Moldova: A divided country

I had first visited Moldova in July 2022, travelling down from Iaşi (pronounced Yash), in Romania, and spending a couple of days in Chişinău before heading to Odessa. That was my first visit to Ukraine since Russia’s full-scale invasion of the country that February. In the absence of direct flights to Ukraine due to the war, Moldova has become one of the main entry points into the country. Dozens of buses travel from Chişinău to Odessa every day, most people coming straight out of the airport and on to a bus. Refugees visiting their homes, women and children reuniting with their husbands and fathers who are not allowed to leave Ukraine.

I had not fully appreciated Chişinău on that first visit (see post of 23 July 2023). My perspective had been distorted by my arrival at the central bus station, situated in the heart of the city’s sprawling central market, a somewhat rundown neighbourhood, bustling during the daytime, but almost empty and rather forbidding in the evenings, when the market has packed up for the night. To get to my hotel, I had to pass along a derelict street of abandoned, broken buildings. I was in Moldova again for a couple of weeks in the autumn of 2024. On this occasion, I had the opportunity to visit other parts of the country, as well as Chişinău. I learned to appreciate Chişinău this time, its well-tended, shady parks, its cafes under the trees, its fine restaurants.

I was back again in the summer of 2025, passing through on my way down to Odessa, and spending a few days on my return. This time I spent a couple of days in breakaway Transnistria, the Administrative-Territorial Units of the Left Bank of the Dniester, as it is officially known in Moldova, or the Pridnestrovian (“by the Dniester”) Moldavian Republic, or just Pridnestrovie, as it is called by the unrecognised separatist state strung out along the Dniester river in eastern Moldova. In light of Russia’s invasion of Ukraine, I had some qualms about visiting a territory under Russian control. On my visit to Moldova the previous autumn, I had been to the security zone along the ceasefire line separating Transnistria from government-controlled Moldova. On that occasion, I was on the side of the zone under Moldovan control, but getting there meant passing through a checkpoint manned by Russian soldiers, part of the trilateral peacekeeping force comprising soldiers from Moldova, Transnistria and Russia.

The House of Soviets, with Lenin bust, Tiraspol

The left, east bank of the Dniester split away from the rest of Moldova as the Soviet Union broke up at the beginning of the 1990s and Moldova moved towards independence. In a brief war that surged in 1992, with help from former Soviet, now Russian forces, the Transnistrian separatists prevailed, leading to a frozen conflict and the deployment of Russian “peacekeepers” who are still there today. The breakaway region has a complex ethnic makeup, with a plurality of Russians, as well as Ukrainians and Moldovans, and smaller numbers of other ethnic groups.

The territory of today’s Republic of Moldova had been part of the medieval Principality of Moldavia, with its capital in Iaşi, which by the 16^th century had become a vassal of the Ottoman Empire. However, in 1812, the eastern half of Moldavia, today’s Republic of Moldova plus territories to the north and south in present-day Ukraine, was annexed by the Russian Empire. The western half of historic Moldavia went on to unite with Wallachia to form the Romanian state in the mid-19^th century. When the Russian and Austro-Hungarian empires collapsed at the end of the First World War, Romania expanded into ethnically and linguistically Romanian lands. Eastern Moldova, also known as Bessarabia, was incorporated into Romania. But the east bank of the Dniester became part of Soviet Ukraine.

In 1924, the Soviets created the Moldavian Autonomous Socialist Republic along the east bank of the Dniester, within Soviet Ukraine. The capital was initially in Balta, which is today a district of Odessa Region, but in 1929 it was moved to Tiraspol. The idea for the Soviets was that this autonomous region would be a magnet for the rest of Moldova, which they hoped to recover. When, during the Second World War, Moldova was annexed by the Soviet Union, the east bank of the Dniester, including Tiraspol, became part of the Moldavian Soviet Republic.

As the fighting in Transnistria reached its culmination in the summer of 1992, separatist forces, aided by the Russian army, seized the town of Bender, also known as Tighina, on the west bank of the Dniester. There are also pockets of territory on the east bank that remain under Moldovan control. Since 1992, the conflict has remained essentially frozen, although in 1997 an agreement was signed by the two sides, normalising relations between the two territories.

I have visited several unrecognised separatist territories, including Abkhazia in Georgia, Nagorno-Karabakh, when it was still under Armenian control, the Luhansk People’s Republic in eastern Ukraine, and Northern Cyprus. None of them have established a normal modus vivendi to the extent that Moldova has done with Transnistria. People travel back and forth freely. Marshrutkas (minibuses) leave Chişinău for Tiraspol every 20 minutes. Vehicles with Transnistria license plates (which bear the Transnistria flag) can be seen in Moldovan-controlled territory, just as Moldovan-registered vehicles can be seen in Transnistria. Entering Transnistria when I visited, the formalities at the crossing point were quick and easy. On the government-controlled side, no checks at all. On the Transnistria side, a quick check of my passport, my details entered in their system, and I was asked the purpose of my visit. I was then given a slip of paper, which I had to produce, along with my passport, on my return.

Transnistria is famed for existing in a Soviet time warp, with its Soviet era monuments, statues of Lenin and other Soviet heroes. Tourists visit Tiraspol for a glimpse of the old Soviet Union. The Transnistria flag even retains the Soviet hammer and sickle emblem. I had supper at a restaurant called Snova v SSSR (Back to the USSR), a kind of Disney land of Soviet nostalgia. But if a desire to hang on to the certainties of the Soviet world, above all its Russian primacy, was behind Transnistria’s separatism, beyond the outward symbols, I don’t think Transnistria today is very Soviet. Much of the economy has been privatised since the 1990s. Tiraspol has excellent cafes serving cappuccinos and delicious pastries, as well as numerous restaurants serving pizzas, burgers and all the fare of the modern world. Its shops are well stocked with all manner of produce.

Wall of Memory, Tiraspol

As well as the Soviet-era monuments, there are also memorials associated with the war at the beginning of the 1990s, commemorating the soldiers who fell for Transnistria. The Memorial of Glory in Tiraspol honours the dead of the Second World War, the Afghan War, and the Transnistrian War. At its centre is the tomb of the unknown soldier and eternal flame. There is also a World II tank. More recently, the memorial was reconstructed, with a Wall of Memory listing those who died for Transnistria.

In Bender, close to the western end of the bridge across the Dniester, linking the town with Tiraspol, there is a collection of monuments. The Stele “City of Military Glory” was unveiled in 2015 to mark the 70^th anniversary of the end of World War II. The president of Transnistria had designated Bender a “City of Military Glory” in 2012. Nearby is the Memorial of Commemoration and Sorrow, dedicated to those who died in the Transnistria war. The monument is described as an open chapel and is topped by a cross. Next to it is a restored infantry fighting vehicle whose crew had died in the fighting in 1992, and also an eternal flame. There is also a monument to Alexander Lebed, the Russian general whose intervention on the side of the Transnistrian separatists was critical in inflicting defeat on the Moldovan forces. Lebed was quite the hero for Transnistria. There is also a rather less well cared for monument to him in a scrappy untended park near the railway station in Tiraspol. Lebed’s involvement in the Transnistria war made him highly popular in Russia, and some considered him a potential successor to President Boris Yeltsin. He was a pragmatic general, who, despite his support for Transnistria, apparently regarded its leaders with contempt as a gang of corrupt “hooligans.” He went on to play a key role in negotiating an end to the first Chechen war.

