museum   narrative   takes   place  
against  the  backdrop  of  the  existing  mnemonic  schemas,  identity  constructs,  and  narrative  
habits.  Telling  a  story  -­‐  almost  any  story  -­‐  is  guided  by  a  narrative  habit.  In  other  words  our  

2
 Gvakharia,  Giorgi.  “Day  of  the  Soviet  Occupation”  www.radiotavisufleba.ge  "!"#$%&"  %'()"*++!  ,-.."  !"#$%  
&"'$()*+,-$(.  N.p.,  25  Feb.  2011.  Web.  18  Aug.  2015.  
 13

capacity  to  fit  different  parts  into  a  single  whole  is  a  culturally  acquired  pattern  (see  Bruner  
1990).    As  cultural  beings  we  construe  "stories  of  peoplehood"  (Smith,  2003)  according  to  
culturally   pre-­‐ordained   narrative   plots   and   as   Wertsch   has   shown,   narration   of   different  
historical   periods   is   mediated   by   a   single   schematic   construct   -­‐   a   narrative   template   that  
functions  as  the  backbone,  the  matrix  of  a  national  narrative  (Wertsch  2002).  
The  point  here  is  that,  while  MO  was  determined  to  follow  its  European  model  to  tell  
the  story  of  Soviet  occupation,  its  narrative  plotline  follows  the  narrative  pattern  in  which  
Georgians   convey   any   other   story   of   foreign   invasion   and   occupation.   As   I   have   written  
about   it   elsewhere   Georgian   national   narrative   (see   Batiashvili   2012,   Wertsch   and  
Batiashvili   2010,   Batiashvili   2014)   capitalizes   on   resistance   and   perennial   struggle   for  
freedom   against   continuous   foreign   invasions.   In   its   most   schematic   representation,   both  
Russian  imperial  rule  and  Soviet  regime  are  part  of  a  single  occupation  story  and  present  
just   another   instantiation   of   Georgia’s   invasion   by   another   alien   force,   along   with   Mongols,  
Arabs,   Persians,   Ottomans,   Seljuks,   and   so   forth,   forces   that   Georgians   continuously  
resisted   and   rebelled   against.   This   narrative   plot   functions   as   an   underlying   ordering  
structure   of   MO’s   exhibition.   This   is   why   Saakashvili   mentions   Kakutsa   Cholokashvili   in   his  
speech   –   a   figure   that   symbolizes   heroism   and   rebellion   against   foreign   regime.   With   its  
minimalist   cover-­‐to-­‐cover   exposition   MO   employs   some   very   generic   forms   of  
representation,   but   in   essence   the   storyline   it   conveys   is   tied   to   the   mythology   of   the  
Georgian  nation.  As  such  the  entire  exhibition  can  be  read  simply  as  another  instantiation  
of  the  Georgian  national  narrative.    
The   beginning   of   the   narrative   is   tied   to   the   imagined   geography   of   legitimate  
Georgian  territories.  As  mentioned  above  exhibition  in  the  main  hall  displays  an  early  20th  
century   map   that   shows   the   borders   recognized   by   the   League   of   Nations.   At   the   other   end  
of   the   hall   there   is   another   map   -­‐   of   current   Georgia   with   conflicted   territories   lit   in   bloody  
red.  “This  map  was  like  a  prediction  in  2006  of  the  2008  war”  Nika  explained.  In  between,  
most  of  the  space  on  the  walls  is  allotted  to  the  memory  of  the  resistance  and  the  story  of  
eminent   freedom   fighters,   interchangeably   with   the   factual   information   on   purges   and  
forced   emigration.   In   this,   execution   of   eminent   members   of   intelligentsia,   clergy   and  
noblemen   is   most   profoundly   accented.   As   one   visitor   commented   “..they   were   executing  
the  very  best  of  the  nation,  and  noblemen  and  intellectuals”.  Her  impression  was  an  ample  
 14

reading   of   the   intended   narrative.   Chronological   punctuation   of   the   exhibition   is   another  

