Nation-Building and Nationalisation

The main theoretical framework of this article is the concept of nationalisation, which we understand as a form or type of nation-building. The term nation-building has been used in the literature at least from the 1960s and has been defined variously. For example, Deutsch (Reference Deutsch1966, 3) has conceptualised nation-building as an architectural or mechanical model, where nations are imagined as being built as houses “according to different plans, from various materials, rapidly or gradually, by different sequences of steps, and in partial independence from its environment.” This conceptualisation opens the way for a number of different models, types, and forms. They can include general typologies (Mylonas Reference Mylonas2012), as well as specific models which aim to explain nation-building in particular historical, geographical, or contextual settings.

The concept of a nationalising state, utilised in this study, is an example of the historical-geographical model. This term has been brought into academic use by Rogers Brubaker (Reference Brubaker1996, Reference Brubaker2011), who developed it as a conceptual framework for the study of nation-building in post-Communist countries. Brubaker differentiated between civic states with inclusive citizenship and nationalising states aiming to homogenise the country ethnically, linguistically, or culturally. While Brubaker’s concept was adopted by numerous scholars and applied not only in post-Communist Eurasia but also in other geographical contexts, the distinction between civic and nationalising states was also subject to substantial criticism. For example, Kuzio (Reference Kuzio2001) demonstrated that practically all states are nationalising, because they are always based on some ethno-cultural core which dominates state- and nation-building processes. Similar arguments were also provided by Kaufmann and Haklai (Reference Kaufmann and Haklai2008, 760–761), who noticed that modern nationalism and democratisation replaced the dominance of minority (ethnic, religious, or socio-economic) with the dominance of the majority defined on ethnic grounds, and that “the inclusive ‘civic’ nationalism at the official level coexists with dominant ethnicity in the ‘lower’ echelons of civil society.” In conclusion, as Staerklé et al. (Reference Staerklé, Sidanius, Eva and Molina2010, 493) assert, in practice, states are “likely to be ruled by elites composed of members of ethnic majority groups whose culture and language are dominant.” Concurrently, however, there are almost always some ethnic groups (“minorities”) who do not belong to the national ethno-cultural core, and differ by one or more ethno-cultural features, such as language, religion, socio-economic status, or imagined common ancestry. While these arguments are convincing, we disagree with Kuzio’s conclusion that the terms nationalising state or nationalisation are devoid of analytical value. Conversely, we employ the term nationalisation to denote the practices of ethno-cultural homogenisation in territories initially inhabited by heterogeneous populations (Weber Reference Weber1976; Conversi Reference Conversi2013), irrespective of whether the respective states define themselves as nation-state or as being based on civic nationalism.

Sub-Ethnic and Ethnographic Groups

In Brubaker’s analytical framework, the non-core populations which are subjected to nationalisation are termed (ethnic) minorities.Footnote ¹ He perceives them as self-conscious, organised, and formulating political demands on autonomy or secession. However, it should be noted that not all “minorities” exhibit this characteristic. In this regard, Kántor (Reference Kántor, Blasko and Januauskiene2008) denotes this type of minorities as “nationalising minorities”. However, it is important to note that certain non-core populations do not impose political demands, or do so only in a limited way. And it is these non-core non-nationalising populations, or more precisely what has become of them after majority-led nationalisation, which are objects of our study. In the Georgian context, and not only in it, the remnants of the non-core non-nationalising populations are designated as sub-ethnic or ethnographic groups.

In the context of Western anthropological and sociological research, the term “ethnographic group” is employed to denote a group being researched by ethnographic methods, irrespective of its ethnic status. Conversely, when researching ethnically-defined communities, the term ethnic group is employed – predicated on Barth’s (Reference Barth and Barth1969) situational and relational theory of ethnicity (cf. Mühlfried Reference Mühlfried2014, 38). However, in Marxist ethnography, the meaning of “ethnographic group” was different and based on the idea that individual ethnic communities find themselves at different stages of development, ranging from tribes to nationalities to capitalist and socialist nations, with smaller units – ethnographic groups – gradually integrating into larger nations (Kaiser Reference Kaiser1994, 94–107), while retaining some distinct ethno-cultural features (for example, dialect, folklore, traditions) without challenging the prevailing model of nation (Valtchinova Reference Valtchinova, Craith, Johler and Kockel2008, 90).

However, in certain situations, the necessity for more nuanced terminology within the Marxist paradigm became apparent. For instance, Bromley (Reference Bromley, Holloman and Arutuinov1978) advanced the concept of a hierarchical relationship between sub-ethnic and ethnographic groups, proposing that the former exhibits a heightened level of self-awareness in comparison to the latter. As Mühlfried (Reference Mühlfried2014, 37–39) argues, in the Georgian case, the differentiation between the sub-ethnic and the ethnographic group follows the logic that the former has a different (although unwritten) language. For instance, in their geography textbook, Bondyrev, Davitashvili, and Singh (Reference Bondyrev, Davitashvili and Singh2015, 6–7) assert that “Georgians are presented in three sub-ethnic groups: Karts, Zans (Mingrelians and Lazs), and Svans.” The authors further posit that these sub-ethnic groups, which possess distinct languages, are composed of individual ethnographic groups with their own dialects. Utilising Deutsch’s metaphor of nation-building as a house construction, the ethnographic groups can be regarded as the bricks from which the three modules (sub-ethnic groups) are built, and these three modules collectively form the single Georgian nation (cf. Gachechiladze 1995, 77).

The preceding illustration elucidates the manner in which the pervasive primordialist conceptualisation of the Georgian nation served to rationalise the persistent ethno-cultural divergences (typically of a linguistic or religious nature) into an architectonic model predicated upon hierarchies of sub-ethnic and ethnographic groups. Individual ethnic segments were catalogued and categorised, and subsequently nationalised into modern Georgians. The Tsarist and Soviet governments, as well as scholars and administrators, and Georgian nationalists of the 19th century, and later the Georgian state itself, all played a part in creating this idea of a nation, and used it for various political purposes. However, this model is not static; as demonstrated in the analytical section, the notion of the three studied sub-ethnic groups has been subject to change over time; the categories, often imposed or reinforced by states, bureaucracies, and other institutions, do not necessarily translate into collective ethnic groups and their identities (cf. Brubaker Reference Brubaker2002).