Memorial of Commemoration and Sorrow, Bender

Yet another nearby monument in Bender is the Monument of Russian Glory, an obelisk topped by an eagle, which was inaugurated in 1912 to mark the centenary of Imperial Russia’s victory over the Ottoman Empire, and the annexation of Bessarabia to the Russian Empire. It had originally stood inside Bender castle, on a hill overlooking the Dniester, which has recently been much restored. All these monuments to military victories, those of the more distant past as well as the more recent victory over Moldova, seem to suggest a state fixated on war. This mirrors the obsession with war promoted by the Putin regime in Russia. In Tiraspol there were posters commemorating the Soviet victory over Nazi Germany, although it was the end of July, and the anniversary had been nearly three months earlier. Looking at the memorials to those who died to separate Transnistria from Moldova highlights the difficulties that would have to be overcome if Transnistria is to be reintegrated with Moldova.

Transnistria has faced a severe economic crisis in 2025, since Russia’s gas supplies were cut off due to Ukraine’s ending of a transit agreement at the end of 2024. Transnistria had depended on Russia’s supply of essentially free gas, which powered its industries as well as providing heating and electricity for its inhabitants. That dependency also ensured that Transnistria remained tethered by a tight leash to Moscow. The result of the cut-off was factories halting operations and power cuts for Transnistria’s residents. The crisis is potentially existential for Transnistria, where the economy and the government’s finances had depended on the subsidised Russian gas. An offer of EU help was rejected, presumably under Russian pressure. A partial solution was found by which gas is supplied by a Hungarian company through Moldova, funded by a Russian loan. But the crisis has highlighted just how vulnerable Transnistria is given its dependence on a faraway patron. Moldova itself, with EU help, had already been diversifying its energy supply away from Russia since the full-scale invasion of Ukraine, and is hooked up to Romania’s electricity grid.

Transnistria finds itself ever more dependent on Moldova. Transnistrian enterprises have to be registered in Moldova in order to trade with Europe. Since 2022, the breakaway territory’s border with Ukraine has been closed. People and goods can get into or out of Transnistria only through Moldova. As it is recognised as part of Moldova, Transnistria has benefited from the Association Agreement Moldova signed with the EU in 2014, boosting trade with the EU, as well as ensuring that Transnistria’s exports have to comply with EU and Moldovan standards. This economic dependence gives Moldova leverage. Moldova’s approach towards Transnistria, with its openness to free movement of people and goods is probably wise, and stands in marked contrast to Ukraine’s approach to the separatist territories in Donbas from 2014 until the full-scale invasion in 2022. The prospect of an eventual peaceful reintegration of Transnistria into Moldova would surely be worth such patience.

In the centre of Tiraspol, tall flag poles fly the flags of Transnistria alongside those of Abkhazia and South Ossetia, two separatist territories in Georgia that are sustained by Russian support. There are also representative offices of the two breakaway states, both in the same building. When I walked past, a man was busy putting up a poster commemorating the war in 2008, when Russia invaded Georgia in support of its South Ossetian clients. Evidently there is a strong common sense of shared destiny among these separatist lands. But Transnistria’s position, cut off and lacking a common border with Russia, is more fragile those of Abkhazia and South Ossetia.

Out of Transnistria’s population of 475,000, according to the 2015 census, some 300,000 are reckoned to have Moldovan citizenship. Many Transnistrians have multiple passports, with around 150,000 having Russian citizenship, and 100,000 having Ukrainian citizenship, as well as smaller numbers with Belarusian, Bulgarian or Israeli citizenship, and many with Romanian citizenship. Walking in the centre of Tiraspol, I saw an advertisement for legal services for people seeking Moldovan, Russian, Ukrainian or Romanian passports. The demand for alternative passports would seem to indicate a high degree of pragmatism among Transnistria’s residents.

While there is little sign at this point of a willingness on the part of Transnistria to reintegrate with Moldova, nevertheless a pragmatic willingness to rub along appears to underlie relations between Tiraspol and Chişinău. This is partly due to force of circumstances. Without Moldovan goodwill, Transnistria would be totally isolated. This pragmatism could be seen in the Moldovan referendum in October 2024, on placing the aspiration to join the EU in the country’s constitution. The referendum passed by a wafer-thin margin, indicating the extent to which Moldovans are divided over the questions of their relationships with Europe and with Russia. It passed at all only thanks to the votes of Moldovans living abroad, who voted overwhelmingly in favour of integration with the EU (more than 200 polling stations were opened abroad, only two of which were in Russia, much to Moscow’s annoyance). Moldovan citizens resident in Transnistria had the opportunity to vote in special polling stations in government-controlled territory, many of them inside the security zone. Official data show that over 15,000 of them did so, of whom 31 per cent voted yes to EU integration. Visiting some of the polling stations, I saw that, while the majority spoke with polling election officials in Russian, many spoke Romanian. Evidently, at least part of Transnistria’s population identifies with Moldova and with its European future.

Russian influence and interference in Moldova is intense. While the conflict over Transnistria remains frozen, Russia has continued to pursue a hybrid campaign in Moldova, seeking to influence its elections, supporting pro-Russian candidates in the hope of bringing to power a government more conducive to Russian interests. This was very much evident in the referendum and presidential election, the first round of which was held on the same day. The process was marred by massive vote-buying, involving money transfers from Russia, a key role being played by the pro-Russian Israeli-born Moldovan politician Ilan Shor, who currently resides in Russia, a fugitive from justice in Moldova following his conviction over a massive banking fraud.

Pro-Russian sentiment remains widespread in Moldova. A couple of weeks after the referendum, I was in the southern region of Gagauzia, an autonomous territory in southern Moldova. The Gagauz are a Turkic-speaking Orthodox Christian people, found in southern Bessarabia, in neighbouring Ukraine, as well as in Moldova. Most Gagauz had opposed Moldovan independence. Worried by the example set by violent separatism in Transnistria, in the 1990s Chişinău granted the Gagauz territorial autonomy within Moldova. Soviet nostalgia and pro-Russian sentiment remain potent within the region. In Gagauzia’s regional capital, I visited the local winery. It houses a museum of Soviet nostalgia, including artefacts from Soviet times, Soviet military and Komsomol (Communist youth league) hats that you can try on, a Lenin bust, and all the old flags of the Soviet republics, including the hammer and sickle. In referendums in Gagauzia in 2014, more than 98 per cent voted in favour of joining the Customs Union of Russia, Belaris and Kazakhstan. Over 97 per cent opposed integration with the EU, and nearly 99 per cent supported independence in case Moldova were to unite with Romania. In the October 2024 referendum, nearly 95 per cent in Gagauzia voted against EU integration.

Although the Gagauz have their own language, the lingua franca in Gagauzia is Russian, and during my stay in the regional capital, Comrat, and in my travels around the region, I mostly heard Russian spoken. Many Gagauz speak Romanian poorly, and there is a lot of sensitivity about the Romanian language being imposed. Within Gagauzia, people have the right to use Gagauz or Russian, as well as Romanian, in public life. I was told that many people do speak Gagauz in rural areas, but oddly, it seems that the language issue in Gagauzia is mainly about defending the use of Russian, rather than of Gagauz.