way  of  underlining  the  centrality  of  resistance  and  purges  during  the  Soviet  Union.  In  the  
middle   of   the   exhibition,   one   stumbles   upon   a   massive   desk,   a   map   of   Gulags   behind   it   and  
Stalin’s  portraits  and  quotes  around.  This  staging  spawns  an  image  of  a  mastermind  behind  
the  desk  who  singlehandedly  plots  the  soviet  terror  (see  Figure  5)  
“What   is   the   main   narrative   that   you   intended   this   museum   to   emanate?”   I   asked  
Nika   at   the   end   of   our   3   hour-­‐long  
conversation.   He   gave   a   lengthy   and   eloquent  
answer,   but   one   that   provides   a   palpable  
concretization   of   the   political,   ideological   and  
moral  objectives  of  this  lieu  de  mémoire:  
  “The   narrative   of   the   museum  
should   have   been   to   demonstrate   to   our  
audience  the  hefty  tendencies  in  the  Russian  
systemic  destruction  of  the  Georgian  identity,  
so   that   people   deprived   of   identity   did   not  
have  any  desire  for   an  independent  state.  We  
wanted   to   show,   based   on   facts,   that   Russia  
did   everything   through   the   so-­‐called   radical  
“social   engineering”   to   mold   a   Soviet  
Georgian   specie,   emptied   from   national  
memory   and   ideals.   We,   the   authors   of   the  
museum,   wanted   to   demonstrate   this   [Figure   5:   exhibits   from   Tbilisi   Museum   of  

through   concrete   factual   evidence,   for   Occupation.   Top   board   reads   words   by   Stalin   "Life  
got  better,  life  got  jollier"  and  is  juxtaposed  by  a  map  
instance   by   showing   how   many   clerics   have  
of  Gulags  spread  across  the  entire  space  of  the  USSR.  
been   prosecuted   and   executed   by   the  
The   very   next   exhibit   is   an   imitation   prison   cell  
Bolshevik   regime,   how   many   members   of   providing   a   dismal   sense   of   the   prisoner's  
Georgian   aristocracy   and   military   elite   have   experience]    

been  murdered  and  so  forth,  for  the  purpose  

of  the  erasure  of  this  memory.  Our  aim  was  to  explain  that  Russia’s  contemporary  goals  are  
in  essence  not  any  different  from  the  Bolshevik  Russia’s  aims,  even  though  today  Georgia  is  
 15

an  independent  and  a  democratic  state.  In  short,  by  using  historical  context  we  wanted  to  
explain   where   does   today’s   occupation   of   our   territories   originate   from   as   well   as   what  
does  effortless  conceding  of  freedom  can  bring  the  nation.”    
As   vast   scholarship   on   the   museums   studies   has   shown,   public   museums   are    
intimately  tied  to  the  instruments  of  governmentality  and  citizenship  (Bennett  1995).The  
point  cannot  be  any  more  subtly  demonstrated  than  by  the  quote  above,  which  imagines  a  
danger   to   the   identity,   religion   and   cultural   spirit   to   trigger   some   of   the   deepest  
vulnerabilities   and   archetypical   anguishes   of   the   Georgian   nation.   There   are   multivalent  
and   multivocal   resonances   in   his   words   to   the   parallel   discursive   practices   that   create  
tolerable  image  of  Russia  and  the  USSR,  especially  by  capitalizing  on  the  shared  religion  of  
Georgians   and   Russians.   In   the   end,   one   can   see   that   the   museum   is   a   rhetorical   device  
intended  as  a  prohibitive  call  against  ‘effortless  concession’  that  Nika’s  concluding  remarks  
provide  such  an  unequivocal  demonstration  of.    
 In   their   capacity   to   create   visual   representations   of   the   order,   museums   play   an  
important   role   in   regulating   imaginative   horizons   of   culture,   nation,   and   citizenship.   As  
Mary   Bouquet   notes   in   her   extensive   analysis   of   the   museums,   “national   museums   and  
collections   underwent   an   important   reconfiguration   in   the   twentieth   century   as   newly  
independent   nations   hastened   to   present   their   international   credentials   in   this   form,   and  
older   nations   began   to   rearrange   their   collections   and   their   connections   within   the  
postcolonial   world   order”   (2012,   p.   34).   MO   is   an   instance   of   both   in   certain   respects.   It  
provides   transnational   “credentials”   for   Georgia’s   geopolitical   determination,   for   the  
definition   of   its   historical   and   political   belonging.   On   the   other   hand,   MO   presents   a   case  
not   so   much   of   a   “rearrangement”   of   a   collection   as   that   of   a   confinement   of   the   Soviet  
artifacts   within   a   single   exhibition   that   are   otherwise   ubiquitous.   A   comment   made   by   a  
Georgian  historian  Lasha  Bakradze,  resonates  with  this  point:  “…since  the  entire  Georgian  
territory  was  occupied  we  can  imagine  this  whole  territory  as  a  “museum”  and  create  the  
“topography  of  terror”,  which  in  its  own  turn  will  better  explain  what  the  soviet  occupation  
was.”3    

