I don't know why I wanted to start this blog entry with 'Mama and Deda,' but there is something important about bringing them into my 'above-ground reality.' Mama and Deda are living in Ireland as undocumented migrants. They are struggling to make ends meet and provide for their children. Yet, their generosity and hospitality is classically Georgian. When I first started to visit them, Mama would insist I take his slippers for my comfort. They are real people in my life, they are my friends, I love them, we share things...and I don't get to talk about them with anyone for fear they may be exposed to the authorities.
I won't turn this blog entry into a rant about selfish and fearful borders created by men on God's border-less paradise, but there is a sense of suffocation I feel for these people I love so much. Not just Mama and Deda here in Ireland, but my friends in Georgia in general. There is something akin to being in prison when you need a visa to go anywhere in the world. When I Skype my friends in Georgia, it is very different than when I Skype my friends in the U.S. or Australia. I have enjoyed the absolute luxury and education of travel around the world...and my friends in Georgia can't seem to go anywhere. Its as if they have to sneak out (like Mama and Deda) and the Skype camera is a window on visiting days at the jail.
This post is uncomfortable. I hope it doesn't reek of class privilege. I actually want to get back to writing about my ongoing experiences with Georgian culture, but I had to take care of this first. I would love for you to meet Mama and Deda, they are the most wonderful people...but I doubt you ever will. Still...as with all of my friends and family and the love they give me; I hope I can somehow share it with you.
