Author: Levan SUTIDZE

“When talking about Muslims, we should bear in mind that we’re talking about a problem!” a stranger told me on a Batumi-bound Train.

A short while later I was met at the Batumi station by Tariel Nakaidze, a young Muslim, or, to be more precise, a Georgian Muslim. That is how he always identifies himself. This time, again, he told me he was a Georgian Muslim, adding sadly that today many in Georgia call them “Tatars.”

“Religion should not be a determinant of ethnicity in the Twenty-First century. Belief is a personal choice and that choice may vary. However, we are all citizens of one country and no other factor should be of importance,” he continued fervently on our way to the mufti administration. “Being a believer in Islam means recognizing the personal dignity of an individual.” For some reason, this last phrase has stayed in my memory.

Batumi’s mufti administration is an administrative body of Muslims and the custodian of more than 170 mosques and muftis in five districts. It is from this place that the Adjara Muslim Council is run. We were here to visit the Chief Mufti of Adjara ten days after his election. Mr. Jemal Paksadze, the head of Adjara mufti administration, greeted me with a smile. His modestly furnished office in the mufti administration building stands near the mosque. Quotations from the Qur’an adorn his office walls; his bookcases are stocked with books written in a language not recognizable to me.

Chief Mufti Jemal Paksadze is apparently also well-versed in the power of mass media: he picked the topic of lost territories to open the conversation, thereby immediately establishing his allegiance to the homeland; he diplomatically avoided delicate issues concerning the official status of the mufti administration and mosques under State ownership; he repeatedly emphasized his Georgian origin, and, in almost every sentence, he made sure to include the word “Georgian.” All of this made me wonder why he was so evidently concerned that people might not otherwise believe what the Chief Mufti says.

I noticed the Chief Mufti’s confusion when he learned I was heading for Khulo. As I learned later, the mufti administration is not trusted in quite a large number of villages. Villagers say they have not elected the Mufti and therefore do not trust him. They also say that the mufti administration exists on a signboard alone. And indeed, the chief mufti administration of Adjara is not registered anywhere.

“I will take you to meet Aslan Abashidze in Khulo,” Tariel told me. The expression on my face clearly called for an explanation, and Tariel was quick to react: “No, no, not that Aslan Abashidze [the former Adjaran leader under the Shevardnadze regime]! Mr. Aslan is the Mufti of the Khulo district!”

The Khulo District Mufti is a middle-aged man. Aslan Effendi, as he is known, met us with a traditional Muslim greeting. The greeting involves something akin to double touching the side of one another’s heads. We then set out for the Khulo mufti administration in his Russian-manufactured off-road vehicle. Children were making noise inside the mufti administration when we arrived. Here, the youth of Khulo are taught the basics of Islam, Arabic and the history of Georgia. Before entering the administration building I removed my shoes and - in contrast to a mosque in which one must be barefooted - was offered slippers.

Mr. Aslan’s room was much larger than the office of the Chief Mufti and a bit oriental. The whole of mejlis - an auxiliary administrative body primarily comprising elders and active Muslims - came to meet us. With a calm gesture, Aslan Effendi directed me to my seat. When I switched on the voice recorder, he went to the wardrobe and donned mufti dress, including an unusual headdress (the name of which now escapes me), declaring proudly: “It is impossible to lie when wearing this hat!”

Mufti Aslan takes issue with the opinion that Georgians of this region were forced into Islam under the rule of the Ottoman Empire. This, he says, is a distortion: “We were not forced into this belief. We accepted it openly and gave our heart to it!” He did not shy away from the suggestion that Christianity was spread in Georgia from Adjara or that this process was also accompanied with some violence. In his view, there is no such thing as a national religion because it is up to an individual to choose his or her own belief.

The Khulo Mufti sat in front of me, answering my questions in the presence of the entire mejlis. “When someone tells me that he or she has changed their belief due to economic factors or were baptized in order to become more acceptable to others, I find it difficult to understand. But if a change in belief is the result of a personal quest, then may Allah bless him/her.” This was in response to my question about the practice of baptizing Muslims which – at least to some extent – still happens in the Khulo district. This custodian of 40 mosques then continued a discourse on morals, as clerics are prone to do. For me, it is the people and their everyday life that holds a greater interest.