While the referendum in favour of EU integration marginally passed, thanks to the votes of the Moldovan diaspora, the majority of regions in the country voted against. As well as Gagauzia in the south, neighbouring Taraclia disrict, with its ethnic-Bulgarian majority, voted “no” by 92 per cent, and much of the north also voted strongly against. The presidential election held at the same pitted the pro-western incumbent, Maia Sandu, against Aleksandr Stoianoglo, an ethnic-Gagauz who was seen as the pro-Russian candidate. While Stoianoglo said he supported Moldova’s European path, he opposed the referendum question on enshrining EU integration in the constitution, and promised a foreign policy that balanced East and West. Sandu emerged victorious with 55 per cent of the vote. Mirroring the referendum result, support for Stoianoglo was stronger in the south and north.

While Sandu supporters put the closeness of the referendum and election results down to Russian interference and vote-buying, nevertheless the results would suggest Moldovan society remains divided over its relations with Russia and Europe. Rather than scorning those citizens who are unconvinced by the EU integration path, Ukraine’s example might serve as a salutary warning to proceed with caution, avoiding polarisation and seeking a broader consensus about the country’s European future. Moldova’s path towards Europe is surely clear. But with an aggressive Russian regime still using all means to put obstacles in its way, and a population much of which remains to be convinced, caution would surely be prudent.

Sukhum and Abkhazia

Journeying to Sukhum, one could almost feel like being in a normal country. Soon after leaving Gali, the road becomes much better. In fact, the road north of Gali is in the process of being re-asphalted. Maybe it will soon extend through Gali to the boundary. But if that happens, I suspect it will be because the Russians, the source of the lion’s share of Abkhazia’s budget, want a proper road for their military base at the boundary, not out of any sense of responsibility towards the Georgian inhabitants of Gali. The police-manned barriers along the road to Sukhum (all up, with no stops during my journey) are a rather intimidating reminder that this is not a normal country.

The burned-out former government building, Sukhum

To an extent, life in Sukhum does seem rather routine. Visiting in July, the place is thronged with Russian tourists there for a seaside holiday. They perhaps give it a more bustling appearance than would be the case out of season. But since the expulsion of its Georgians, Sukhum is a much emptier place than it once was. Away from the seafront, the centre of tourist activity, and a few renovated streets in the town centre, there are lots of abandoned, derelict buildings, the still unhealed scars of the war. The government building, burned when the Abkhazian forces took Sukhum in September 1993, remains as it was, a burned out shell. Like many buildings, the railway station, a vast, typically Soviet structure, is gradually being taken over by greenery. Perhaps this has been the fate of sacked cities over millennia; a remaining, truncated population retreats to a few areas of the town, leaving the rest to collapse and return to nature.

Nature reclaims the ruins, Sukhum

Neal Ascherson described a visit to Abkhazia not long after the conflict in his brilliant book, Black Sea: The Birthplace of Civilisation and Barbarism. At that stage Sukhum was barely functioning, its officials working without pay, its ministers without proper doors to their offices. That is no longer the case. Government offices stand amid well-groomed parks; vehicles, complete with Abkhazian license plates (a crucial symbol for a new state), stop at traffic lights and are directed by traffic police; banks open and close. The place works.

It does better than just work. The seafront is really pleasant, a shady walk, flanked on one side by a mass of pink oleanders, eucalyptus, and palm trees. The lush green of Abkahzia’s sub-tropical climate is a great attraction. It is easy to see why so many Georgians speak wistfully of how much they miss Sukhumi. At one end of the promenade, near the president’s office, men sit in the shade of the oleanders, playing chess and other board games, drinking coffee. There is a special kind of coffee here, Turkish coffee with its own little quirk. The individual cezve coffee pots, filled with coffee and hot water, are pulled to and fro in a tray of burning hot sand until the mushy scum that forms on top just begins to rise and boil over. Once or twice a day I watch this ritual, before taking my little cup to sit under the oleanders, looking out at the sea.

Coffee under the oleanders, Sukhum

Seeing the hordes of Russian tourists on the beaches, in the restaurants and coffee shops, I cannot help wondering whether this might not be the basis of a viable economy. Its other asset, its climate, is suitable for growing citrus and tropical fruits for export. Mandarins are ubiquitous; I did not, however, find freshly squeezed mandarin juice to be a pleasing substitute for orange juice. But no. In reality, Abkhazia depends on the Russian subsidy, and it is the Russians who run the place.

A visit to the Abkhazian foreign ministry, to pick up my visa, was instructive. I had made a note of the address, and there, sure enough, was a large official looking building. The foreign ministry, I thought. But no. The foreign ministry was just one short corridor up the stairs on the first floor. The building housed other ministries and government agencies as well. The finance ministry was situated on a similarly short corridor opposite the foreign ministry. On the foreign ministry corridor, there was an office with a couple of desks for the consular section, another room for protocol, one for information and so on. And just one lavatory, a gents. I guessed that the ladies’ was across the way, in the finance ministry. It brought home what a toy-town place Abkhazia is, recognised as independent only by Russia, Nicaragua, Venezuela and the Pacific island states of Nauru and Vanuatu (as well as South Ossetia, Nagorno-Karabakh and Transnistria, themselves not widely recognised).

Following the brief renewal of conflict over South Ossetia and the Russian invasion of Georgia in 2008, the Russian army took control of Abkhazia’s boundary. Many Abkhazians did not like it, and there was even some resistance. The degree of dependence on Russia is troubling to many Abkhaz. But they have no choice. This is not an independent country; its sovereignty is a sham. What the Russians intend in the longer term, whether the eventual goal might be the full incorporation in the Russian Federation, is hard to guess. Probably they are keeping their options open. Even before the 2008 conflict, a leading Georgian international affairs expert told me in Tbilisi that he did not believe Georgia would ever recover Abkhazia (South Ossetia, given its proximity to Tbilisi, was another matter). Yet most of the world continues to affirm its support for Georgia’s sovereignty in Abkhazia and South Ossetia. What must be especially unsettling for the Abkhaz is the thought that a future, post-Putin Russian government might one day change its policy, decide to improve its relations with the West and to normalise relations with Georgia.

For the time-being it is hard to see circumstances in which Abkhazia’s status vis-à-vis Georgia could be resolved. Despite Tbilisi’s attempts to sweeten the prospect of a return to the Georgian fold, including the offer extensive autonomy for Abkhazia, there is, for the present, no incentive for the Abkhazians to take up such offers as long as they enjoy Russian support. But their position is precarious, dependent on Moscow’s goodwill and its ongoing bad relations with Georgia.