However, these dynamics did not apply uniformly to all groups. In the case of the Adjarians and the Megrelians, for example, their distinctiveness has been often downplayed in public discourse. Language and religion have been considered as sensitive markers; if they had been officially recognised, they could have been perceived a step towards the establishment of special rights or even separatism. Recent research indicates that a significant portion of Georgians continues to perceive the Megrelian language as politically dangerous. Speaking it in Tbilisi was frequently stigmatised, and any institutional endorsement was met with resistance on the grounds that it might revive autonomist tendencies and be exploited by Russia (Hoch Reference Hoch2025, 8–9). Conversely, highland groups such as the Tushetians, the Pshavs, and the Khevsurs had long been romanticised in ethnographic and popular discourse as custodians of authentic Georgian tradition (Manning and Uplisashvili Reference Manning and Uplisashvili2007, 635). This symbolic sacralisation elevated them to a central position within the national imagination. However, their demographic marginality and peripheral location have imposed limitations on their political influence. Within the framework of this study, the “non-core” status under discussion is therefore understood not to refer to folkloric representation, but rather to the practical position of groups within the process of nationalisation.

While the distinction between sub-ethnic and ethnographic groups makes sense in Georgian political discourse, we argue that this distinction has negligible analytical value from an academic perspective, as the distinction between the two concepts is blurred. In Barth’s logic the term “ethnic group” would be suited to all three studied communities; however, it would be confusing in the Georgian context where the term “ethnic” is rather connected with “nationalising ethnic minorities” in Kántor’s terminology. Accordingly, in order to streamline the terminology employed in this article, we denote the Megrelians, the Adjarians, as well as the Tushetians simply as sub-ethnic groups, unless we explicitly refer to the model of Georgian nation as present in Georgian political or public discourse.

Selection of Cases – Adjarians, Megrelians, and Tushetians as Categories

The Tsarist and Soviet censuses prior to the 1930s listed up to 11 different “Kartvelian” (sub-)ethnic/language categories. They included Adjarians, Georgians, Gurians, Imeretians, Ingilois, Khevsurs, Laz, Megrelians, Pshavs, Svans, and Tushetians (Troinitskii Reference Troinitskii1905a; Reference Troinitskii1905b; Vsesoiuznaia perepis’ naseleniia 1926 goda 1929). We have selected three of them which we consider representative of all these groups. Unfortunately, as these categories are not included in Georgian censuses and statistics, their numbers can only be estimated.

Research Methods

The data presented herein were collected during a fieldwork in Georgia. The majority of the interviews utilised in this study were conducted expressly for the purpose of this article in July 2022 and July 2023 (Tusheti), October 2022 (Samegrelo and Tbilisi), September and October 2022 (Adjara and Tsalka), and July 2023 (Adjara).Footnote ³ The informants were identified through a combination of purposive and chain-referral sampling techniques. For the Adjarians and Megrelians, we aimed at representatives of local elite (academics, teachers, politicians, journalists, activists, less frequently religious and informal leaders), who were expected to share not only their own experience but also their informed perception of the community as a whole. For the Tushetians, a tiny highland community, the notion of local elite required reformulation; our informants typically included shepherds, national park rangers, or tour guides, who in the context of the Tushetians can be regarded as local elite and custodians of traditions. Moreover, in the Tushetian case, the author’s positionality was slightly different due to the researcher’s long-term involvement in the community through development and volunteer programs prior to the start of the research project. A total of 30 interviews were conducted – ten with Tushetians, seven with Megrelians, and 13 with Adjarians. The focus on interviewing members of the local elite resulted in an imbalance in gender representation, with males being represented to a greater extent. Given the size and structure of the sample, it cannot be considered “representative” in socio-economic terms. Rather, it represents the perceptions and views of sub-ethnic groups’ elites. Nevertheless, the findings of our analysis indicate the presence of divergent perceptions of identity and belonging at least among elites within sub-ethnic groups.

The interviews were conducted in Georgian, Russian, or English according to the informants’ preferences, and typically lasted between 60 and 120 minutes. The interviews were semi-structured and focused on the same topics for all three groups. Interviews in Tusheti were often shorter but had a repetitive character. These topics reflected the four research questions of the study: (1) the perception of ethno-cultural differences; (2) identity issues; (3) politicisation of ethno-cultural differences; (4) hierarchies of belonging. The questions posed to participants differed in each interview, as we considered various contexts in which the interviews were conducted. Prior to the commencement of each interview (or after it in the case of the informal interviews), the participants were informed about the purpose of the interview in accordance with the research ethics codes of conduct of the respective researcher’s employers and provided oral consent for their participation in the research. One focus group in Adjara (working language Russian) was organised with the assistance of local ethnographers. Due to the sensitivity of the topic under investigation, the identities of the informants and focus group participants remain undisclosed.

The data collected were transcribed and analysed using thematic analysis. Initially, each interview was divided into thematic units which were coded and grouped into broader categories according to the research questions and compared across interviews and cases. In a final step, four broader categories, each mirroring one research question, were given descriptive names, and the empirical part of this article is structured around them. The analysis is illustrated by quotations from the interviews that are used throughout the text.

Sub-Ethnic Groups and the Making of the Georgian Nation

In this section, we analyse how sub-ethnic groups, in particular the Adjarians, the Megrelians, and the Tushetians, were nationalised into the Georgians. We investigate this story from three distinct perspectives: (1) the imperial power (tsarist Russia and the Soviet Union); (2) the Georgian nationalists and the Georgian state; and (3) the sub-ethnic groups themselves.

In both tsarist Russia and the Soviet Union, the classification of individuals was based on multiple “objective” criteria. Within the context of tsarist Russia, these criteria encompassed byt (way of living), soslovie (social estate), and rodnoi iazyk (mother tongue) (Hirsch Reference Hirsch2005, loc. 870–960). The Soviet nationality policy was largely inspired by the categorisation of tsarist ethnographers, but it was also embedded in the Marxist and Leninist understanding of ethnicity which maps onto graded formations from tribe to narodnost’ (ethnie) to natsional’nost’ (nation).

