(Image source: Nano Saralishvili/JTA/Times of Israel)

Draped in a Georgian flag, protective goggles over her fashionable eyeglasses, and wearing a European Union flag for a scarf, Keti Chikviladze is standing with hundreds on Rustaveli Avenue in Tbilisi, the capital of Georgia. It is the 150th consecutive day of protests in front of the Georgian Parliament building, demanding the resumption of Georgia’s progress toward European Union membership, railing against a series of laws limiting free speech, and calling for fresh parliamentary elections.

On November 28, 2024, following months of mounting tension and conflict with the European Union, Georgia’s ruling party, Georgian Dream, suspended the country’s bid to join the EU. Since then, hundreds and thousands of protestors have shown up every night to block traffic along Tbilisi’s main symbolic, cultural, and political artery. On numerous nights, Chikviladze has been one of them, there to counter what human rights organizations report are systematic crackdowns on civil society, media, political opposition, and a turn away from European democratic standards and toward Russian-style authoritarian practices.

Beyond her political activism on Rustaveli Ave., Chikviladze is also the co-founder of the first liberal Jewish movement in the Caucasus region—Dor L’Dor (meaning “generation to generation”)—along with her husband Mikheil “Misha” Grishashvili and others. Just two weeks before the April 28 protests marking 150 days, Chikviladze was welcoming attendees of multiple faiths at the community’s Passover seder. Organized around themes of democracy, justice, and peacebuilding, the haggadah for the evening retold the story of the exodus from Egypt connecting enslavement in the Hebrew Scriptures to what it means to be a citizen in Georgia today. One participant, Benny, said the haggadah reminded him of the need for Jews and others to stand up for freedom, liberation, and democracy “right here, right now.”

The Chikviladze’s progressive Jewish community, however, does not have support from Georgia’s wider, and larger, Orthodox Jewish community—in part because its physical home is in a church, the Peace Cathedral.

The Peace Cathedral, sometimes called the Peace Project, was originally established in 1867 as the First Baptist Church of Tbilisi. Embodying a legacy of bold social justice, inclusivity, and courage in the face of opposition, it is the mother church of the country’s Evangelical Baptist Church. But in 2017, its leader, Bishop Malkhaz Songulashvili, reimagined—and managed to rebuild—it as a multi-faith sacred space, with a synagogue, mosque, church, temple and oratory housed under one roof and sharing a single entryway.

More than a spiritual home for members of multiple faith communities, it is a place for homegrown political activism as well.

And as the human rights situation in Georgia deteriorates at a rapid rate, the Peace Cathedral could serve as a proving ground for how building coalitions and working across differences might be part and parcel to restoring Georgia to the path of democracy, and a potential model for other countries facing an assault on democracy and human rights violations today.

Georgia’s “Tumble” Toward Autocracy

The ruling Georgian Dream party, in power since 2012, rose to authority on promises to uphold tradition while pursuing a bright European future. But maintaining Western political alliances alongside stable ties to Russia (Georgia was formerly a Soviet republic) proved a difficult balancing act. The 2008 Russo-Georgian war, subsequent Russian occupation of Georgian territories, and Russia’s 2022 invasion of Ukraine significantly altered Georgian Dream’s alliances, with the party opting for a more Russian-style autocracy. They rolled back protections for marginalized groups, elevating Orthodox Christian identity to the detriment of religious minorities, and retreated from promised reforms tied to the country’s EU application. The democratic backslide has been so intense that some critics describe the past two years as a “tumble toward autocracy,” with near-daily laws consolidating the party’s power and eroding everyday Georgians’ freedoms through media censorship, excessive force against and harsh penalties for protestors, and the erosion of parliamentary oversight.

Bishop Malkhaz, as he is known, in his own words of understatement, said he is “quite unhappy” with the present politics. Walking around an independent book fair that, he said, is also a de facto protest in a country increasingly limiting free expression, the bishop said Georgia had the best opportunity in its history to step into a bright future after the end of the Cold War. “Instead,” he said, “we have taken massive steps back.”