It is easy to sympathise with the Abkhaz; subjected to ethnic cleansing by imperial Russia, to a colonial policy which saw their territory swamped by other nations, and to oppression and forced assimilation policies under the Georgians Stalin and Beria (Abkhazia’s longstanding Greek community was, like other Black Sea Greeks, transported into exile by Stalin, their place taken by inward Georgian migration). That Abkhaz were resentful is little wonder. Georgians have rarely shown much sensitivity to smaller peoples in territory they regard as their own. For many, Abkhazia is Georgian land, and that is all. In so far as they would be permitted to exist as a distinct people, Abkhaz feared they faced a future similar to that of the native Americans, living in villages in the hills, much like reservations, while most of Abkhazia was thoroughly Georgianised. Some Georgians do acknowledge the distress of the Abkhaz. One young woman in Tbilisi told me that, if she were an Abkhaz, she would not want to live in Georgia. Another Georgian admitted that the Abkhaz had been treated like second-class citizens during Soviet times.

As the Soviet Union broke up, the Abkhaz saw their opportunity, like other submerged nations, the Baltic peoples and the Georgians themselves, to escape such a fate. But the road they took meant the forcible expulsion of the Georgian population, another injustice that did not in any way erase the earlier injustices suffered by the Abkhaz, but rather compounded them. Of course, there are other examples of states founded upon the violent expulsion of people whose presence was undesirable. Israel springs to mind. But the Abkhazians are less likely to get away with it.

It need not have been so. Unfortunately at the time of the conflict, the government in Tbilisi was dominated by nationalists with no sense of any need to reassure the Abkhaz (or the South Ossetians) about their position in an independent Georgia, or to reach compromises with them. But what kind of future can there be for a state ruled by a people less than 100,000 strong, a minority in their own land, based on the expulsion of nearly half its population, and utterly dependent on a big neighbour whose future support cannot be relied upon? For now, the Abkhaz may see little reason to compromise. The Georgian government, powerless as it is at present to restore its rule in Abkhazia, is offering compromises. Abkhaz suspicions about its good faith are understandable, given the record, including the attempt to retake South Ossetia by force in 2008. The Georgians have a lot to prove. But a future as a fief of Putin’s Russia, based upon the denial of the fundamental rights of the Georgian expellees, cannot be a sound foundation for statehood.

A visit to Gali, Abkhazia

Walking across the Inguri bridge into Abkhazia, there is something of a Cold War feel, crossing on foot the line in a frozen conflict. I travelled by taxi from Zugdidi to the boundary line, and was dropped off just before a barrier closing the road to traffic. The taxi driver indicated that the way to Abkhazia was straight ahead. And so I walked, my backpack on my back, not really knowing what to expect. Behind me, a huge Georgian flag flew at the top of a massive flag pole. Ahead, the Georgian writ no longer ran.

The Inguri crossing, looking towards the Abkhazian side

The Georgian police sitting in a little cabin showed no interest in me, and so on I walked, past a couple of young Georgian soldiers and through a chicane of concrete blocks, and onwards to the bridge. The bridge is long, extending over an expanse of marshes and little streams, the main flow close to the Abkhazian side. I only saw a couple of vehicles crossing, both from international aid organisations. Others were crossing on foot, Georgians from Gali district, the first district on the Abkhazian side, who had been allowed by the Abkhazians to return to their homes, and to pass to and fro across the boundary. There were also a couple of covered wagons that ferried people backwards and forwards across the bridge at a horse trot.

Reaching the Abkhazian side, any apprehensions I had had of potential problems proved unfounded. While there was a large Russian base next to the crossing, no Russian soldiers were in sight. Just friendly Abkhazian border guards, who checked my passport and took the entry permit I had received from the Abkhazian foreign ministry by email attachment. Gaining entry to Abkhazia turned out to be straightforward for a foreign visitor. An application form sent by email to the foreign ministry, and the receipt of the permit a few days later. Then all I had to do was to go to the foreign ministry to receive a visa, at a cost of 20 dollars, once I reached the capital, Sukhum.

Arrived in Abkhazia, I took a taxi to the first town, Gali (in Georgian, Gal for the Abkhazians). Like all the taxis waiting at the boundary, it was a rickety, shaky old thing that clattered and rattled over the bumpy, pitted roads to Gali. It seemed there had been no maintenance of this road since the conflict of 1992-93.

In that war, with Russian support, the Abkhazians succeeded in breaking away from Georgia, of which Abkhazia was an autonomous republic (although it has not gained wide recognition). Abkhazia, or Apsny in the Abkhazian language, had been incorporated into imperial Russia in the 1860s. In what is remembered by Abkhaz as genocide, over the following years a large part of the Muslim Abkhaz, as well as the neighbouring Circassian, Ubykh and Abaza populations, were expelled to the Ottoman Empire, many of them dying when the ships carrying them sank, or from disease as they languished in the Ottoman ports of arrival. Abkhazia was already multi-ethnic, including, like much of the Black Sea coast, a Greek population. Georgians claim there had been Georgians there for thousands of years. What is certain is that following the depopulation caused by the Russian expulsion of much of the Abkhaz population, their place was taken by immigrants, especially Georgians (mainly Megrelians from western Georgia), as well as Armenians, Russians and north Caucasian peoples. The result was a dramatic shift in the ethnic balance, so that by the end of the 1980s Abkahz amounted to less than 20 per cent of the population of Abkhazia, and Georgians some 45 per cent.

Demographics were the key to the conflict, and remain central today. The numbers are disputed, but the wholesale expulsion of the Georgian population as the Abkhazian forces advanced in 1993 drastically reduced the population from over half a million to probably less than 200,000 now. But Abkhaz still constitute a minority, the other significant groups being Armenians and Georgians. Since the late-1990s, the Abkhazians allowed Georgians to return to Gali district. Perhaps as many as 60,000 have done so, although the number is fluid, as many keep a foot on both sides of the Inguri, crossing into Abkhazia to look after their homes and plots of land, and to tend family graves. Many avoid the Inguri crossing, and the bureaucracy and expense of being officially registered in Abkhazia. Instead, they cross by numerous unofficial paths, often by minivans, which can ford the river at some points, dodging the Russian soldiers who monitor the boundary. Sometimes they are caught, fines are imposed and minivans impounded.

A poster with the Abkhazian flag in Gali

As the poor state of the road to Gali and of the taxi that took me along it indicated, Gali is in a dreadful state. Many buildings are abandoned. In some derelict apartment blocks, their facades a series of gaping holes, there are occasional flats that are nevertheless occupied, laundry flapping on the balconies. The market area, with its squalid little shops with a mean little selection of goods on offer, is a depressing place. What kind of life do people have here? One answer to that question is possibly that they have a better life than the people still housed in collective centres for those displaced by the conflict, over the other side of the boundary. I saw some of these buildings in Zugdidi, decrepit and open to the elements, no doubt damp and freezing cold in winter. People have been in these places for nearly two decades. There has been international aid money to repair and improve the buildings, but the work has often been shoddily carried out. These victims of the conflict seem to be forgotten and unwanted, offered no hope or future. They are kept out of the way and left to rot on the pittance the Georgian government pays them.

Gali town centre

Most of the people in Gali are Georgian, speakers of the Megrelian language, part of the same Kartvelian language group as Georgian, as well as Svanetian and Lazuri. They are second-class citizens. Clearly the Abkhazian government in Sukhum and its Russian paymasters have invested almost nothing in this Georgian-inhabited district since 1993. The place is run by Abkhazians. The Abkhazian flag flies there, and a memorial honours the Abkhazians who died in the conflict with Georgia, not the Georgians who were massacred and were driven from their homes. In order to hang on in Gali, the Georgians have to accept many humiliations and compromises. A few thousand of them have even taken Abkhazian citizenship.