While in the first Soviet census of 1926 enumerators were asking about narodnost’ and dozens of tiny ethnic groups were listed as separate entries, in the census of 1939, smaller narodnosti were amalgamated with natsional’nosti – which were regarded as the higher and more developed ethnic collectivity. By 1939, the number of recognised ethnic groups (natsional’nost’) in the Soviet Union had decreased from 190 in 1926 to 99 (Tishkov Reference Tishkov1997, 31). Those omitted, such as Megrelians, Adjarians, and Tushetians, were classified as sub-ethnic groups undergoing consolidation into a nationality (Arel Reference Arel2002, 222; Simonsen Reference Simonsen1999, 1070).

One of the reasons of these efforts was to establish nationality-based territorial autonomies, because the Bolsheviks, guided by Marxism-Leninism, saw nation-building as a step toward a classless society (Bremmer Reference Bremmer, Bremmer and Taras1997; Slezkine Reference Slezkine1994). Therefore, the Georgian SSR was institutionalised within the ethno-federal Soviet system, and those narodnosti which were considered Georgian sub-ethnic groups were merged with Georgians without receiving territorial autonomy. The exception was the Adjarian ASSR, whose existence was guaranteed by the Kars Treaty, which was signed by the Soviets and Turkey (Pelkmans Reference Pelkmans2006, 7).

From the Georgian perspective, the tsarist 11 Kartvelian ethnic/language categories are not regarded as a cataloguing of the “objective” features or group self-perception. Conversely, Georgian historiography perceives this as a deliberate tsarist effort to divide the Georgian nation (Gachechiladze Reference Gachechiladze1995, 27). Indeed, even prior to the Sovietisation of Georgia, the Georgians had already undergone a significant degree of nationalisation, as a result of the considerable efforts of several generations of intellectuals who, from at least the 1860s onwards, had been promoting the concept of a unified Georgian nation. As Ilia Chavchavadze’s triad of Georgian-ness asserts, nationalisation in Georgia initially followed the principles of “fatherland” (mamuli), “language” (ena), and “faith” (sarcmunoeba), alongside common ancestry (Nodia Reference Nodia2009). Standard Georgian (deda ena) played a pivotal role in uniting speakers of distinct vernaculars from the Kartvelian language family (including speakers of Megrelian and Svan), as well as a small number of speakers of Batsbi (Tsova-Tush), a Nakh language from the East Caucasian language family.

However, the Russian Empire’s conquest of Adjara and Artvin in 1878 posed a challenge to Chavchavadze’s triad, because the Georgian-speaking Muslim population of the newly acquired regions did not fit into it, prompting a shift toward the idea of a “common history” as a basis for Georgian identity (Nodia Reference Nodia2009). “Muslim Georgians” or Adjarians as they were called, were linked to medieval Georgian states, emphasizing common history over language and faith.

Concurrently, the Megrelians and the Adjarians were in the process of becoming nationalising minorities with distinct identities and languages. Despite the Georgian intelligentsia’s staunch rejection of the existence of a separate Megrelian nation, only the higher strata of the Megrelian population actually knew Georgian in the second half of the 19th century; and in Adjara, Turkish functioned as the literary language. Consequently, Megrelian, which was studied by tsarist linguists, was provided with an alphabet based on the Georgian script and a few literary works in Megrelian were written (Allen Reference Allen1929, 146; Broers Reference Broers2001, 6–8). Furthermore, in the 1880s, Megrelian and Turkish were considered by tsarist authorities to be languages of instruction in Samegrelo and Adjara (Gaprindashvili and Zhordaniia Reference Gaprindashvili and Zhordaniia1990, 425–426). However, the potential transformation of Megrelians and Adjarians into separate nations was terminated after the formation of the independent Georgian state in 1918 and its Sovietisation in 1921, which marked the beginning of the second phase of Georgian nationalisation, in which the major part was played by the institutions of the Georgian state. However, the first Soviet census of 1926 documented 243,000 individuals identifying as Megrelians, and 40,000 individuals stating Megrelian as their mother tongue (Broers Reference Broers2001, 6). Moreover, the majority of the Adjara population (68,000 or about 85%) declared themselves Adjarians (Vsesoiuznaia perepis’… 1929, Tablitsa VI).

In Soviet Georgia, Lavrenti Beria played a pivotal role in the deliberate integration of various groups, including Megrelians, Adjarians, and Svans, into the Georgian nation. As demonstrated by Blauvelt and Khatiashvili (Reference Blauvelt and Khatiashvili2016, 375), in the case of Adjara, these changes manifested themselves in everyday life through Stalinist campaigns such as anti-religious mobilisation and the suppression of local practices, which directly reshaped regional identities. Earlier attempts at codifying a separate written language for Megrelians, as well as the idea of establishing territorial autonomy, were abandoned, and from the mid-1930s, Megrelian distinctiveness was increasingly confined to the cultural sphere (Hoch Reference Hoch2025, 16).

The situation of the Tushetians was different. While the Batsbis (Tsova-Tush), speaking the non-codified Batsbi language, were counted as a distinct group in Soviet Georgia in 1926 (Vsesoiuznaia perepis’… 1929), the remaining three Tush communities were enumerated as Georgians in the same census; and even the Batsbis have been counted as Georgians ever since. Besides several attempts to publish Batsbi grammar or dictionary (Hauk Reference Hauk2020, 5–8), no indications of a nationalising minority could be discerned among the Tsova-Tush or the Tushetians in general. The illegal “Samani” organisation, which operated in Tusheti in the 1940s, did not seek emancipation from Georgia; instead, it was engaged in anti-Soviet resistance and hoped for the liberation of Georgia with the assistance of Nazi Germany (Lekaidze and Bertlani Reference Lekaidze and Bertliani2022).

The Georgian nationalisation entered a new phase after the Soviet collapse. President Zviad Gamsakhurdia’s “Georgia for Georgians” slogan alienated ethnic minorities (Sabanadze Reference Sabanadze and Jones2016, 127), thereby fuelling tensions with Abkhazians, Ossetians, Armenians, and Azerbaijanis. The early 1990s were a turbulent period in Georgia, marked by the wars in Abkhazia and South Ossetia, the Zviadist uprising in Samegrelo, and strained relations between the central government and Adjarian leader Aslan Abashidze. These events, compounded by perceived threats of Armenian and Azerbaijani irredentism or autonomism, led to an increased level of distrust among Georgian society, even towards some of its own sub-ethnic groups (Coene Reference Coene2010, 155–156). The weak Georgian state of the 1990s did not exercise full control over some of the country’s peripheral regions, including those inhabited by sub-ethnic groups – above all Adjara, but also Samegrelo and Svaneti (Wheatley Reference Wheatley2005, 115–120). It was only subsequent to the Rose Revolution and Saakasvili’s reforms, which served to strengthen the capacities of the Georgian state, that the Georgian authorities were able to assert full control over these regions (Marten Reference Marten2012, 64–101).