3
www.radiotavisufleba.ge quoted in Gvakharia’s column “The day of the Soviet Occupation”
 16

Bakradze’s   words   point   to   inherently   diverging   perspectives   and   positionings   in  

which  a  scholar  as  opposed  to  the  state  contemplates  historical  artifacts.    The  former  seeks  
to   scrutinize   them,   whereas   the   latter   seeks   to   tame   them   into   a   comprehendible   order.    
While   the   remnants   of   the   Soviet   past   scattered   around   urban   and   provincial   landscapes  
become   part   of   everyday   visibility,   they   either   inflect   narratives   that   are   outside   ordered  
and  controllable  frames  or  they  altogether  inhabit  the  space  of  mundane  invisibility.  To  be  
more  specific,  with  the  passing  of  time  certain  artifacts  seize  being  artifacts  and  acquire  life  
of   an   object   that   is   no   longer   a   symbolic   signifier   of   a   past   order,   but   is   a   material  
objectification   of   the   present   experience.   Say,   for   instance,   Soviet   furniture,   they   inhabit  
people’s  dwelling  not  as  historical  exhibits,  but  as  material  objects  that  have  no  significance  
other   than   their   utility   capacity   to   serve   people   routinely.   As   such,   on   a   daily   basis  
historicity  of  these  objects  belongs  to  the  horizon  of  invisibility.    They  no  longer  matter  as  
signs  or  as  material  forms  of  signification.    
Contrary  to  this,  politics  of  memory  builds  on  empowering  mnemonic  signifiers  that  
serve   the   subtexts   of   power   ideologies   by   making   them   visible.   But   for   this,   mnemonic  
artifacts   need   to   be   part   of   a   controllable   order,   need   to   belong   to   a   space   which   is  
classifiable   and   through   which   one   can   control   the   flow   of   recollection,   as   well   as   the   ways  
in  which  memories  are  made  meaningful.  This  is  what  a  museum  as  an  ideological  subtext  
does   –   it   attempts   to   create   an   ordered   and   meaningful   representation   of   the   past.   The  
agenda  of  those  who  create  such  a  space  is  to  speak  certain  truths  to  its  audience,  truths  
that  matter  under  given  sociopolitical  conditions.    
In  his  theorization  of  text  and  language,  Bakhtin  writes:    
“The  work,  like  the  rejoinder  in  the  dialogue,  is  oriented  toward  the  response  
of   the   other   (others),   toward   his   active   responsive   understanding,   which   can  
assume   various   forms:   educational   influence   on   the   readers,   persuasion   of  
them,  critical  responses,  influence  of  followers  and  successors,  and  so  on.  It  
can  determine  others’  responsive  positions  under  the  complex  conditions  of  
speech  communication  in  a  particular  cultural  sphere.  The  work  is  the  chain  
in  the  speech  communion”  (Mikhail  Bakhtin  1986:75).    
 
