At exactly 3pm on January 15, I watched an apron-clad ramen chef walk out of his restaurant, chopsticks in hand, and take his position on the front steps of Fabrika, a former Soviet textile factory that now holds a collection of trendy shops and bars. A stream of baristas, receptionists, and record store employees followed, holding a banner reading “No justice, no peace”. They were on the frontlines of the first general strike in the history of post-Soviet Georgia.
The walkout was the latest protest against the ruling Georgian Dream party, which is led by the billionaire oligarch Bidzina Ivanishvili, and its decision to suspend the country’s bid for EU accession. When that news broke in November, protesters immediately took to the streets in their hundreds of thousands, braving mass arrests by state security forces and targeted attacks by government-aligned criminals known as titushky.
Now, after 48 nights on Tbilisi’s central Rustaveli Avenue, they were trying something new. The strike was to last for three hours, and was intended as a warning to show Georgian Dream the damage that would come from economic isolation. It was an ambitious pivot, considering Georgia’s punitive labour laws and practically nonexistent trade unions, but one that felt increasingly necessary as days ticked by without results.
The strike won support from important sectors of Georgian society: major restaurant and supermarket chains released statements, opposition TV stations showed blank screens in protest, and pharmacists stopped working.
“Maybe after this, they will see the strength of the labouring society and the people who are working every day to make anything, starting from the coffee you get,” said Andrei Tsitsvidze, a barista at Fabrika.
Tsitsvidze told me he had spent nearly every night at the protests and had even been arrested in the first week, accused of “public swearing”. Like the club kids and activists who patronised Fabrika, he was a member of the most politicised segment of Georgian society: those who remain willing to put almost anything on the line for the country’s European future.
Yet a few doors down, a crew of middle-aged municipal workers on a construction lift continued tinkering with a broken lamppost, apparently completely unaware of the work stoppage. I asked Tsitsvidze if he’d considered reaching out to his neighbours, labouring in the street. He pointed me to other activist groups who he said were “working on that kind of thing”.
While more than 80% of Georgians support EU integration, these priorities tend to resonate more urgently among progressive young people and white-collar professionals. Many other working Georgians feel they have more pressing concerns: high unemployment, economic stagnation, persistently low pensions.
Walking west along Marjanishvili Avenue towards the Mtkvari River, I saw the divide between the committed core and the largely functioning city of Tbilisi. Buses ran on time, delivery drivers zipped by on motorcycles, and roadside vendors continued selling fruit and vegetables.
Given the near-absence of organised labour, the movement faced the monumental task of convincing a wide swath of individual Georgians that joining the EU was an issue worth putting their jobs on the line for. So far, it seemed the message had largely reached the most educated groups.
In stately Marjanishvili Square, a group of around 15 social workers had risked being sacked as state employees to join the strike. Down the street, at the palatial headquarters of one of Georgia’s largest banks, a crowd gathered outside dressed in blazers and slacks.
After snaking through Rose Revolution Square, where a couple of hundred office workers and software developers had gathered, I arrived at the McDonald’s outside the Rustaveli metro station. The staff had stood outside in uniform holding signs bearing the words “We are on strike”.
One teenage employee said an activist had come by just a few hours earlier and told the workers about the strike. With the permission of a sympathetic manager, all but two had put down their fries, closed the cash registers and walked out.
Each business brought on board was a small victory. But with government repression increasing by the day, organisers would need to have many more conversations at many more McDonald’s franchises if they hoped to give the movement a chance of success.
Victor Swezey is a Tbilisi-based independent journalist and Fulbright research fellow