While Georgia’s recognised ethnic minorities, in particular those compactly settled, enjoy a number of rights, including schooling in the minority language (Broers Reference Broers2008; George Reference George2008; Berglund Reference Berglund2018), the situation of the sub-ethnic groups is more complex. On one hand they are considered part of the ethnic majority (by both themselves and “core” Georgians), know the state language, and do not face direct discrimination; however, they themselves frequently report a lack of support from the Georgian state regarding the preservation of their ethno-cultural differences, particularly their language and religion. The following four empirical sections are devoted to the analysis of the perceptions held by the sub-ethnic groups themselves.

Subjective Salience of Ethno-Cultural Differences

In this section, we focus on the subjective salience of ethno-cultural differences, particularly considering when and why sub-ethnic boundaries become significant or, conversely, lose their significance in practice. We examine how our informants perceive and articulate the distinctions between “core Georgians” and their own groups in everyday life.

The categories of Adjarian, Megrelian, and Tushetian, as used in the tsarist or early Soviet censuses, were based on several “objective” ethno-cultural differences. In the case of Adjarians, it was Islam. However, in our interviews, we have identified notable discrepancies in the interpretation of the importance of Islam in Adjarian identity, which have a decisive impact for informants’ perception of Adjarian-ness and Georgian-ness. For informants who closely associate Adjarian-ness with Islam, the term “Adjarian” typically relates to a distinct and self-aware sub-ethnic group. In such instances, our informants typically employed the collective pronoun “we” and made references to the rights of their group or to its typical characteristics. They saw a clear distinction between the concepts of Georgian and Adjarian, which they seem to understand rather in religious than ethnic sense. For some informants, both categories were mutually non-exclusive and typically claimed they were “both Georgian and Adjarian” (Interview 4). However, a Muslim female teacher and activist originally from Upper Adjara, but currently living in Tsalka, where a number of Adjarians from villages of Upper Adjara recently moved as “ecomigrants”, recollected that when she was a child, she used to refer to herself only as Adjarian, not Georgian, and acquired the Georgian part of her identity only after moving to Tsalka, where she met other Georgians, such as the Svans. Furthermore, the informant provided her perception of the Adjarians as a group by delineating typical roles and collective characteristics of its members: “Compared to other groups in Tsalka, the Adjarians are a bit shy, this is due to religion. They feel they have fewer rights than Christians, especially they don’t hold public offices much, they are rather hard working” (Interview 8). For some informants, however, the categories of Adjarian and Georgian were mutually exclusive. For example, an interviewed Muslim journalist complained about alleged discrimination of Muslims in Batumi stating that “when Adjarians were in majority [in Adjara], Georgians respected us” (Interview 2; italics by the author). The interviewed imam from a village in Upper Adjara shared even more clear-cut perception: “We are Adjarians here [in the village]. In Batumi, they are mostly Christians. They are not Adjarians anymore” (Interview 7; italics by the author).

For other informants, the Adjarian-ness was rather a matter of geography, folklore, and “some religious aspects” (Interview 1); they tend to describe the Adjarians rather as a mere category, or as an ethnographic group on the level of Kakhetians, Gurians, or (sic!) Megrelians (Focus group 1). For example, Adjarian politician and Christian convert shared his opinion that “the only significant difference is the dialect, plus the Muslim faith of some Adjarians” (Interview 9). A similar argument was also provided by a director of an ethnographic museum: “Adjarians don’t have their own language, their own literature, they just have a slightly different folklore” (Interview 10).

Some informants also claimed that the connection between Adjarian-ness and Islam and also the perception of Adjarians as a self-conscious (sub-)ethnic group was rather a matter of the past, and typically stressed the alleged Soviet attempt to divide Georgians by introducing the category of Adjarians. For example, interviewed Adjarian politician who converted to Christianity recollected: “My grandfather was a historian and he always said we were Georgians, but most of our neighbours didn’t think so, they said they were Adjarians and for example people from Imereti or Guria were Georgians. But I think that was a result of Soviet propaganda trying to divide us” (Interview 12). Another informant, also a politician and Christian convert, shared his opinion that in Soviet times some Adjarians did think about themselves as different from Georgians, and recollected his grandmother, who “used to call people from other parts of Georgia as Kartvels” (Interview 9).

For the Megrelians, language plays the most significant role in terms of subjective salience of their identity. Nevertheless, the status of Megrelian is a contentious issue in Georgia, as it carries a number of political connotations, including concerns about autonomism and separatism. While there is a tendency among patriotic Georgian politicians and even scholars to classify Megrelian as a dialect of Georgian (Tarkhan-Mouravi Reference Tarkhan-Mouravi2012, 220), the prevailing opinion among Western scholars is that Megrelian is a distinct language, unintelligible with Georgian (Suny Reference Suny1994, 4; Tuite Reference Tuite1998, 4). According to other approach, Megrelian is recognised as a distinct language, but functions as a dialect from a sociolinguistic point of view (Vamling and Tchantouria Reference Vamling, Tchantouria and Vamling2010, 81).

Several informants shared an opinion that they are disillusioned concerning the status of the Megrelian language in Georgia, and complained about the fact that Megrelian is not taught at schools despite the fact that it is the core part of their identity (Interviews 18 and 20). At the same time, they articulated their comprehension of the situation. “We prefer to remain silent on this issue,” explained one informant (Interview 15). Our Megrelian informants were typically convinced that the Georgian state’s support for the Megrelian language is unlikely to be well received in the country, because such manoeuvres would be perceived as a political threat – possibly inciting mobilisation in Samegrelo – which could be then exploited by Russia. Furthermore, they drew parallels with the Abkhazian and Ossetian cases (Interviews 15 and 18). Another informant summed up the language issues succinctly: “No harm is done to us, it’s a kind of tolerated otherness. On the other hand, despite the acceptance of the situation, there is a certain sadness in Samegrelo about the fact that part of our culture and identity is disappearing. If the state takes a position that it would be willing to support the language in some way, the Megrelians would be grateful. If it decides not to support it because of various fears and anxieties, there will be no unrest” (Interview 20).