The   quote   is   an   ample   lead   into   an   obvious   question   that   stems   from   the   discussion  
above:   what   sort   of   discursive   landscape,   ideological   agenda,   or   political   vulnerability  
played  into  the  state’s  sense  of  urgency?  In  other  words,  what  is  the  context  of  a  “speech  
 17

communion”   in   which   the   work   of   MO   becomes   a   dialogic   rejoinder   with   a   performative  

and  constative  intent?  After  all,  how  come  that  in  the  land  where,  first  in  19914  and  later  in  
20105  greater  portion  of  the  political  elite  deemed  it  necessary  to  ban  any  display  of  Soviet  
symbolism   and   requested   the   destruction   of   Soviet   architectural   remnants,   suddenly  
political   leadership   wanted   to   showcase   communist   regime   in   the   National   Museum?   For  
instance,  Gia  Tortladze,  member  of  the  parliament  and  the  initiator  of  the  legislation  on  the  
ban  of  Soviet  symbolism  called  the  Charter  of  Liberty,  stated:    
“We  have  to  destroy  not  only  existing  models  of  Soviet  symbolism,  but  we  have  to  
ban  by  law  the  use  of  these  symbols.  We  have  to  ensure  ourselves,  so  that  tomorrow  or  the  
day   after   tomorrow,   nobody   desires   to   name   a   street   or   a   party   after   a   Soviet   leader…I  
think   that   we   must   forget   statues,   buildings,   and   names   related   to   the   Soviet   Union.   This  
symbolism  is  part  of  that  ideology  that  Georgia  must  part  with  for  once  and  for  all”6  The  bill  
was  passed  with  75  votes  against  1,  with  the  majority  of  the  ruling  party’s  support.  While  
Mr  Tortladze’s  concern  focused  on  the  necessity  to  forget  the  Soviet  past,  nowhere  did  he  
deem   it   necessary   to   point   out   that   there   was   at   the   center   of   the   country’s   capital   a  
mnemonic  site  dedicated  to  the  memory  of  the  Soviet  history.      
Such  a  juxtaposition  is  in  its  own  right  a  key  to  understanding  the  instrumentality  of  
a  lieu  de  mémoire  such  as  a  museum,  even  in  the  context  where  spontaneous  memory  still  
exists.   As   president   Saakashvili   commented   regarding   the   controversial   demolition   of   the  
Stalin’s   statue   in   his   hometown   of   Gori,   “…We   have   our   history   as   an   independent   country.  
The   museum   of   occupation   and   the   statues   of   the   occupants   cannot   co-­‐exist   in   Georgia.”7  
Yet,   Stalin’s   museum,   established   in   1979,   is   intact   to   this   day,   and   notwithstanding  
Saakashvili’s  government’s  effort  to  redefine  this  lieu  de  mémoire  from  being  a  hometown  
museum  celebrating  Stalin’s  grandiose  achievement  into  the  “Museum  of  the  Museum”  (see  
Goftredsen,  2014),  this  site  of  what  Bodnar  (1992)  would  define  as  “vernacular”  memory  
has   hardly   been   recast   in   the   light   of   pro-­‐European   government’s   ideological   demands.  
Commotion   and   debate   surrounding   Stalin’s   statue   in   his   hometown   Gori,   is   perhaps   an  

4
 "Down  with  the  Soviet  Symbolism!"  "/+0!  !"#$%&"  !+1#%2+'"!""  Liberali.  Liberali  Magazine,  13  Oct.  2010.  Web.  18  
Aug.  2015.  <http://www.liberali.ge/ge/liberali/news/103164/  article  in  liberali.ge>.  
5
 "MPs  Pass  ‘Liberty  Charter’  with  First  Reading."  Civil.Ge  |  Daily  News  Online.  N.p.,  28  Oct.  2010.  Web.  8  Aug.  2015.  
6
“Should  Soviet  Symbolism  be  Banned?”  Liberali  Magazine,  18  October,  2010,  Web.  11.  Aug.  2015,  emphasis  added  
7
 "1+3.+2  !""'"45+2+  -­‐  !"6"0&5.2%4+  "0  4.+/2.#"  "0!.#%#,.!  %'()"*++!  1(7.(1+  ,"  %'()"89.#+!  
/.:2.#+."  Interpressnews.  N.p.,  25  June  2010.  Web.  11  Aug.  2015.  <http://goo.gl/SbQN6p>.  
 18