Although most of the people of Gali speak Megrelian, the lingua franca, the language of public communication, is Russian. I witnessed a neat illustration of this travelling back by minivan from Sukhum to Gali at the end of my visit to Abkhazia. Sitting in the van in Sukhum, waiting for it to depart, people were speaking to one another in Russian. Not long after leaving Sukhum, the van stopped to pick up a woman who was obviously well-known to many of the passengers, and to the driver. She at once started speaking in Megrelian. The driver jokingly rebuked her. She should learn to speak Russian properly, and not speak ‘Georgian’. Such light rebukes continued as the journey progressed, but as we got closer to Gali, more and more people switched to Megrelian. And by the time we reached Gali, everyone was speaking Megrelian, including the driver, who was called Badri, a typical Georgian name.

A Black Sea voyage

I took a ferry from Ilichevsk, just along the coast from Odessa, to Batumi, in Georgia. It was an experience, on more than one level. First of all were the trials of embarkation. When purchasing the ticket at the ferry company office in Odessa, the friendly clerk explained with a mixture of amusement and embarrassment the convoluted procedures for embarking a ferry in Ukraine. I think he must have been confronted with open-mouthed amazement from other western passengers before me. But this, he told me, was how it was done in Ukraine.

Firstly, while he could tell me the day of departure (or rather embarkation), he could not tell me the time. There was one ferry for Batumi per week. The captain would tell him the time of embarkation the day before, and he would pass on the information by SMS. The message duly came, and informed me that I should be at the embarkation office in Ilichevsk to register at 16.30. I turned up a little bit early, to be on the safe side. Three other western travellers, from England, France and Scotland, had the same idea. Usefully, the Scot had gone through all of this twice before, and was able to show us where to go and what to do.

So we went to the registration office, where we received a stamp on our tickets. Then it was a short walk down to the harbour, taking the short-cut, down a dirt track recommended by our Scottish fellow traveller. But there was no need to hurry. There followed a wait of several hours in a dismal little room, crowded with luggage, with no drinks machines or food, and not enough seats for everybody. Goodness it was tedious. The boredom of the six-hour wait was relieved only by the requirement to go to register once again with another lady at a little hatch in the wall in the corridor, who ticked our names off on a list. There was no announcement that we had to do that, and we only knew to do so because of our experienced Scottish friend.

At one point I needed to go the lavatory. This was hardly surprising given the length of the wait. I tried (with my extremely limited Russian) asking a lady in uniform who also seemed to be checking people off on a list (apparently she was not interested in checking me off), where the lavatory was. She pointed upstairs. So up I went, to what seemed to be an office. As I reached the top, I saw someone come out of the lavatory and lock the door behind her. I signalled to her that I wished to use it too. She seemed affronted, and angrily pointed me back down the stairs. This lavatory was not for passengers. I tried to explain that someone downstairs had told me to come upstairs, but she was having none of it. So back down I went, and tried (again with my very few words of Russian) to explain to the lady in the uniform that I had been told to come back down. At this point she lost patience. I could not understand what she said, but clearly I was nor to bother her further. So off I went to find a bush.

Through all of this, our Scottish friend remained untroubled. In fact, he seemed to being enjoying it. He sat there, with a smile on his face, assuring us that all would be well once we were on the boat. At some point, “that door there” would be opened, and we would be called through. In fact the door did open quite early on, for a man who spoke to us in Russian. His words did not seem to elicit any great excitement among the majority of would-be passengers who could speak Russian, so I did not worry. When we finally boarded the boat, and this same man gave me the key to my cabin, I asked him where we could get supper (we had been told at the office in Odessa that we would be given a meal the first evening). It’s 10.30, he replied, supper finished was hours ago. He had announced that there would be no supper on the boat, and that passengers should eat before boarding. Yes, but you announced it in Russian, I replied, and I don’t understand Russian. “What”, he was incredulous, “not at all?” So to bed without supper.

First thing in the morning, after a peaceful sleep, the ferry was still in Ilichevsk. Why had they made us check in at 16.30 the previous afternoon, when we would not board until 22.30, and not leave until 7.30 the following morning? Not just Ukrainian procedures, I suspect, but rather the lady at the office in Ilichevsk who stamped our tickets, and wanted to leave work by 5 pm.

But finally we were on our way. The ferry was actually first of all a freighter, carrying containers, lorries and, on a lower deck, railway carriages that were trundled on and off, directly on to railway tracks in Ilichevsk and Batumi. Many of the passengers were Georgian truck drivers, who spent the voyage either watching DVDs in the lounges, playing chess or drinking heroic quantities of vodka in the bar. A young Czech who was assigned to the same table as me for meal times spent an afternoon with some of these Georgians getting hopelessly drunk (they, of course, were hardly affected). It loosened his tongue remarkably that evening, as he told us, his voice slurring all over the place, how he was looking for God and could not stand Russians.

Spending three days on a boat, isolated from the world, without phones or internet access, is an unusual experience in this day and age. For a short while you become quite close to a small group of fellow passengers with whom you eat, drink and chat. During our voyage, the sea was calm, the sun hot, and we gently steamed along, each day following a natural rhythm from mealtime to mealtime. We could not understand why the boat sometimes chugged along very slowly indeed, while at other times it set quite a pace.

The Scot, who had made this voyage in both directions twice before, and clearly enjoyed it, was quite a character. In his seventies, I would guess, he made long journeys each year, with a backpack and a sketch pad, sleeping mainly in a tent, just occasionally spending a couple of nights in a cheap hotel to clean up. His trips included long walks of several days duration, pitching his tent by the side of the road, and eating what he could find as he went along. At the start of our voyage he was quite miffed, as his tent had been taken in Odessa, together with his best trousers. He had pitched it in a city park for five nights, and he suspected that the police had taken it. Perhaps not surprising, as pitching a tent in a public park was surely illegal. But he was annoyed that they had not given it back. He entertained hopes that somehow it would materialise, that even at that late stage the police would relent and let him have his tent back. No such luck. He was, however, not unhappy about having to spend a few nights in a hotel in Odessa, as he had needed a wash. He had stayed in a very cheap hotel. Having spent one night in a cheap hotel in Yalta (though not as cheap as his), I knew what cheap Ukrainian hotels could be like. His sounded horrible, complete with bed bugs. Why did he stay there, I asked? Would he at least not have wanted to be somewhere clean? Well, it was cleaner than my tent, he replied. There was no answer to that.

A remarkable man, with enormous energy and youthfulness for his years, gently taking everything in his stride, open to whatever adventures, hardships and pleasures came along. Good natured to a fault, he was also a committed member of one of those hard-line Scottish protestant churches, and held strong, if not always coherent, views on gays, Catholics, Jews and the leading Scottish Aristocracy. He considered that the Papist Scottish dukes really controlled Scotland, were responsible for the deaths of leading Scottish politicians, and were conspiring against him personally.

And then suddenly the voyage was over. Mobile phones were connected again some time before we reached the Georgian coast. And then we all went our separate ways.