In the case of the Tushetians, our informants posited a complex cluster of geographical origin (the mountains) and religious and cultural specifics at the core of the Tush identity. While the informants perceived the Orthodox Christianity as one of the main pillars connecting the Tush community with the Georgians, the local religious tradition, rituals, and holy places (salocʻavebi) which frequently reveal their pre-Christian origin with the names of former gods, such as Karate or Kopala, were considered as the aspects distinguishing the Tushetians from the rest of Georgia, and making those who follow them members of a self-conscious group. As explained by one informant, “our salocʻavebi and our ancestors make us Tushetians or Tsova-Tush” (Interview 30).

(Sub-)Ethnic Identity – Disappearing or Renegotiated?

This section addresses the identity transformations. We explore whether Adjarian, Megrelian, and Tushetian identities are perceived by our informants as gradually disappearing through assimilation, or instead as being reshaped and reinterpreted in new ways. This perspective allows us to trace the different trajectories of identity transformation within each group and to connect them to broader patterns of nationalisation.

The secularisation of the Adjarian society during the Soviet rule, and mass conversions from Islam to Orthodox Christianity which have been taking place from the 1980s, may constitute possibly the most important challenge for the Adjarian identity which has traditionally been connected with Islam. Our data indicate the presence of two fundamental narratives that reflect this significant cultural transformation. The first of these narratives is typically articulated by individuals who have converted to Christianity, or by those who self-identify as nominal or cultural Muslims. They consider Orthodox Christianity to be the original religion of their ancestors, and thus conversion is only the logical outcome of a return to Georgian roots – after periods of forced Islamisation and secularisation. To illustrate this point, the following is a description of the conversion process provided by a local politician: “My mother was a Muslim, my father was a Communist. So, the family was rather Muslim in terms of traditions, but my grandfather decided not to have me circumcised. I had to decide for myself whether I wanted to join some religion. And I ended up getting baptized at 25, because I wanted to marry a Christian. My family accepted it, because Christianity is our old faith” (Interview 9). The former director of an elementary school offered a comparable account, but from a different perspective: “I come from a Muslim family, I am a Muslim myself. I don’t mind that my children have converted to Christianity, but I’m too old for that [conversion]. We had one hodja here, he got baptized when he was 75 years old, and died three years later. It’s strange, you just believe into something all your life and then you convert and they bury you according to your new faith. I don’t want that; I was born a Muslim and I will die a Muslim. But my children wanted to be Christians and it’s their choice” (Interview 5).

Conversely, practicing Muslims generally perceive mass conversions to Christianity as a fundamental threat to Adjarian identity, culture, and traditions. Their perception challenges the widespread narrative that the conversion to Islam was forced: “Basically, there’s a narrative brought in from the outside: you were Christians, then you were forced, which is emphasised, to convert to Islam, then forced secularisation came, and now you’re supposed to return to your true faith. This is Adjara’s history in a nutshell within the dominant discourse” (Interview 4).

Our Muslim informants typically rationalised the mass conversions to Christianity by a desire of the converts to become a real Georgian and by their hopes for social uplift. The statement “You are Georgians too”, made by the Georgian patriarch who arrived in Adjara in 1989 and conducted baptisms in the Acharistskhali River, was referenced by multiple informants in this context. Typically, also the Georgian education system was blamed for supporting ethno-religious nationalism and spreading the narrative about the forced conversion to Islam. Some Muslim informants even shared concerns that Islam in Adjara would disappear: “All that will remain is some small closed community marrying amongst themselves; others will convert. There is no institution, no library where we can research who we are. Our history will just disappear” (Interview 4).

The younger generation of Adjarian Muslims also talked about their experience of “being Georgians too”, or more precisely of negotiating their own way of being Adjarians and Georgian Muslims. For example, a female activist who had studied in Tbilisi shared her experience of living in between her traditional community and liberal and secular circles in the Georgian capital. While in the village she felt pressured “to be a Muslim woman according to what they [older males] think a Muslim woman should look like,” in Tbilisi she felt marginalised by what she described as “Islamophobic feminism”. She concluded: “In Tbilisi, I am too Muslim, and here [in Upper Adjara], I am too Georgian” (Interview 4).

Despite differing perceptions of Adjarian identity and its relationship with Georgian identity, both Muslim and Christian informants tended to emphasise the cultural coexistence of the two religions. A Christian informant described this coexistence in terms of banal nationalism. “There’s the shuamtoba holiday, the first Sunday in August, it’s not a religious holiday, it’s a national holiday, everybody goes there together. Muslims also celebrate Christian holidays, we participate in the Muslim ones, such as kurban bayram or ramazan bayram” (Interview 6). Another respondent, speaking from a Muslim point of view, described some of the “banalities” shared by both communities as a form of hybrid culture. “Local identity is not about ethnicity, ethnicity is a very explosive topic here, it’s something you don’t talk about. It’s a kind of hybrid Christian-Muslim culture” (Interview 4).

In the case of Adjara, it is primarily the dynamics of religion that have an impact on the transformation of identity. Conversely, the case of Megrelians is distinguished by a predominant shift in the function and usage of language. In earlier research, Vamling and Tchantouria (Reference Vamling, Tchantouria and Vamling2010, 82) described the Megrelian language as thriving and widely used in all social activities, and even recent surveys indicate that approximately 300,000 people use Megrelian in everyday life (Second language used in everyday life – Mingrelian (and Laz) 2024.). In contrast, our research suggests that the language, as the main source of Megrelian identity, is disappearing quickly in public and that there are shifts in the language use between individual generations. Our informants generally agreed that only the oldest generation in Samegrelo has a good command of Megrelian, and that the knowledge of Megrelian decreases with age. The language is also disappearing outside of Samegrelo, especially in mixed marriages. According to a scholar who lives in Tbilisi and claims Megrelian origin, the knowledge of Megrelian does not survive more than one or two generations (Interview 15). Moreover, even in Samegrelo, the active use of Megrelian is often regarded as a sign of backwardness, and the younger generation usually feel embarrassed about speaking Megrelian outside their families (Interviews 18 and 19). As observed by one informant: “Children understand Megrelian in the vast majority of cases, because that’s how they mostly speak with their grandparents. But they won’t claim it publicly. If you ask in a primary school in Zugdidi who can speak Megrelian and actively uses the language, almost no one will come forward” (Interview 18). Another informant described the current language situation in Zugdidi area as follows: “We only speak Georgian together at the offices, and at work too. With acquaintances and with strangers it depends on how one starts. Sometimes Georgian, sometimes Megrelian, and sometimes Russian”. His 14-year-old son added: “Of all my peers, I know at most ten children who speak Russian. And not all of them speak Megrelian either. And from sixth grade on down, it’s much worse. At school, we only speak Georgian together, even during breaks. And in almost all cases we speak Georgian on the street” (Interview 16).