even   more   profuse   demonstration   of   the   state’s   ideological   incentive   to   denigrate   the  
tyrant’s   figure.   Saakashvili   made   these   comments   right   after   sneaking   down   the   statue   in  
the   middle   of   the   night.   Few   years   later,   almost   immediately   after   Ivanishvili’s   government  
came   to   power   the   statue   was   re-­‐erected,   although   not   on   the   main   square   of   the   town   but  
inside  the  museum’s  yard.  The  act  of  re-­‐erection  took  place  against  the  backdrop  of  state’s  
rhetoric  to  pursue  “mild”  and  “amending”  politics  with  Russia.  Parallel  to  these  ideological  
shifts   several   protests   were   organized   in   front   of   Tbilisi   Museum   of   Occupation   with  
demands  to  shut  it  down.  The  quote  at  the  very  beginning  of  this  paper  belongs  to  one  of  
the  protestors  and  one  can  see  how  profusely  the  argument  relies  on  national  narrative  to  
subvert  anti-­‐Russian  politics  without  actually  denying  the  notion  of  “occupation.”    
This  points  to  the  fact  that  the  theme  of  the  Russian-­‐Georgian  relationship  presents  
an   extraordinary   predicament   over   lived   and   living,   voiced   and   silenced   imaginaries   and  
sensibilities,   even   though   national   mythology   frames   it   as   just   another   instantiation   of  
Georgia’s   perennial   struggle   against   foreign   invasions.   This   is   so   mainly   because   the  
memory  of  the  Russian-­‐Georgian  relationship  is  shaped  by  the  ongoing  political  condition  
and  as  such  embodies  the  unresolved  tangle  of  present  exigencies  and  future  contingencies.  
As   a   result,   it   produces   dual   or   ambivalent   attitudes   in   interpreting   the   present   political  
strategy  toward  Russia,  but  also  in  contemplating  how  events  of  the  past  must  be  judged.  
As   one   can   see,   in   certain   circles,   Saakashvili’s   stark   pro-­‐European   and   anti-­‐Russian  
rhetoric  and  policy  was  heavily  criticized  from  the  very  outset.  The  concern  being  that  such  
attitude   would   irritate   Russia   and   that   after   all   Russian-­‐Georgian   relations   rested   on   the  
shared   faith,   which   had   played   a   paramount   role   in   the   shaping   of   a   non-­‐malignant,  
“amiable”  discourse  on  Russia.    
This  particular  setting  suggests  that  contrary  to  Nora’s  claim,  whose  point  is  that  the  
lieux   de   mémoire   originate   to   fill   the   mnemonic   void,   spontaneous   memory   often   times  
exists  in  parallel  to  solidified  mnemonic  sites  and  the  latter  originate  not  so  much  to  fill  the  
void,  but  to  redefine,  subvert  or  tame  unmediated  mnemonic  expressions.  Mediation  in  this  
case  is  one  of  the  key  categories  one  should  take  into  account  when  talking  about  any  form  
of   remembering.   In   essence,   there   is   no   such   thing   as   unmediated   remembering   (see  
Wertsch   2002   for   example).   All   forms   of   remembering   are   mediated   through   symbolic  
constructs  and  in  fact  when  we  are  talking  about  juxtaposed  expressions  of  the  past  we  are  
 19