The old town of Tbilisi

I love wandering the streets of the old town in Tbilisi. Not the streets which have been smartly renovated, and are now crammed with cafés. Rather those that have not been renovated, with their uniquely Georgian style and charm. With their often brightly coloured facades and balconies, sometimes going right the way round the building, and the colourful plants that twine among them, they give the streets a feel of romance. Many of the streets are shabby and dilapidated, the houses cracked and broken, beyond repair in some cases. If to the outside visitor they appear picturesque, to the residents they probably seem draughty and uncomfortable, images of poverty rather than of charm.

I find it peculiar that these beautiful, albeit rundown streets of central Tbilisi are not more attractive to better-off residents of the city. Rather, it is the Vera, Vake and Saburtalo districts, with their modern apartment blocks, that are favoured by the smart Tbilisi elite. In some cities, such as Zagreb, it has been the newly prosperous, the advertising executives and bankers, moving into the older central districts, buying up from impoverished residents who could not afford the maintenance or renovation of their buildings, that has been an important dynamo for restoration and repair. Not so Tbilisi.

For all the charm of the ramshackle dwellings in Tbilisi’s old town, they must of course be renovated, and in some cases, unfortunately, the only solution is to tear them down. The main hope is that the rebuilding will be done sensitively, in keeping with the style and traditions of these neighbourhoods; that there will be the same attention to detail, for example in the often ornate trellises around the balconies.

Some recent constructions give cause for concern about the aesthetic taste of the current leadership. The gaudy footbridge over the Mt'k'vari river is placed right next to the old town, below the castle, and surrounded on all sides by fine old churches. Some modern constructions built among older buildings, such as the pyramid at the Louvre, seem inspired. This bridge seems horribly out of place. When I first saw it, I thought it looked like a sea monster, or a giant slug. More disrespectful Tbilisi residents dubbed it “the tampon”. And then there is the president’s residence, a rip-off of the Reichstag. Perhaps the policeman who tried to stop me photographing the residence was actually motivated by embarrassment.

The president's residence, behind the giant slug bridge

There is a place in Tbilisi for larger, more monumental buildings, around Rustaveli and the squares at either end. The beauty of the narrow streets of the old town is in their small-scale simplicity. For now, I am grateful I can enjoy walking those streets, aware that they will not for long be as are now.

Post-industrial wastelands

Tbilisi nowadays is a scene of feverish construction and renovation work. Spending time there, a visitor can easily be seduced by the obvious progress being made. Over recent years, the city has visibly changed for the better, even if not all the new landmark constructions are to everybody’s taste. It is not only the appearance. Chic new cafés have appeared, and new restaurants appealing to more exotic tastes, such as Japanese and Thai. In spite of problems, and despite the nearby Russian threat, Tbilisi is a city on the up.

And the same can be said for one or two other towns in Georgia. Central Batumi is a building site, with tall buildings going up along the seafront that seem to be more Dubai than Black Sea. As in Tbilisi, perhaps even more so given that it is concentrated in a much smaller town, the gardens and fountains, the cafés, all give an impression of rising prosperity.

But travelling across Georgia, the country in between Batumi and Tbilisi presents a different picture, which reminds of how much hardship the country has endured, and continues to endure. Following the end of the Soviet Union, and the collapse of the Soviet market, most of Georgia’s economic base was wiped out, almost at a stroke. The series of wars, civil strife and near anarchy of the early 1990s, and the decent of the country more or less into a failed state, added to the woe. The visible legacy of this is the industrial wasteland around several towns across Georgia, industrial zones that no longer have any industry, just the skeletal remains of industrial buildings. On my first visit to Georgia, at the end of 2003, I was told one of Georgia’s main exports was scrap metal from its abandoned factories. Another major export has been its people, who left in droves in the 1990s, unable to make any kind of living in their homeland.

Six years ago, as an election observer, I spent a few days in the western town of Samtredia, the ugliest town in Georgia I was informed by our interpreter, who hailed from Tbilisi. Yes, our driver, a native of Samtredia, agreed readily, smilingly, almost proudly, Samtredia was indeed the ugliest town in Georgia. Driving through the town’s former industrial zone, we passed acres of decay and decrepitude; tumbled-down warehouses and factories, their windows smashed, ceilings falling in; twisted, rusted metal and old bits of machinery. And among all this were people, somehow scratching a minimal living in this de-industrialised wilderness.

And yet I and my colleagues enjoyed wonderful hospitality in Samtredia. Right there, at polling stations in amongst that wasteland, we were offered food and wine, coffee, and, on a couple of occasions, even marriage (surely a sign of desperation, even if delivered with a smile). One evening in Samtredia, we were invited to a party at a local restaurant. There we were treated to a typically Georgian, gargantuan spread, complete with the obligatory toasts, to which I was able to respond with genuine warmth and emotion, so moved was I by our welcome.

And there are many other towns depressing to visitors, much like Samtredia. This trip, I stopped briefly in Khashuri, a town in central Georgia, a grim, dusty, dilapidated place, with almost nothing I could see to provide relief and give its residents cheer. The obligatory fountain, almost identical to ones placed in towns around Georgia under President Saakashvili, designed, no doubt, as a simple, quick measure to brighten places up and make their people feel a little better, seemed out of place to me, as if mocking its dismal surroundings. What can it be like to live in such a place?

And yet, as I found in Samtredia, some do manage to keep their spirits alive. But the people of Samtredia, Khashuri, and other towns in a similar plight deserve better. The spending being lavished on Tbilisi and Batumi should be shared around a bit more evenly.

Vardzia cave monastery

A western European travelling in Georgia is again and again struck by the wonders of a cultural heritage which, despite its rich achievement, is almost unknown to the rest of the world. In the middle ages, when the great gothic cathedrals were being built in Europe, marvellous basilicas were also being built in the Caucasus, in their own, distinct style.

On this trip, I travelled for the first time in southern Georgia, visiting the spa town of Borjomi, from where the celebrated mineral water comes. From there I travelled on to the 12th century cave monastery at Vardzia. Founded by the great Georgian Queen Tamar, it is said, in its day, to have had thousands of apartments hewn into the cliff face, as well as a complex irrigation system. Severely damaged by an earthquake a century later, it was ransacked by Persians in the mid-16th century.

So what we see today is an echo of its one-time glory. But it still impresses. Wandering around the caves, neatly carved, with arches, ornate doorways, shelves and alcoves where icons must once have stood. Exploring the tunnels dug deep into the rock brings back the boyish spirit of adventure. The church is well maintained, its frescos vivid and with a liveliness and sense of movement that one often sees in Georgian churches, in marked contrast to the rigid forms of Byzantine religious art that one finds throughout most of the Orthodox world.

A few monks live there now, in a small section of the monastery, their caves fronted by wooden walls, with doors and windows. I watched as a monk rinsed his frying pan, leaning out from the ledge in front of his cave.

Leaving the monastery, I walked down through a long, steep tunnel. At one time, the complex was accessible only by such secret passageways. They did not in the end protect it. But Vardzia is still a marvel to see today.