As Bishop Malkhaz intimated, the shadow of Russia looms large over the situation. Nearly a fifth of Georgia’s territory remains under the control of Russian-backed separatists in Abkhazia and South Ossetia, scars from wars that displaced thousands. Moscow’s invasion of Ukraine accelerated Georgia’s drift as well, from neutral bystander to, in the eyes of opponents, a “Kremlin enabler.” Georgian Dream was then able to capitalize on conspiracy theories about Western plots to push the country into war, introducing a “foreign agent” law, requiring groups with significant external funding to register as serving outside interests—a near copy of a measure Vladimir Putin used to stifle dissent in Russia. Civil society groups, journalists, diplomats, and rights advocates saw it as a direct assault on dissent and a decisive step away from Europe and democracy.

The Peace Cathedral, a grassroots project which receives donations from across the globe to support its ongoing construction and programming, has also come under increased pressure. Even before the foreign agent law, Bishop Malkhaz and his members had a tense relationship with the government. The Georgian Evangelical Baptists, the largest Protestant church in the region, which traces its roots to a Baptist community formed in Tbilisi in 1867, have always been minorities, and, as such, have always lived in tension with the government, said Malkhaz. Raised in what he called a “dissident family” during the Soviet era, Malkhaz has never shied away from criticizing the government or the Georgian Orthodox Church for what he sees as traditions and measures that stifle human flourishing in all its forms.

(Image source: BBC News. Bishop Malkhaz leads a service at the Peace Cathedral.)

Intertwining faith with ethnic identification and shaping public narratives of “Georgian-ness,” the Georgian Orthodox Church plays a central role in the country’s national myth. Framing Georgia as a uniquely pious nation with a divine mission, it has offered a powerful narrative that has been crucial for cultural preservation during periods of foreign occupation. But recently, and although technically neutral, the Georgian Orthodox Church has expressed tacit approval of several of Georgian Dream’s policies, especially those that reinforce ethno- and religio-nationalism and frame societal unity through Orthodox Christian norms. Echoing Georgian Dream’s talking points on peace, national sovereignty, and the Christian family, the church has promoted anti-LGBTQ sentiments and certain clergy members have spread anti-Western messages, portraying European integration as a threat to national identity and traditional values. And, in the lead-up to the October 2024 elections, the ruling party adopted a homophobic law on the “protection of family values and minors,” which the Georgian Orthodox Church supported, claiming it was a “positive step forward” in protecting “traditional values.”

This alignment has contributed to a deteriorating human rights landscape. In particular, the Georgian Orthodox Church has actively opposed LGBTQ rights, framing them as foreign threats to Georgian tradition. In 2012, 2013, and 2021, peaceful pro-LGBTQ events were disrupted by counter-demonstrators, including church representatives, leading to assaults on participants. The event in 2013 was particularly violent, with “dozens of bearded priests in black robes, with heavy silver crosses hanging on their chests” verbally and physically attacking demonstrators and those who sought to protect them. In 2023, the Georgian Orthodox Church called for a “queer propaganda law,” aligning with far-right groups to prevent Pride events from taking place in Georgia.

In response, Malkhaz and his congregation crafted a special liturgy of “inclusive solidarity” with the LGBTQ community. Originally meant as a one-off ritual, the liturgy has now become a regular part of the church’s worship, which regularly includes LGBTQ members, whom Malkhaz invites to come and sit up front or stand beside him at the altar.

It is one of many symbolic acts that the bishop and his church have taken to oppose Georgia’s tumble toward autocracy and increasing alignment with Russia. The church features an icon with images representing scenes from Russia’s invasion of Georgia in 2008, a pulpit bedecked in a Ukrainian flag, and a sand candelabrum with images of victims of police crackdowns at the nightly Rustaveli protests. For Malkhaz and others who are part of the Peace Project—whether Jewish or Christian, Muslim or agnostic, Buddhist or Bahá’í (and yes, each is represented)—the spiritual is political and the political is spiritual. The two, in a time of authoritarianism and autocracy, are two sides of the same coin, Malkhaz said.