talking   about   different   narrative   structures   that   mediate   the   articulation   of   the   past.   This  
theoretical  distinction  becomes  more  acute  if  we  consider  the  versatile  experiences  of  the  
past  that  different  kinds  of  mnemonic  sites  may  evoke.  In  essence,  Saakashvili’s  statement  
pins  down  this  distinction  between  controlled  and  uncontrolled,  or  spontaneous  and  tamed  
forms  of  mnemonic  engagement.    
Pierre   Nora   notes   “Lieux   de   mémoire   originate   with   the   sense   that   there   is   no  
spontaneous   memory,   that   we   must   deliberately   create   archives,   maintain   anniversaries,  
organize   celebrations,   pronounce   eulogies,   and   notarize   bills   because   such   activities   no  
longer  occur  naturally”  (1989,  p  12).  While  this  may  be  true  in  many  instances,  for  example  
the   statue   of   Medea   is   most   certainly   an   example   of   such   an   insentient   commemorative  
practice,   MO   presents   a   difference   case.   Memories   of   the   Soviet   Georgia   do   occur  
spontaneously,  remnants  of  socialist  forms  are  present  in  daily  lives  of  Georgians,  in  their  
cultural,   social   and   political   practices,   Russian-­‐Georgian   relations   is   a   matter   of   daily  
discussion   and   these   debates   are   always   driven,   shaped   and   directed   by   how   individuals  
remember   the   last   70   or   200   years   of   Russian-­‐Georgian   relations   on   political,   social,  
cultural  and  personal  levels.    
But  these  spontaneous  forms  of  remembering  can  generate  divergent  narratives  of  
“what   it   was   like”   during   the   Soviet   Union.   While   some   remember   the   daily   life   as   an  
unbearable   existence   in   fear   and   trembling,   or   a   life   with   no   choice   and   free   will,   others  
have   a   sense   of   nostalgia   for   the   soviet   life   as   a   time   of   certainty,   when   jobs   were  
guaranteed   and   people   could   make   a   living   without   much   effort.   In   essence,   when   it   comes  
to   remembering   the   life   in   the   Soviet   Union,   one   can   hear   multiple   voices   in   the   public  
sphere.  Stalin’s  museum  is  one  good  demonstration  of  this  point.  During  our  conversation,  
Nika   reflected   on   the   matter   of   nostalgia   and   his   understanding   of   where   positive  
sentiments  toward  socialism,  USSR,  and  Russia  stem  from:  “…in  reality,  they  miss  their  own  
youth,   their   *feelings   of   the   time,   and   that   with   120   manets   (Soviet   roubles)   they   could  
purchase  elementary  things,  had  a  flat  from  the  state,  if  one  desired  one  could  purchase  a  
car,  had  a  job,  was  secure  and  was  in  truth  incapable  of  anything…had  no  *choice,  did  not  
care.  People  of  my  generation  tell  me  that  they  believed  in  “pioneerism”  this  means  it  [the  
 20

ideology]  worked  on  some  people,  unlike  us.8”  Nika’s  words  reiterate  a  somewhat  common  
perspective  and  reflect  on  the  forms  of  nostalgia  that  embody  not  the  grand-­‐narratives  on  
socialism   and   communism,   but   individual   longings   for   certain   states   of   being.   But   his  
comments   inevitably   emanate   the   very   critique   of   the   subjective   consciousness   that  
enables  such  forms  of  spontaneous  remembering.      
Correspondingly,   MO   originated   not   so   much   with   the   sense   that   there   is   no  
spontaneous   remembering   of   the   Soviet   Union   or   of   Russian-­‐Georgian   relations,   but   with  
the  fear  that  these  rememberings  embody  ambivalence,  equivocal  and  irresolute  stances,  at  
the   very   least   and   at   its   most   that   they   bear   positive   subjectivity   instead   of   a   conclusive  
animosity.   The   state   takes   such   an   uncertainty   as   inherently   flawed   and   unbecoming  
civility   of   the   Georgian   public,   a   positioning   that   is   incoherent   both   with   the   political  
agenda   and   experience   of   reality.     Most   importantly,   from   this   ideological   perspective  
nostalgia  or  positive  attitude  toward  USSR  both  as  a  perceptive  stance  and  as  a  subjective  
state  is  divorced  from  and  inconsistent  with  the  myths  of  the  nationhood.    In  other  words,  
being  amiable  toward  Russia  or  the  Soviet  Union  goes  against  everything  that  the  Georgian  
national  narrative  and  national  symbolism  prescribe  as  inherent  nature  of  Georgianness.    
   