Travels by dolmuş and marshrutka

Touring in Turkey, travelling between small towns and villages, inevitably meant becoming familiar with the dolmuş, a minivan, or shared taxi. The word means “full”, and originally that meant they left when they were full-up. Nowadays, they mostly go according to a set timetable. If the route is busy, it is wise to turn up a little early to be sure of a place, and to avoid having to sit on a stool between the seats. Generally, they are a bit old and grubby, but I usually found them OK. And they are cheap. Drivers were usually helpful and, despite the language barrier, endeavoured to oblige by dropping me exactly where I wanted, pointing out the next bus I needed to take in case I had to change in order to reach my destination.

A peculiarity of travelling by bus or dolmuş in Turkey, at least in the north-east, is that unacquainted men and women are not allowed to sit next to each other. This adds to the complication of finding a place, as I was obliged to sit in a row of seats with other men. Sometimes, when new passengers were taken on board, people had to be shifted around, to keep the balance of the sexes right.

In more remote places, the dolmuş often transports goods as well as people. Travelling from Yusufeli to the village of Barhal, along a rather rough road, on the roof we had stacks of wooden panels, to line the walls of someone’s house, as well as a mattress. Inside, between the seats, was a television set, as well as sacks of bread and boxes of eggs.

My one really bad dolmuş experience was travelling from Kars to Ardahan. Sometimes, one finds oneself sitting near some rather unwashed people, and one just has to get used to it. But on this journey, there was an individual who was beyond the pale. The pungency of his stench, whose constitutive elements I do not even want to think about, made me retch. I do not believe he had washed either his clothes or himself for months, possibly years. Sitting behind me, he repeatedly murmured to himself in a low, gruff voice. He seemed to be beyond society. I spent most of the journey with a hand tightly clenched over my nose and mouth, in misery. When he finally got out, I thought I sensed a collective sigh of relief.

In Georgia, and around the former Soviet Union, the dolmuş is known as a marshrutka (a Russian word), but it is the same thing. Except that the Georgians have invented added thrills to the business of travel. Georgian driving can be eye-poppingly scary. The disregard for traffic lanes, the habit of swerving from one side to another, of gaily crossing over the central road markings into the line of oncoming traffic, all astonish visitors from countries with more staid driving practices. Then there are the testosterone-charged races I have witnessed down the long boulevards in central Tbilisi. Crossing the road is an adventure in that city. The impatience of Georgian drivers is such that they often cannot bear to wait in the right-hand lane at a road junction, and jump the queue, pulling over into the left lane, scooting ahead when the lights change, just in time to avoid the oncoming traffic. I saw a bizarre example of this in Batumi, when waiting at a railway crossing for a goods train to pass. Impatient drivers on both sides pulled into the left-hand lane, hoping to give themselves an advantage. The result, once the train had passed? Complete blockage, obviously.

I had only one previous experience of riding in a marshrutka, a journey from Tbilisi to Gori and back in 2004, to visit the Stalin museum. Some international organisations ban their staff from travelling by marshrutka, given their drivers’ reputation for extreme recklessness. I learned the reason why during my marshrutka journey from Borjomi to Vardzia, a winding road much of the way, often not metalled, and with steep drops in some places. The driver drove at such a speed that when he was flagged down by would-be passengers he had to slam on the breaks, usually coming to a halt much further down the road, having to back up (also at speed) some way in order to take them on board. He seemed unconcerned for life or limb. How he had made it to middle age driving like that is a mystery. Several times I found myself closing my eyes, unable to watch as he tore into another sharp bend. On two occasions he appeared on the verge of losing control as he hurtled into a bend that was just too tight, slamming on the breaks and struggling with the steering wheel. Once, as we stopped to pick up a party of Ukrainians, I relaxed the grip of my hands on the seat in front of me, and realised that the muscles in my arms were tightly clenched, such was the tension of the journey. Setting off again at the same manic speed, the Ukrainians and I exchanged worried glances. For the Georgian passengers, all was apparently completely normal. What a relief to arrive back in Borjomi in one piece (to change on to another marshrutka for the journey on to Tbilisi).

Georgian and Armenian remains

The eastern Black Sea region has for centuries been marked by repeated invasions, shattering civilisations and populations, leaving behind ruins. Romans, Byzantines, Persians, Turks, Mongols and Russians vied for control, while the indigenous peoples clung precariously to their patches of land. Yet Georgians and Armenians, as well as the Black Sea Pontic Greeks, all had their periods of ascendency in the middle ages, before their kingdoms were swept away by the next wave of invaders. Those kingdoms and empires left scattered remains that attest to their past glory.

Medieval Georgian church at Barhal

Leaving the Hemshin valleys, I went back to the coast, and then skirted around to the southern side of the mountains, to the little village of Barhal, along a windy, crumbling road from Yusufeli. Barhal is developing as a base for rafting trips along the rapid rivers of these parts, which is the main pull for visitors to the area. The whole region is dotted with medieval Georgian churches, in a greater or lesser state of decay, dating from an era when what is now eastern Turkey was at the centre of Georgian political and cultural life. Many of the churches are in remote places, difficult to access without transport. In Barhal, the 10th century Georgian church is close to the village, and it has survived intact thanks to its longstanding use as a mosque. There is a modern mosque in the village now, so that the old church is used only for Friday prayers. Although still intact, with its roof in place, it is in a sorry state. The conversion for use as a mosque was half-hearted (a cross is still visible on the outside), and it has not been maintained. Along the side aisles, corrugated iron has been placed, presumably to catch falling masonry. Yet it still impresses. The dimensions show that it was once a significant place of worship. Standing at one end of the nave, I find my imagination taking flight, thinking of the civilisation that once thrived here, which has now gone, leaving this magnificent thousand-year old building as its lasting memorial.

From Barhal, I journeyed east to Kars, through a landscape that changed along the way, from lush green mountains and steep valleys, to rolling hills and broader, more open spaces. From Kars, itself an Armenian city as recently as 1920, I visited the medieval Armenian capital of Ani. At its height one of the world’s great cities, with a population of over 100,000, it is now a desolate plain, surrounded by ruined, and partly (crudely) renovated walls, and dotted with ruined churches that have survived the centuries of neglect. It is an eerie place, a ghost city. Some streets have been preserved, with the lower walls of what are thought to have been shops. As at Barhal, walking the streets, or standing inside the churches, I found myself dreaming of the people who were once here, trying to imagine them, listening for their echoes.

Church of the Redeemer, Ani

Apart from Armenians, Ani was at different times in the middle ages taken by Byzantines, Seljuk Turks, Kurds, Georgians, Mongols and Tamarlane, before finally falling to the Ottomans. Falling into decay, it was rediscovered and excavated when the region was incorporated into imperial Russia in the 1870s. In the 20th century, Ani, situated right up against the river that separates Turkey from modern-day Armenia, has become part of the enduring controversy between the two countries. In 1921, the Turkish authorities ordered the military commander to erase all trace of its monuments, an order that was thankfully not carried out.