There have, however, been consequences for Malkhaz. Once the Archbishop of the Evangelical Baptists, Malkhaz was demoted to the lower position of Metropolitan Bishop following his vocal support of the LGBTQ community. Sharing how just “one-and-a-half” out of twenty-five bishops advocated for him to remain, Malkhaz shrugs. “Whatever the ‘sacrifice,’ it is worth it,” he said. “I’ve not seen anti-LGBTQ, antisemitic, anti-Muslim or anti-democratic hate like this before in my country. We cannot let it remain.”

Solidarity in Community

Hundreds of kilometers to the west, in the green hills of Georgia’s Black Sea region, Adjara, wooden mosques stand weathered and silent, their painted ceilings peeling, their roofs patched with plastic. Many are collapsing from years of state neglect. For decades, these mosques—built by Georgian craftspeople in the 19th and early 20th centuries—were left off the country’s official heritage lists, dismissed as remnants of foreign rule.

But a new generation of Muslims is working to reclaim their heritage and their voice through what they call the “Solidarity Community.” Founded by young activists in 2023, the group has become a leading advocate for preserving the country’s neglected Islamic landmarks—including the wooden mosques of Adjara. Members have documented dozens of endangered sites, staging photo exhibitions across the country and leading tours that present them not as foreign imports but as uniquely Georgian creations. “If the state recognized these mosques as national heritage,” one member explained, “it would also send a message: you matter. Your culture matters.”

Solidarity Community’s mission goes beyond cultural preservation, however. The group is equally committed to social and political empowerment. Advocating to change public perceptions about Islam as foreign and to challenge narratives that cast Muslim identity as un-Georgian, they are also active in promoting Muslim self-determination. To do so, said Nestan Ananidze, means calling attention to things like overcrowding at mosques across the country—where Muslims, unable to procure permits for expansion or new construction, are forced to pray on the streets of cities like Batumi and Tbilisi—and respond publicly to discriminatory rhetoric.

The country’s Muslims, comprising around ten percent of the population, are spread out across the country and are made up of four main groups: some Sunni, some Shia, some that are mixed, and some that infuse Islam with local customs. Each group, said Ananidze, maintains distinct rituals, languages, and social networks, with geographic, linguistic, and sectarian divides often leaving them isolated and divided.

No matter their ethnic identity or nationality, religious minorities in Georgia are often treated as outsiders and “foreign agents.” The Georgian Orthodox Church’s influence in this regard, especially when it comes to the country’s Muslims, legitimizes exclusionary policies and reinforces social hierarchies. That is why, through publications and public presentations, Ananidze said Solidarity Community is trying to rewrite two narratives. First, to give the Muslim community a way to advocate for their part in Georgian society and to rally for the right to freely practice religion. Second, she said, it is important for non-Muslim Georgians to see the story of these mosques and Muslims as part of Georgia’s national and cultural heritage. “Georgian Muslim people created this culture,” Ananidze said. “It is something to be proud of.”

As Solidarity Community’s project manager, lawyer, and human rights advocate, Ananidze says this also requires their activism to embrace broader justice issues, from women’s rights to solidarity with LGBTQ Georgians. While focused on the rights of Georgia’s minority Muslim community, Ananidze said the group’s “umbrella work” is geared toward building a more diverse and inclusive Georgian civil society. “Even if we are truly different—because of religion, ethnicity, sexuality, socio-economics—we want to live in an inclusive society where everyone’s rights and life are respected,” she said.

Especially in the face of Georgia’s rapidly declining human rights situation, Ananidze advocates for people of different religious, ethnic, sexual, and socio-economic orientations and identifications to “know each other.” She said, “if we know each other, know each other’s stories, what kind of challenges we have together—individually and as communities—we can then work together against the government and the political situation.”

A key partner in this work has been Bishop Malkhaz and the Peace Cathedral. Maia Rizhvadze, who cofounded Solidarity Community, said the cathedral not only provides a place for Muslims of all kinds to pray, but the bishop has a close relationship with imams across Georgia, Iran, Azerbaijan, and elsewhere. He has also regularly stood up for Muslim minority rights, when they have not been able to speak up for themselves, she said. “While Muslims are not able to speak openly and freely, Bishop Malkhaz has been a voice for them,” she said, referencing his support when the removal of a minaret from a mosque in southern Georgia sparked tensions between Muslims and Orthodox Christians in 2013.