Few   blocks   down   the   National   Museum   in   a   crowded   corner   of   the   old   town   is   a  
small  cafe  called  “KGB…is  still  watching  you.”  The  place  is  decorated  by  artifacts  from  the  
Soviet   past,   flags   of   the   Soviet   republics,   samples   of   the   Soviet   ‘ruble,’   billboards,   with  
Soviet  slogans,  a  century  old  telephone  most  of  us  owned  till  the  end  of  the  20th  century,  
furniture  reminiscent  of  Soviet  times  that  many  of  us  own  and  live  by  to  this  day.  The  menu  
offers   a   fusion   of   the   Soviet   era’s   typical   diner’s   food,   with   a   beguiling   illustrations   from  
communist  propaganda  (see  Figure  6).    
 
 
 

8
 Italicized  words  with  asterisks  point  to  when  Nika  code-­‐switched  to  English.  
 21

  [Figure  6:  left-­‐  KGB  cafe  interior;  right  -­‐  KGB  cafe  menu]

In  the  wall  adjacent  to  a  neighboring  restaurant  (one  that  offers  traditional  Georgian  
menu)   there   is   a   peeping   hole   for   “spying”   on   the   customers   of   the   next-­‐door   restaurant.  
For   me   this   whole   represented   a   single   most   clear   clue   to   the   satirical   sentiment   ingrained  
in  the  place.    
Let   me   finalize   this   paper   by   a   fleeting   ethnography   for   drawing   a   comparison  
between   MO   as   site   of   tamed   memory   and   “KGB”   cafe   as   a   very   different   kind   of   space   that  
too   sustains   memories   from   the   soviet   past,   but   yields   untamed,   spontaneous   forms   of  
remembering.   As   a   mnemonic   trigger   it   spawns   ambiguous   interpretations   both   of   the  
intended  message  and  of  how  people  relate  to  it.    Most  of  my  respondents  had  hard  time  
pinning   down   what   was   the   intended   effect   -­‐   critique   or   romantization.   One   of   my  
respondents  Nina,  who  never  actually  visited  the  place,  noted,  “I  had  an  impression  that  it  
is  oriented  on  foreigners...  that  it  was  created  for  tourists.  This  is  why  it  didn’t  even  occur  to  
me   to   go   in   there.”     An   environment   that   submerges   a   customer   into   the   experience   of  
Soviet  regime,  was  external  to  her  as  a  consumer,  thus  she  had  neither  critique  nor  acclaim  
for  the  place.  It  merely  represented  an  attraction  site  that  is  intended  to  attract  someone  
with   no   insider’s   experience.   Yet,   many   others   I   conversed   with,   were   more   strongly  
opinionated.    “My  first  impression  [of  KGB  cafe]  was  that  I  found  myself  in  Russia  of  the  60s  
and   70s,   where   espionage   was   very   trendy   and   was   very   romanticized”   –   Tamara,   a   well  
educated  Georgian  woman  in  her  30s  with  anti-­‐communist  liberal  views,  explained  to  me.  
She   deemed   any   expression   of   pro-­‐Russian,   pro-­‐soviet   attitudes   intolerable.     “So   all   of   it  
seemed  very  romanticized  to  me  and  not  part  of  history…I  felt  as  if  the  cafe  was  owned  by  
 22

