Trapped Between War and Peace

Suk

humi, the Black Sea resort and capital of Abkhazia, is eerie and ruined. The grand promenade is a mess of cracked concrete and smashed lamps, the once gracious Hotel Abkhazia a smoke-blackened hulk. The restaurants on the lush subtropical hills overlooking the bay have been pounded to rubble by artillery. One of the Soviet Union's favorite summer destinations is now just another scar on the post-Soviet map of the Caucasus.

The Georgian-Abkhaz war, a nasty ethnic battle that began in 1992, ended with a cease-fire agreement in 1994. The Abkhaz, aided by Russian arms and logistics, pushed Georgian forces--along with a quarter of a million Georgian refugees--out of Abkhazia and back across the River Inguri. But while the cease-fire brought Russian peacekeepers and U.N. observers, it brought no political settlement. The Abkhaz government sits in Sukhumi behind an economic blockade; the Georgian government is in Tbilisi surrounded by hotels full of refugees.

There are few people on the streets in Sukhumi, only the odd ancient Volga car bumps past over the potholes. A few goods leak through the blockade--plastic shoes, fake Calvin Klein T shirts and Titanik chocolate bars with Leonardo di Caprio on the wrapper. A smattering of desultory cafes serve coffee, peanuts and local cola. The Abkhaz remain cut off. President of the putative Abkhaz state, Vladislav Ardzinba, says that recognition of his country "needs to be made only by the people" themselves, but Russia and the West still recognize the territorial integrity of Georgia. That leaves the Abkhaz living in a state of political limbo; they have no passports and they cannot travel.

"It's important to remain an optimist and to try to feel human," says Zurik Jindjolia, a bright young Abkhaz who started Sukhumi's only independent radio station. "But then we remember that we live in a vacuum of culture and information." Zura spent two years building the equipment for Radio Soma with bits of circuit board and wiring gleaned from friends and market stalls. The station, which plays pop music and first went on the air this year, is a rare hub of activity in a place where there are few working factories.

Enforced isolation has left Abkhazia in a state of defensive retrenchment: military service is compulsory and the television news is read by a woman against a backdrop of camouflage netting. The Abkhaz insist that the economic blockade be lifted before they allow the return of refugees, while the Georgians insist on the reverse. The demographic question is crucial for the Abkhaz, who are desperate to retain their cultural homeland after more than a century of deportation, Russification and Georgian immigration. Living among the remaining ethnic Armenians and Russians, the Abkhaz are still a minority in Abkhazia. That's why Abkhaz Foreign Minister Sergei Shamba says "The return of refugees is not just humanitarian, it's political."

Demographics most obviously collide in the agricultural region of Gali, where the population is almost entirely Georgian. The Abkhaz cannot harvest the citrus and hazelnut crops without local Georgian manpower, but are loath to allow a Georgian population back into this sensitive buffer zone. After the war Georgians did filter back into Gali, but when their numbers swelled to around 50,000 in May of last year, Abkhaz forces--resisted by Georgian partisans--again expelled them. Now several thousand are forced to creep back and forth across the hazardous cease-fire line to tend their land. Lawlessness is rife. "Nobody can guarantee the safety of the inhabitants," admits one U.N. officer after a typical series of incidents: a 73-year-old woman was shot in the head, a family of four was murdered by unknown assailants and two Russian soldiers were hacked almost to death with axes.