As with the stigmatisation associated with the active use of Megrelian, stigmatisation is also evident in relation to the Megrelian accent in Georgian, in particular the “soft L”, which is often perceived as rustic or rural and therefore linking regional identity with perceived social class. This shows how phonetic features may serve as stigmatising identity markers, as also demonstrated by Dragojević, Berglund, and Blauvelt (Reference Dragojević, Berglund and Blauvelt2014), who found that young Georgians consistently evaluated Megrelian-accented Georgian less favourably than the Tbilisi standard.

While informants perceived the Megrelian language as a crucial ethno-cultural marker determining the (sub-)ethnic category as such, they also frequently expressed that the knowledge of the Megrelian language by an individual may not be perceived as critical for him or her to be considered Megrelian in the group sense (Interview 14, 15, 16, and 17). As one informant put it, “there are also Megrelians who have lost their language and can still be considered Megrelians; maybe not Megrelians in the true sense of the word anymore, but certainly at least partial Megrelians” (Interview 14). This partial Megrelian-ness is apparently based on the Megrelian origin of particular individual, or even inferred from the typical ending of Megrelian surnames -ia, -ua, and -ava (Coene Reference Coene2010, 200). Our research has revealed that even if the bearers of these Megrelian surnames live outside of Samegrelo, do not speak Megrelian, and do not commonly identify as Megrelian, these Megrelian surnames create a space for their bearers to be considered Megrelian in Samegrelo. For example, the informant who has been living in Tbilisi for all his life, but whose grandparents were born in Samegrelo and his father still spoke some Megrelian, explained: “I am a Georgian from Tbilisi, but … when I come to Samegrelo, … I still feel that they see me more as their own than somebody from Kartli. And some still see me as a Megrelian, albeit a bit of a bad Megrelian and a renegade, because I don’t speak the language anymore” (Interview 15). An informant from Samegrelo shared that for her “a Megrelian is a person inhabiting Samegrelo and Gali. Then also people who live outside the region but have the name endings -ia, -ua, and -ava. A proper Megrelian should also know the language. Although not everyone does these days” (Interview 17).

As the shepherd culture and the mixture of Christian and pre-Christian traditions were identified as the salient features of the Tushetian-ness, the forced relocation of the Tushetians to the plains, in the period from the 1950s to the late 1970s, potentially constitutes a serious threat for the Tush identity, as at least one generation was separated from the cyclical patterns of traditional Tushetian life. Our informants typically noted that the generation which returned to the mountains at the end of the 1970s retained memories of life prior to the relocation and were able to revive cultural and religious traditions. However, they also noted that this generation is now largely gone, and that they are uncertain how to respond to the new challenges, in particular to the new wave of migration of the Tushetians to Tbilisi and abroad, which began at the turn of the 21st century. While many hotel owners, horse guides, national park rangers or shepherds living in Tusheti for most of the summer are interested in maintaining the Tushetian traditions and religious festivities and rituals,Footnote ⁴ the Tushetians living abroad are deprived of the Tushetian experience, of living and feeling the local habits and the year cycle.

Our informants typically shared their perceptions that the Tushetian community, despite the existence of diasporas outside Tusheti and Georgia, is dissolving, and that the collective identity of the homeland (sazogado samshoblo cʻnoba) is disappearing. In most cases, they reflected their personal experience, having their children mostly dispersed in the world. For example, one informant claimed that “young people are Tushetians by their name, but they do not behave according to our traditions” (Interview 25). Another informant pointed to what he considers a formalisation of Tushetian identity among emigrants or those residing in Tbilisi, who typically “claim to be Tushetians, but are not real ones, because they do not know the life of the communities” (Interview 23). Other informants find the lack of religiosity as the reason for losing the Tushetian identity: “We are losing our collective consciousness because we do not have such collectivist identity as Muslims (namely the Kists). They are more cemented by the common prayers” (Interview 24).

Concurrently, a Tushetian youth interviewed expressed the importance “to maintain the traditions and identity based on our culture, traditions, dialects, economic activities, such as horse and sheep breeding and our religious specifics” (Interview 27). A young Tushetian from Khakhabo village summarised the meaning of being Tushetian in his generation as follows: “Tusheti for me means the nature, the mountains, and the village of my ancestors” (Interview 26). The evidence presented indicates not only a formal identification, but also a cementation of identity through the shared experience of residing in the village with other inhabitants and participating in traditional rituals, particularly the dġeoba.

The persisting traditional economic cycle connected with sheep breeding (mecʻxvareoba) was regarded by our informants as a pivotal aspect of identity; they typically perceive the shepherds as the most esteemed members of the community, the “real Tushetians” (Inerview 30). The shepherds’ principal product, Tusheti cheese (gudis qveli), has become an integral component of Tush banal nationalism and is a staple at any occasion. However, as our observation and data show, the mecʻxvareoba is a matter of just a few people from the community, as the Tusheti wool is no longer a competitive product on the market.

Politicization of Ethno-Cultural Differences

This section addresses the question of politicisation. We analyse how historical legacies of Soviet nationality policy and post-Soviet political conflicts have affected the public image of Adjarians and Megrelians in particular, and how our informants interpret autonomy, separatism, and loyalty in relation to their respective groups. This focus reveals how ethno-cultural differences can become politicised and entrenched in broader struggles over power and nationhood.