Whether or not others at the Peace Cathedral are able to speak up at all, its very existence, she said, is a protest in and of itself. “The building stands as a voice that represents minority religions in Georgia,” she said. Drawing comparisons to the book fair held earlier in the week, she said the fact that people from different religious groups are working together under one roof is a highly political, “protest for our rights, for justice to display Judaism, Islam and others—so often hidden in Georgia’s heritage—for all to see.”

It’s also a rallying point where people of different identifications can come together around a common cause, said Ananidze. Both within and beyond the cathedral, Ananidze said there is a strong sense in the wake of recent protests that if Georgians are to build a better civil society, Muslim and other minority communities have to be part of that process. The democratic crisis, for all the pain and problems it has brought, is an opportunity for those who resist to unify around various ethnic, religious, or sexual identities. “There are larger values, big tent perspectives, that unite people across typical divides,” she said. “We in this country are living a diverse reality. We are different from each other. But we all stand on Rustaveli, in Batumi, and elsewhere to oppose this government.

“It is the first moment in my life when ethnic, religious, and sexual minorities are openly active together in protest against an authoritarian regime,” she said.

Resurrecting Democracy

It wasn’t a protest, but it felt like one. Walking down Akaki Tsereteli Avenue, past Didube Plaza and numerous shops and storefronts on one of Tbilisi’s main shopping streets, drivers and pedestrians did double-takes as they watched the increasing count of worshippers passing by with palm fronds in hand, traversing the city streets on a gray, mid-March morning.

It was Palm Sunday and, at the front of the procession was Malkhaz, fern firmly in one hand, walking staff in the other. He and the others were making their way from the exposition center where the book fair was held just days before to the Peace Cathedral about a mile away. It is a prelude to Maundy Thursday, when the bishop would wash the feet of a Buddhist monk from Holland, representatives from Georgia’s Bahá’í community, an alim from Iran, and others representing a broad swathe of Georgian civil society. The next day, worshippers would take a citywide walk on Good Friday, carrying bright red crosses and visiting other houses of worship along the way. The Holy Week festivities culminate on Easter Sunday, when Malkhaz said, worshippers will remember that “even in the darkest night, there is hope; hope rises like a flame, conquering the shadows of death, despair and the decay of democracy.”

Nano and Mate Saralishvili are heavily involved throughout the week—not to mention their entire lives. Both in their late 20s, the siblings grew up in the church and their mother, Rusudan Gotsiridze, is a bishop and activist who has advocated against gender violence and for women’s equality, receiving a 2014 International Women of Courage award. Nano and Mate said the church feels like family. And increasingly, it is a place of refuge and refueling for the struggle against the government. Both have also come under surveillance by the government and Mate had an approaching court date, being fined for “blocking the road,” a euphemism for his part in the nightly Rustaveli protests.

Nano said that since she entered her twenties, it’s felt like almost constant protest and resistance. “I feel like my youth has been effectively stolen from me,” she said, “but I fear even more that my future will be too.” That is why, instead of being able to focus on friends and studies—things she still enjoys—Nano said she will continue to counter government abuse and call attention to the daily decay of democracy around her.

Referencing the themes of Easter and Holy Week, Nano said the holiday rhythms reminded her that light can dispel even the deepest of darknesses. And she said the Peace Cathedral, a beacon of light for so many—from displaced persons to members of the LGBTQ community, Jews and Muslims, Christians and Buddhists, and many in between—will, and must, continue its spiritual and political resistance. “If we cannot stand for one another, there will be nothing left to stand for in Georgia,” she said. “And so, we continue, in protest and hope.”

Ken Chitwood is a member of the Department for the Study of Religion at Universität Bayreuth and an Affiliate Researcher with the University of Southern California’s Center for Religion and Civic Culture. His new book, Borícua Muslims: Everyday Cosmopolitanism Among Puerto Rican Converts to Islam, is out now with University of Texas Press.