Ioseb Abashidze is an old man. He can recall the rule of the communists and the life of local Muslims then. He knows all too well that mullahs, as well as priests, were subject to persecution. He even knows the very person who used to prevent local Muslims from going to mosques, but he says that Islam is a tolerant religion. He is unhappy that the State focuses on Orthodox Christianity alone. “Why? We do exist, don’t we?” He is worried that the Patriarchate builds churches in his village where the majority of the population is Muslim whereas Muslims are denied any assistance whatsoever. “Their assistance would be not to get in my way,” another man interjected. Mufti of Khulo apparently disapproved changing the topic of conversation to politics.

Mufti Aslan did not join us for dinner – he was fasting. As he explained, even a morsel cannot be taken during the daytime and therefore he is refrained from eating from dawn until sunset. This was not an established fast, but rather one of his personal initiative. Children from the boarding school had dinner with the rest of us in the dining room, which adjoins one of the boarding school classrooms. During dinner we talked about the importance of education. I was told that education changes people; it makes them more tolerant and measured. “An educated person can never harm anyone,” a 17-year-old student of the boarding school asserted.

In perfect Georgian, 18-year-old Zaza Diasamidze expressed his affection for the homeland. He will never be able to express his devotion to Georgia in a long toast. As a Muslim, Zaza and the others do not drink – not even Georgian wine – and never will. Instead, Zaza is intent on demonstrating his devotion in another way - through education. He is looking forward to receiving results of the national exams, and he prays to Allah for success. He is determined to study and to be of service, not just for himself but also for his homeland. “Allah is merciful. He will protect Georgia!” And in those words, one can easily discern his longing that Georgia be united and strong with Zaza himself being an integral part of it.

“One should better pull down Kaaba’s wall than hurt a person!” This is a phrase I heard in the village of Didajara… Kaaba in Mecca is a sacred site in Islam, a cube-shaped building with black stone inside to symbolize Allah’s mercifulness. It is precisely towards Mecca that all Muslims turn their faces five times a day and perform their prayers. Muslims distinguish people by religion only when it comes to marriage. The reason for doing so is to maintain a single faith in the family. Historically, however, Georgian Muslims have always favored marrying other Georgian Muslims.

The mosque in Didajara was built not long ago, after collapse of the communist regime. I saw an old man - Grigol Tsulukidze - standing in a prayer corner. He can no longer perform traditional Namaz (Muslim prayer) because of ailing knees. Grigol Tsulukidze sustains himself by cultivating land in the Didajara village. He adores his wife, hates lamenting about problems, and wishes his offspring would spend more time helping him with his work.

In mountainous Adjara, one might expect to see a different environment and people who are more conservative, perhaps, especially in their manner of dress. This is not the usual case, however.

In contrast to many Georgian Muslim women, Mufti Aslan’s wife has not abandoned traditional Muslim headwear. This tradition is still observed in the Okruashvilebi village. So is the Georgian tradition of hospitality: she skipped evening prayer in order to take care of the guests. While Mrs. Eteri was busy preparing dinner, her husband and his brother were praying in the adjoining room. They have lived together for twenty years now. They first met in the village. Our family is democratic, Mrs. Eteri says. Everything is based on love and Islam – that makes her happy. She also enjoys knitting. In her spare time, between namaz times, she knits. Her son, Mohammed, has just turned 18. His parents want him to follow his father’s path, but will allow him to make his personal choice. Mohammed teaches Arabic at one of the educational institutions. He says this is not difficult at all. Mohammed asked me to pass along this message to his contemporaries, “Let’s prove our love to the homeland through work.”

“Well, have you seen terrorists hiding over there in the mountains?” Tariel asked me when I returned to Batumi. He was joking, of course.

Friday, the day of mosque, was approaching. All Muslims are obliged to go to mosque and pray to Allah. Azan, the Islamic call to prayer, did not sound from the loudspeaker on the minaret. “Because we do not like it,” joked one of the young people gathered outside the Batumi mosque. As it turned out, the sound of Azan does not appeal to the local population. “Is it not better than the sound of bells?” joked another youth.

Before leaving for Tbilisi, I met a Muslim girl. She was upset and talked with me about her problems. She had parted with a beloved person. Because they pray to different Gods, he had told her, they could not be together. She now tells no one the name of the God she worships. It is difficult to fight alone. If you do not wear a cross, you will not be accepted, she said. She therefore now wears a cross. Circumstances so demand, she explained:

“This is my personal choice, only my own. Compulsion is strange to Islam. Respect my choice. My choice, I reiterate! And don’t tell me you love the country more than I do. Don’t sin, because it is a lie, a pure lie!” 

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