The Adjarian ASSR was founded in 1921 with Adjarians as the titular ethnic group. Where the Adjarians were officially merged with the Georgians in the 1930s, the Adjarian autonomy has survived. Zviad Gamsakhurdia, Georgia’s first post-Soviet president, unsuccessfully attempted to abolish the Adjarian autonomy. Later on, Adjara was under control of local strongman Aslan Abashidze, who turned the autonomous republic into his personal fiefdom. Despite this, Adjara’s secession has never been an issue (Hoch and Kopeček Reference Hoch and Kopeček2011). The situation escalated only during the Rose Revolution in Spring 2004, when the newly elected President Saakashvili was successful in ousting Abashidze and turning Adjara into rather nominal territorial autonomy (Holland, Dahlman, and Browne Reference Holland, Dahlman and Browne2020, 5–7).

We have recorded two main narratives, which have one thing in common – the perception of the autonomous republic in its current state as an inefficient institution. This was aptly formulated by one informant: “Both governments, the autonomous as well as the central, are ineffective; and the autonomous government is a puppet of the central government” (Interview 4). Another informant was even more eloquent: “Bureaucracy has been always rampant in the autonomous authorities, the officials have been always financing nonsenses, sending money to their loyal people. After 2005, the apparatus was reduced somewhat, but in recent years it has been growing again, new functions are being invented and public money is being spent on nonsenses. It is hampering development” (Interview 9).

It is plausible, that this perception is the reason why none of our informants has mentioned autonomy as currently playing any role in Adjarian identity. However, typically Muslim informants were still able to find some positive aspects on the autonomy in a political or economic sense. For example, a Muslim informant shared her perception that in the 1990s autonomy acted as a shield against Georgian nationalism, and that Muslim Adjarians would be against its abolition because they still see it as an institution which may have a protective role (Interview 4). Others, typically Christians, argued that having an autonomy on a religious basis is nonsense, that in the 1990s during Abashidze’s rule it constituted a threat for Georgian territorial integrity, and that it should be either abolished or that there should be a reform of self-government in the whole of Georgia, which should give all Georgian provinces larger competences (Interviews 9 and 12).

While Adjara was granted autonomy already in 1921, in Samegrelo, the autonomy issue had to wait a few more years for the launch of the korenizatsia (indigenisation) policies. During this period of support for local languages and cultures, the Georgian Central Committee of the Communist Party picked up the threads of the unsuccessful attempt of their tsarist predecessors to make Megrelian a liturgical language, and introduced Megrelian as the language of instruction in the lower grades of elementary schools and in the local administration. Between 1930 and 1938, several newspapers and books were published in Megrelian. Between 1923 and 1933, attempts to establish Megrelian autonomy also existed. These have been personified primarily by Isak Zhvania, a Zugdidi district Party First Secretary, who held a stance that Megrelians should have all linguistic and territorial rights and privileges provided to ethnic minorities. The other side was mainly represented by Shalva Eliava and Lavrenti Beria, rising elites in the central Georgian leadership (themselves also of Megrelian descent). This dispute, known as the “Mingrelian question”, was ended by the dismissal of Zhvania in 1933, with the Party authorities judging the demands for autonomy to be reactionary (Blauvelt Reference Blauvelt2014, 997). Since then, the issue of Megrelian autonomy has been abandoned. The publication of newspapers and propaganda pamphlets in Megrelian was terminated a few years later and even the scientific study of the language and culture became undesirable for the next few decades.

Our informants typically portrayed the autonomist efforts of the 1920s and 1930s as Russian efforts to break the unity of the Georgian nation and as disputes between different domestic factions of the Bolsheviks. For example: “The majority population is not interested in this historical issue. They see the dispute as a continuation of the tsarist policy of divide and rule in a new guise” (Interview 15). Another informant also stressed the role of inter-party conflict between Beria and Zhvania. “Most people don’t give it any thought. It was the Megrelians themselves who stopped the autonomy efforts at the time. That’s important to understand. Generally speaking, in Samegrelo, it’s seen as a dispute between two cliques of Bolsheviks over power, influence, and money” (Interview 17).

Megrelian identity was re-politicised in post-Soviet Georgia during the conflicts in Abkhazia, South Ossetia, and the civil war. In 1991–1993, Samegrelo became the stronghold of paramilitary forces supporting ousted president Zviad Gamsakhurdia, a Tbilisi-born Megrelian. Although Gamsakhurdia opposed ethnic minority demands and promoted Georgian nationalism without politicising Megrelian identity, his supporters’ resistance fuelled distrust of Megrelians in Georgia. Accused by the new Shevardnadze administration of fostering Megrelian separatism, Zviadists dismissed this as propaganda. Nonetheless, the perception of Megrelians as separatists and Kremlin agents persisted, as is apparent from the following quote: “In Tbilisi, we are still viewed with suspicion as unreliable Georgians and potential separatists. No one will come out and say it, but if two Megrelians start talking to each other in Megrelian in Tbilisi, it is not perceived positively” (Interview 18).

Our informants insisted, that at the time of the research, no political group in Samegrelo was advocating for Megrelian territorial or cultural autonomy. In their opinion, this reflects not only Georgia’s sensitivity to political regionalism but also the absence of such a demand among the Megrelians. Individuals from Samegrelo who promote Megrelian nationalism were typically portrayed as harbouring nostalgia for the USSR, and lacking any political connections. “They commonly mention that there used to be work, order, and a big state. But I haven’t heard of any political vision like autonomism or separatism in the last 20 years. They just don’t like the current state of affairs. With the worsening economic situation, these disgruntled currents could probably be politicised. That’s why there is still such a strange wariness in Tbilisi towards the Megrelians” (Interview 18). A Megrelian MP shared a similar view: “The autonomism among the Megrelians may be stronger than among the Svans, but it is still a very small tendency. They used to be supported from Russia. However, the Russian approach towards Ukraine has further diminished these currents in Samegrelo” (Interview 14).

History Made Us Georgians (of a Higher Sort?)

This section explores the function of historical narratives in the process of establishing a sense of belonging. We show how Adjarians, Megrelians, and Tushetians draw on the myths of antiquity, early Christianity, or heroic defence of the homeland to claim not only their place within the Georgian nation but also a special status as “truer” or “better” Georgians. These narratives elucidate the manner in which symbolic hierarchies of belonging are constructed and reproduced in contemporary discourse.

