A Prayer for Poppy

"Ara, Ara,” an old man yelled hoarsely as he merged from a small brick building. “We’re closed.” I had just closed the large metal gate behind me when I turned to meet my welcomer. “Inglisit Itsit? Do you speak English?” I breathed in desperation. I had already been through enough trouble with my last taxi driver’s inability to communicate and hardly wanted to play two games of charades in one day. “Yes, and German, The Synagogue is closed for the day.” “Um, I was actually wondering if I could attend Shabbat services tonight.” The elderly Georgian (or perhaps German) looked at me for several long seconds before nodding me towards the larger building. As he began to briskly walk back to his post he paused, and again stared. “Services start at five and thirty.” Pushing the enormous door and kissing the mezuzah I peaked inside. 


Though only the natural light cascading through the windows lit the room, the details of the synagogue were incredible. Chandeliers that once held candles hung from the high ceilings, while the walls were elaborately decorated in gold leafing and painted marble. The arc at the front stood solemnly among the pews with its rich velvety red curtain hiding what I’m sure were beautiful torahs. Taking my seat behind the women’s screen, I awaited the arrival of Shobbas. Soon, the door was opening and closing with merry old men in has and kippas wishing each other “Shabbat shaloms.” The greets and smiles of my fellow shobbas goers that lit up the room reminded me of those times I had accompanied poppy to shuel, saying hello to what seemed like thousands of congregants as if I was flanking a celebrity. Brushing a few tears away, I opened my sidur to welcome the Sabbath.  


Though the service seemed to last forever (the rabbi’s sermon was longer than ours at Yom Kippur!) and at times I thought my toes would fall off from the cold, I took the time to think of how many things I had to be thankful for this week alone. On Monday I had visited a contemporary art gallery and school with the woman I lived with in an old electric factory. It seemed so amazing that contemporary art continued o echo the same themes regardless of whether you were in Manhattan or Washington or Sabertallo. Tuesday had brought me out to dinner at a local restaurant with a coworker, where I tried some Ossetian cuisine and my first glass of Georgian wine (which was really great). Wednesday swept me into an adult puppet show, the first I had ever been to. The theatre was reminiscent of an off Broadway show and the atmosphere was drenched with creativity. The story, Autumn of my Springtime, about a bird laundering money to pay the mortgage of his non-bird grandmother’s house, was both clever and amusing, but the true gem of this puppet house was the design of the actors themselves. Their faces were meticulously sculpted and their costumes sewn with care. After the show, my companian and I headed across the way to the Hanger Bar where I ordered an Obama burger and she a Sarcozy. Though I already had perhaps too much to be thankful for, I knew that the weekend would hold even more adventures of my new city. 


As I ventured to the rugby stadium Saturday afternoon I knew that my weekend would live up to its promised adventure. Attempting to get a ticket was nearly impossible. Hundreds of fans attempting to push themselves past the nut ventures towards the crowed windows, waving Lari in hopes that some hand would reach out to exchange it for a ticket, was insanity. Though the lines are much better in the Bronx, perhaps the Yankees could learn a thing or two about pricing form the Georgians (it cost me 2 Lari, about $1.20 to get into the match, and another $1.20 for a beer). Excited to be using my vast knowledge of rugby, I sat down on the rather cold seat and waited for the national anthems to end. Evidently, Georgia is not only good at weight lifting in the Olympics; they beat the national Spanish team 61-0 to a roaring crowd. Although they did not play “Tbilisi Tbilisi” after winning the game, the crowd’s energy was eerily similar to the emotions one feels after walking out after a homerun in the ninth.  


Exploring the streets of Vake, we stumbled upon a cupcake shop that seemed as if it should have been in Georgetown rather than Georgia. Welcoming the warmth, we sat down to tiramisu and a cupcake and watched the passerbyers hurrying down the sidewalks. Eventually, we again parted ways and I headed home to venture to the supermarket in an attempt of finding something more than eggs to eat. Off to a lazy start on Sunday, I packed my camera around noon and headed down the street with no real direction in mind. My three-hour walk covered a good amount of the city. Some of the time was filled with walking on highways, not entirely sure how to get ot the other side. I passed the tomb of the Unknown Soldier, a grave that seems to surface in nearly every culture, and a newly erected monument to those who lost their lives in the 2008 war. I sauntered down the main avenues, peering into shops as I passed by, and through the crowds of a formula 1 race, which I stopped to watch (this racing, though still not my fortee, was much more thrilling than Nascar). Finally I reached the old city and wondered endlessly through Freedom Square and the winding roads that led across the river. I hiked up a mountain to an old church with awe-inspiring frescos, and after reaching a residential area began my descent.  

Eventually, I found a quaint, artsy café on a side street and took refuge from the wintery winds. The café was warm with oddities for furniture and cloth cut outs for curtains that depicted scenes from plays. I took my seat in the company of Hamlet and glaced at the menu before deciding on Moroccan tea and wine pudding, both of which were delicious.  As I sat silently sipping my tea, I could not help but to think back to those old men at Shabbos services and poppy. I though of how I wish I could share these stories with him, how I’m sure he would make a corny joke out of my experience, how a year had already gone by without him here, and how much I still miss him. On Wednesday, I helped out with an event for local civil society grassroot leaders. Among the things discussed were religious freedom and minority rights, two subjects that very much influenced not only my decision to take this internship, but my career in general. As I said, I have so much to give thanks for every Friday evening, from the historical sites I am visiting to the stately food I get to try. But, as I light a yarzhite candle, I know that the thing I’m most thankful for isn’t as tangible as fortresses or Khatupouri: it is the inspiration poppy gave me to get on a plane to a city I’ve never thought twice about and be just as passionate about protecting minority rights here as in America; the inspiration to make never again a reality not by being an American citizen, but by being a citizen of humanity.