Church of St Gregory, Ani

Armenia accuses Turkey of chauvinistically neglecting Ani. In fact, it is opening up to tourists now. Some effort is being made to preserve the monuments, and some renovation, notably of the walls and of a Seljuk palace, is taking place, unfortunately in such a way that looks too much like new-build. One of the striking things about visiting Ani is the absence of any reference, in the explanatory notices in Turkish and English, to the Armenian origins of the place. As one enters the site, a potted history refers to Ani as the capital of the Bagratid dynasty, but with no mention of the fact that the Bagratids were Armenian. Walking around the site there is a persistent, exaggerated and distorting emphasis on the, relatively minor, Seljuk Turk heritage of the site (the Seljuks sacked Ani, and slaughtered its population in 1064). A mosque, claimed as the earliest Seljuk mosque in Anatolia, is thought by some originally to have been a palace. The only reference to Armenians that I saw related to a ruined mosque, which, it was noted, had been dynamited by an Armenian priest. So that is the sum of Armenians’ contribution to Ani? Such vulgar nationalist abuse of an important archaeological site demeans Turkey.

By contrast, there appears to be no problem with acknowledging medieval Georgian monuments. Indeed, a ruined Georgian church (in fact just part of one wall) at Ani is acknowledged as such. But Turkey has a peculiar blind spot when it comes to anything Armenian. The earliest monument on the site is the remains of a 2,000 year-old Zoroastrian temple, a group of four columns. Its presence, among the later churches and mosques, further emphasises the layers of civilisations, one replacing another, in this most fought over of regions.

Stalin's statue

It was difficult to know what to make of the huge Stalin statue in the main square in Gori, birthplace of the late Soviet dictator, in Georgia. I first visited Gori in the summer of 2004, and again in May this year, just a few weeks before the statue was removed. It seemed like an oddity, an anachronism, almost an eccentricity that, in a world in which Stalin is so thoroughly discredited, such a monument could continue to exist.

The man was a monster. So surely he did not deserve to be memorialised with such a grand, heroic statue? Yet the world is full of monuments to horrendous men who nevertheless left a considerable, if often terrifying mark. Genghis Khan is lionised in Mongolia, and Tamerlane in Uzbekistan. When we mark the events of the past, and the people who moved them, are we necessarily expressing approval? Is it right, or even realistic to try to expunge parts of our history that are painful or shameful? But of course, it is all about the way in which we remember. We do not commemorate Hitler with a statue in Berlin, or even in Braunau. Rather we commemorate his victims in holocaust museums and former concentration camps preserved as lasting memorials to the evil he perpetrated and the sufferings he caused.

The Stalin statue was removed furtively, in the dead of night, lest the ire of the many citizens of Gori who are still proud of their city’s most famous son be aroused. As statues of Stalin and Lenin were torn down around Georgia following independence almost two decades ago, hundreds of people turned out in Gori to defend their statue. And Stalin still has his followers. On 9 May, World War II veterans turned out in front of the statue with Soviet flags and large pictures of their hero, to mark the victory over Nazi Germany.

My visit to Gori in 2004 was a kind of pilgrimage, of the sort historians make to places of special significance, to get close to the scenes of great events and those who shaped them. In similar spirit, I have also visited Tito’s birthplace in Kumrovec, and his island retreat on Brioni, as well as Hoxha’s villa in Tirana, Churchill’s wartime bunker in London and the palace at Versailles. In Gori you can visit the tiny house where Stalin was born, now encased in a larger pavilion built around it. And there is also his official train in which he travelled to the Yalta and Tehran conferences.

And then there is the museum. I did the full tour, with an English-speaking guide. The whole experience was of being caught in a time warp. I was led through the various galleries dedicated to the achievements of the great man, as my guide proudly explained to me the significance of the exhibits. It was as if all the historical revisionism of half a century since Stalin’s death had not happened. Here we learned of the tremendous strides in economic performance and industrial and agricultural output. The only small negative note, the one hint that all was not entirely well in Stalin’s realm, was the acknowledgement by my guide that “some mistakes were made during collectivisation”. Well yes, millions dead from starvation and deportation. At the end of the tour, as we stood outside the little house of Stalin’s birth, I cautiously mentioned that Stalin was not remembered so rosily in much of the world. My guide smiled sweetly, and said that, yes, she knew that. But here in Gori, many people were still proud of him.

Now, we hear, plans are afoot to reorganise the Stalin museum in Gori into a museum to the Russian aggression in 2008, during which Gori was severely damaged. Or the museum should be rearranged so as properly to reflect the horrors of Stalin’s regime and the huge suffering he caused. The value of both such museums is not in dispute. But I think they should be housed in new buildings, leaving the original Stalin museum as it is. It is actually a rather good museum. Not only does it house some of Stalin’s possessions, his office furniture etc., but the collection of newspapers, posters and photographs, together with the inscriptions that describe them, effectively illustrates how the Stalinist dictatorship saw itself, how it presented itself. The whole museum is in fact one big and highly valuable museum exhibit to the propaganda machine of the Stalinist dictatorship. It should be preserved as it is, so that all of us who did not experience Stalinism can get some inkling of its nature. Gori should indeed have a museum that reflects the horrible truths of Stalinism. But the 1950s museum should rather be a part of that larger museum, preserved as a historical documentary on a time that is no more. No one today or in the future could display as effectively as the creators of the museum in the 1950s how the dictatorship saw itself. It is timeless and priceless.

And the statue? We hear it is to be moved down the road to the museum. That is surely the place for it. Not dominating the town’s main square, a lasting embarrassment and token of infamy. But consigned to a museum, where the sins of our past as well as the achievements are properly remembered.

Bureaucrats

One of the most aggravating features of the world of international organisations is the poor breed of people that are all too often drawn to their corridors. Pasty, lily-livered, cynical specimens who would not know a principle if it fell on them, and yet are the ones who are supposed to defend human rights and democracy in the world. Such individuals are to be found even in field missions of the UN, the OSCE, the EU etc. etc., albeit usually in the headquarters in the capital cities, where they plot and scheme and tread over their colleagues in their ambition to land a plum job in New York, Vienna, Brussels or Geneva.

In field missions there are, thankfully, large numbers of admirable, committed people, working hard for the betterment of the communities they are living in. Feisty human rights lawyers, young idealists not long out of college, hard-bitten old timers who keep on trying to make a difference, despite any number of disappointments.

But their efforts are constantly undermined by the armies of career bureaucrats, with their petty regulations and mealy-mouthed language. Human resources departments which in the past ten years have steadily imposed their vision of mediocrity wherever their putrid tentacles have been able to reach. Human decency out the window. Plane-spoken standing up for principles shunned in favour of "diplomatic" fudge.

And why is it that diplomats, those masters of evasion and equivocation, have come to be seen in recent years as the natural heads of international missions, the standard bearers for human rights? Honourable exceptions aside, why were they ever considered to be qualified to promote the interests of the weak and powerless, the victims of unjust states and conflicts? Diplomats whose whole training and ethos is to deal with states, quietly, behind closed doors? That's not to devalue the importance sometimes of quiet approaches behind the scenes. But when the need arises to speak out loud and clear, with a strong voice, to shout to the skies for justice, why would anyone expect a diplomat to be the one to do that?

Today I am feeling angry. I had a confrontation yesterday evening with one of those horrible career international bureaucrats. A despicable individual who drew amusement from the trampling of a field mission that tried to stand up for the right thing in Georgia, and came up against the weight of organised international shame and ignominy. I wanted to smash the sarcastic grin off his face. I didn't, but I really wanted to.