someone,   an   ex-­‐KGB   officer   who   made   money   now   and   opened   a   cafe…   Did   not   leave   an  
impression  of  a  museum.”  It  is  noteworthy  how  in  her  comment  my  respondent  juxtaposed  
“romanticized”   representation   against   “historical”   memorialization.   The   former   assumes  
presence   of   something   in   the   subjective   experience   of   the   present,   the   latter   is   an   objective  
detachment   in   a   monolithic   narrative.   Notwithstanding   her   interpretation,   Tamara   has  
visited  the  place  for  a  dinner  or  two.  Yet,  there  were  those  who  refused  to  step  their  foot  
inside,   because   of   this   seemingly   positive   sentiment   toward   the   USSR   implicit   in   this   place.  
Nika  was  among  them:    
Me:  Have  you  ever  been  to  this  KGB  cafe?  
Nika:   No   and   principally   no!   Why   should   you   call   KGB,   such   a   name   some  
entertainment  place  in  a  modern  country?!  It  is  idiocy  and  I  got  angry  when  I  learned  about  
it  and  I  haven’t  been  there  as  a  matter  of  principle  and  I  am  not  going  in.  
Me:  Do  you  know  other  people  who  won’t  go  there  for  the  same  reason?  
Nika:  Few  of  my  friends    
My:  Who  do  you  think  goes  in  there?  
Nika:  I  think  people  who  go  there  go  because  of  curiosity  to  know  why  does  it  have  
such  a  strange  name.  Some  of  them  who  go  there,  don’t  even  care,  don’t  know  wether  it’s  
good  or  bad  and  as  they  would  go  to  any  other  café…  

 
  [Figure  7:  Facade  of  the  cafe  KGB  on  Erekle  II  street]          

 
In  contrast  the  KGB  café’s  artistically  creative  and  humorous  self-­‐description  on  one  
of  the  online  yellow  pages,  reads  the  following:  
“KGB...Still  Watching  You…no,  no  we  are  not  spying!  As  of  now  forceless  and  
non-­‐existent.   Remnants   of   it,   already   hilarious,   you   will   see   everywhere:   in  
 23

the   interior,   in   the   menu,   on   the   walls   of   the   restroom…everywhere   except  

for  the  kitchen  and  bar.  Just  like  in  our  other  “homes”  here  too  we  will  host  
you  in  the  best  way  and  on  the  light  on  Leninian  green  lamp  and  with  the  a  
background  of  devaluated  Soviet  money…you  can  remember  peacefully  and  
with   a   smile   -­‐   or   learn   depending   on   your   age   -­‐   how   dreadful   once   the  
omniscient  KGB  was.”  
 
The   contrast   between   intended   meaning   and   invoked   reading   of   this   place   is  
remarkable  and  once  again  substantiates  the  idea  that  certain  forms  (such  as  the  museum  
vis-­‐à-­‐vis  the  cafe)  in  and  of  itself  have  better  capacity  to  control  the  flow  of  meaning  and  
create   fixed   significations.   These   snippets   of   conversations   also   reveal,   although   very  
meagerly,   the   conceptual   horizon   through   which   Georgian   public   conceives   of   itself   and  
assumes   the   prevalence   of   certain   attitudes.   Something   that   enables   such   incompatible  
readings  of  the  mnemonic  site.      
Disparity   of   interpretations   which   KGB   cafe   harnesses   yields   an   ample  
concretization   of   the   difference   between   the   sites   of   tamed   and   spontaneous   memories.  
Diverging   public   attitudes,   diverse   perspectives   and   uses   of   these   two   sites,   profess   the  
idea  that  the  form  of  signification  creates  a  separate  meaning,  -­‐  a  meaning  that  is  not  a  sole  
function  of  a  thing  represented,  but  is  a  product  of  a  complex  interaction  between  the  site,  
its   standardized   set   of   associations   and   the   conceptual   horizon   of   a   public   that   engages  
with   these   sites.   How   certain   sites   of   memory   are   read   and   interpreted   stems   from   the  
intersubjective   experiences   of   which   these   sites   are   a   product.     In   this,   what   is   more  
pertinent   to   the   main   argument   of   this   paper   is   the   parallel   existence   of   sites   of  
spontaneous   and   tamed   memories.   In   certain   instance,   while   the   former   exist   as   natural  
legacies   of   the   historical   past,   the   latter   are   cultivated   to   compete,   overshadow   or  
altogether   outlaw   spontaneous   forms   of   remembering.   The   latter   are   inevitably   tied   to  
instruments   of   governmentality.   It   is   in   contexts   like   these   that   “borrowable,”   elsewhere  
established   and   validated   forms   such   as   museums   of   occupation   come   in   handy,   mainly  
because  of  their  articulative  aptness  and  truth-­‐ascertaining  authority.    
 
 
 
 
 24

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