No one knew that it was going to be the last Horoom Nights party. The first ever massive series of queer celebrations in Georgia and the most prominent in the Caucasus suddenly left the physical sphere due to the pandemic. But we danced in that characteristic way you can only see in Tbilisi, not knowing what would happen the day after. We celebrated freedom. Conversations went from the known to the unknown, and I still remember my friend Levan saying, "This is the Tbilisi I want to live in." Once at home and in bed, with the mixture of intermingled voices and ambient noises beating inside of me, I found myself thinking about the power of creating a collective queer sound together—a sound even stronger than the system.

Scenes during and before Horoom Nights.

Yet, last week, the LGBTIQ+ community was once more reminded of its fragility. On July 5th, Tbilisi Pride cancelled its 'March of Dignity' due to the violence of anti-gay counter-protestors. A militant mob stormed the headquarters of the Tbilisi Pride organisation, and burned the rainbow pride flag that festooned its office balcony. These hate groups also attacked more than 50 journalists, as well as activists, members of civil society—and even children—who looked in any way contrary to what the far-right considered as heteronormative. The journalist and TV cameraman Lekso Lashkarava, one of the victims, died this past Sunday.

Following a legacy of harsh social conservatism, the Georgian Orthodox Church remains complicit. Deacons asked parishioners to pray at Kashveti Church, right in front of the location where the pride event was originally scheduled, as part of a deliberate strategy to stimulate confrontation. In 2013, violent counter-protesters attacked an anti-homophobia rally, motivated by the words of Ilia II, the leader of the Church, who described homosexuality as a "disease." In fact, it is not uncommon to see conservative priests and members of the far right protesting in unison, as they did at the 2019 premiere of And Then We Danced, a Georgian-Swedish film about a gay romance.

Even in spite of pressure from activist groups, the government's response remains ineffective. Prime Minister Irakli Garibashvili blamed Tbilisi Pride for the unrest, citing the refusal of the organisation to change the central location of the protests and stating that the "conduct of the march on Rustaveli Avenue is not reasonable."

The day after the attacks, Tbilisi woke up with a double rainbow arching across the sky. It looked like a hidden message: the impossible will take a while. The same burned flag from the previous day appeared semi-reconstructed on social media. "I saw the burnt pieces on the ground. The colors looked very beautiful within the ashes so I started picking them up. I brought them home and assembled them. I imagined them as some sort of a relic from the past, even though it was so recent that the pieces were still emitting heat," attests Nina Kintsurashvili, the artist responsible for the reconstruction. According to Tbilisi Pride, around 7,000 people took to the streets and gathered in front of the Georgian Parliament building. Though the official march was cancelled, the Pride organisation managed to celebrate their resilience under bittersweet circumstances.

The anti-Pride counter-protestors espouse the ideal of "tradition." However, researcher Shorena Gabunia states that sexual differences were a common phenomenon in Tbilisi before the 1905 Russian Revolution. Among the kinto, a community of male entertainers, homosexuality was normalized. They were tolerated by society, who did not pay attention to the lives of these marginalized people. In Dan Haley’s 2001 book Homosexual Desire in Revolutionary Russia: The Regulation of Sexual and Gender Dissent, Tbilisi is described as the most important Soviet city to satisfy homosexual desires in the beginning of the 20th century, a place that gathered travellers from distant lands."The queer scene is always changing its form. It was happening [for] forever and it will happen forever," describes Hitori Ni, an artist who has been covering the queer club scene for the last years.

Burned flag in front of Tbilisi Pride headquarters, before artist Nina Kintsurashvili's reconstruction.

In the current century, queer rights to the city is a concept worth fighting for. In the words of economic geographer David Harvey, this is "a right to change ourselves by changing the city." Although many members of the Georgian LGBTIQ+ community tend to face rejection from their families and fall into social ostracism, others find in the capital a possibility to explore their identities. In an urban structure that does not satisfy the needs of the oppressed, queer people can only be themselves in specific public spaces that they co-create and mold. It is not just a physical space but an ideological construction. It is where they belong.

That last night soaking in the freedoms at the Horoom party is still clear in my mind. Our individual resonance and the ritual of joy and shared experience is what makes music the most social of all the arts. Dancing together is now more important than ever. The fact that Horoom Nights is currently on hold due to the pandemic reveals the loss of a utopian space where Georgian LGBTIQ+ people were finally visible and celebrated. That is the Tbilisi we want to live in, but that will never be possible if the system continues to allow hate crimes to occur with impunity.

Lasha Tsertsvadze, David Apakidze, Matt Shally, Nino Goderidze (God Era), and Levau Shvelidze taking the subway in Tbilisi.

Horoom Nights is not the only project to link club culture with the queer right to the city: Cafe-Gallery, Success, Kiki, Prinz or Drama, to mention a few, are essential to understanding the improvements of queer life in the city during the last decade, as well as promoting the study of the queer memory. Irma Gogiashvili, a Tbilisi Pride board member, agrees, saying, "They are beautiful events of radical self-expression, creativity, acceptance, and sex. Life-saving events for the community." With the exception of Cafe-Gallery, which was founded more than ten years ago and was an impetus for social engagement within the Georgian club scene, most of these projects were born during the last five years. All of them are independent, and yet some of them have found a way to waive their entry fees to become more accessible to the financially disadvantaged.

In a society in which gender roles and traditional conceptions of masculinity and femininity are highly polarized in the social imaginary, The club scene challenges identity codes and stimulates new debates, meanwhile providing a safe space for minorities, within a society where gender roles and traditional conceptions of masculinity and femininity are highly polarized. This milieu has positioned itself as a reference and an inspiration for the communities of the neighbouring countries, such as Armenia and Azerbaijan, where the legal and political situation is much more fraught. It has also encouraged new ways of artistic expression, impacting other spheres of art such as fashion and photography. "If Covid-19 had not stopped this increasing wave of queer performance, it could have become something bigger, more professional and better paid," says Hitori Ni.

This marginalised scene is also notably marked by an absence of government support. In 2018, police raided Bassiani and Cafe-Gallery, beat up peaceful demonstrators and arrested club owners. It was a clear war against all the progressive ideals and values that the club scene promoted. "It is a surreal image that I will never forget. Hundreds of armed cops entered the club. Most of us instinctively ducked. I thought it was a terrorist attack," recounts Nuria, a woman who was at the club that night. The next day, thousands of Georgians gathered in front of the Parliament under the slogan, “We dance together, we fight together."
The echo of their voices reverberated during the events of last week.

The death of Lekso Lashkarava opens this week with countless questions. On Sunday, July 11th, activist Elene Khoshtaria splattered red paint on the door of a government administration building. That same evening, new protests were held outside Parliament to demand the resignation of Garibashvili. This is not just a story about hate and violence, but also about a new Georgian generation that will remain fighting for its identity, visibility and values. The clubs will open again. The city's ravers will continue to fortify the queer arts scene. The impossible might take a while but, even though we cannot always see the rainbow, it is always there.

Artists during one of the Horoom Nights parties.

Jorge Esda is a cultural manager, art researcher and writer. He recently completed his master's thesis "In Defense of the LGBTIQ+ Community through Club Culture in Tbilisi, Georgia" with honors. The study was conducted at UOC, and directed by Professor Melissa Lima Caminha.

RA donated £1000 in solidarity with Tbilisi Pride to restore their headquarters. Read about our contribution here.

Revisit RA's Reflections on Tbilisi film.