The investigated sub-ethnic groups, at some point, do not meet at least one of Chavchavadze’s criteria of being Georgian (common language, homeland, faith, history). While these differences may lead to depicting (Muslim) Adjarians as not-really-Georgians because of their religion or Megrelians as potential separatists, individual sub-ethnic groups have also developed a strategy how to counter such claims. In his seminal article on Megrelian sub-ethnicity, Broers (Reference Broers2001, 13–28) noticed that Megrelians “commonly portray themselves as exaggerating characteristics explicitly recognised as Georgian”, such as hospitality, or devotion, or they carve out “a historical niche for [them] as the original source of all things Georgian”, such as Colchis, frequently considered as the first Georgian state. The common joke that Megrelian is a higher sort of Georgian (vysshii sort gruzin) is the source of the metaphor used here. We have encountered similar patterns among all studied communities. Our informants typically argued that a particular feature proves their ancient Georgian character and stressed the importance of particular sub-ethnic groups for the Georgian nation as a whole.

In the case of the Adjarians, the metaphor of “Georgian-ness of a higher sort” is exemplified primarily in the myths surrounding the advent of Christianity to Georgia. This allows the Adjarians to be identified as the first Georgian Christians, rather than as involuntary converts to Islam. According to the myth, Christianity in Georgia firstly appeared in Adjara in the 1^st century AD. It is believed that Saint Andrew the Apostle came to the mountain village of Didachara, where he built the first church in Georgia, and began to preach and spread Christianity. Besides Didachara, Gonio, a historical Roman fortress south of Batumi, is another sight which is to prove Adjara’s alleged role of the cradle of Georgian Christianity. The Gonio fortress and other Roman sites on Georgia’s Black Sea coast are typically interpreted as a proof of Georgia’s links with Europe; however, in Gonio, there is also a memorial plague stating Gonio is the place where Saint Matthias the Apostle was buried. There are even plans for building a chapel in the fortress, which would commemorate this implausible history. Interestingly, this narrative is shared mainly by local authorities, and denied by the international academic community excavating on the site (Authors own observations; Interview 13).

Besides the myths about ancient Christian traditions in Adjara, it is also the existence of undeniably Christian sites that some of our informants employ to emphasise the Christian history of the region and legitimise their own conversions (Interview 6). Even an informant, who described himself as cultural Muslim, stressed that “in the past, we were all Christians here, then the Turks came and forced us to accept Islam. If you look around, there are old churches everywhere, monasteries, it was [originally] a Christian country” (Interview 5). As a group of archaeologists explained to one of the authors, it is not only churches or monasteries, but also more prosaic sites, such as wine presses, which are considered evidence of ancient Christian history, because they “prove that Christians lived there [in a village in Upper Adjara] in a particular period” (Interview 13).

Another narrative about the historical Georgian-ness of Adjara and the Adjarians is the perception of Adjara and neighbouring regions of north-eastern Turkey (historical regions of Tao and Shavsheti), which are still inhabited by Georgian-speakers, as a treasury of ancient Georgian traditions. The narrative goes that although most of these Georgian speakers are Muslims and those living in Turkey even do not have formal education in Georgian, they have kept ancient Georgian traditions alive; and that these traditions were already forgotten elsewhere because the region is remote and isolated from the rest of Georgia (Interviews 3 and 11).

In contrast to the Adjarians, where the ancient Christian traditions, forced separation, and subsequent return to the Georgian nation is a key aspect of the historical narrative, for the Megrelians, it is their historical affiliation with the Georgian nation and state that is a central focus. Megrelians perceive themselves as the autochthonous population of Western Georgia, and our informants typically referred to the legacy of Colchis with its Greek and Roman elements and strong contacts with European culture in the antiquity, when discussing history of the Megrelians. “We are descendants of the inhabitants of Colchis. Our ancestors inhabited a continuous strip of land between the present-day Abkhazia and the Eastern Turkey coast. Later, population from the more eastern territories of present-day Georgia (especially from Kartli) came, thus divided territorially the Megrelians and the Laz. Our culture is based on the foundations of classical scholarship” (Interview 17).

The perception of being the descendants of Colchis has an ambiguous impact on the Megrelian identity. First, it reinforces the sense of Georgian-ness among the Megrelians. Colchis is regarded as one of the earliest Georgian states that shared a common historical destiny with other Georgian polities, including adherence to the Georgian Orthodox Church and the adoption of the Georgian script and language as the literary language. Second, as one informant put it, “the contacts [of Colchis] with ancient Europe [belong to] the basis of Megrelian identity. Megrelians thus have finer customs than is typical for example in Svaneti or Kakheti … And there are books and a piano in the living room. Even if maybe no one in the family reads the books or plays the piano. The effort to show oneself in a cultural light is typical for Megrelians” (Interview 14). Other perceptions of Megrelian exclusiveness included banal claims about having “more order in blood”, keeping the area around the house clean and tidy, and generally distancing themselves from Kartlians and Kakhetians who are seen as having less refined customs; our informants also shared that their parents and grandparents would object if a Megrelian were to marry Kartlian or Kakhetian (Interviews 14, 15, and 18).

The borderland position emerged as a pivotal element of Tushetians’ feelings of being “the higher sort of Georgians”. Some informants specifically mentioned the fight with imam Shamil-led invaders that created the notion of being one of the exclusive defenders of the Georgian soil (Interview 22), although such historical heritage is common for other mountainous communities as well, above all in Khevsureti. Our informants also mentioned a number of other stories contained within this particular narrative, such as the heroical fight of Zezva Gaprindauli in Georgian anti-Persian uprising in the 17th century, or the protection of Georgian hinterland against the raids from Dagestan by Tushetian fighters (Interviews 28 and 29). In the modern period, the narrative of the Tushetians as the defenders of Georgia seems to be reinforced by the heroical death of Giorgi Antsukhelidze, a soldier from Tusheti, who was tortured and murdered during the Russian-Georgian war in 2008. He was posthumously awarded the highest Georgian orders and honoured by having a peak bordering the Tusheti, Upper Pshavi, and Pankisi regions named after him, as well as by the erection of a commemorative column at Abano Pass in 2024, through which leads the only road to Tusheti. One of our informants summed it up: “For centuries, we suffered significantly from the raids of the didoelebi [Dagestanis, Tsez]. Our mountains and heroes made a barrier defending the rest of Georgia from the north” (Interview 21).