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In the early hours of April 9, 1989, Soviet troops violently dispersed a peaceful, pro-independence protest on Rustaveli Avenue in Tbilisi, Georgia. Thousands had gathered to demand greater autonomy—and ultimately independence—for Georgia from the Soviet Union. In response, Soviet military forces, including special units armed with sharpened shovels and chemical agents, stormed the square. They beat and suffocated demonstrators, including women, children, and hunger strikers who had vowed nonviolence. The assault left at least 21 people dead—many of them young women—and hundreds injured or poisoned by gas.
In the days following the massacre, a small group of friends—driven by shock, grief, and the urgent need to preserve the truth—set out to collect testimonies from eyewitnesses. These are handwritten reflections gathered informally in the immediate aftermath of the violence. They’ve been digitized, typed up, and presented here. The photos are taken from local archives, accessible on the Internet.
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I was a witness to the tragic night of April 9, 1989, when the disgraceful massacre took place near the government building, and I am sharing everything I saw with my own eyes.
I had been there since the evening of April 8, attending the rally, where despite the large crowd, an extraordinary sense of order prevailed. People listened with admiration to the speeches of the nation’s finest intellectuals, artists, writers, and university professors, who alternated with the rally organizers. I must emphasize that the atmosphere of goodwill, mutual respect, and unity among the participants was truly remarkable. Everyone understood one another, loved one another, listened to one another, and showed mutual respect. There were no divisions, no opposing opinions. The entire crowd breathed as one. No one wanted to leave. For me, it was astonishing to witness such unity, which, sadly, had become rare among Georgians, especially in recent times. Later, when everything was over, I realized that people had missed love, warmth, standing together, and sharing a common faith so much that no force could have broken them apart. I am convinced there wasn’t a single person there, even by chance, who wanted or could have left. No matter how eloquently or vividly I try to describe it, I cannot fully convey the elevated spirit that reigned there. I feel fortunate to have experienced it personally.
When the rain started, it only strengthened the unity of the crowd.
Patriarch Ilia II’s statement was not unexpected for us, as tanks had already been visible in the city since the morning, and we anticipated that “something” would happen, though no one knew exactly what. In fact, it exceeded anyone’s imagination.
I found myself face-to-face with the soldiers, but the feeling of fear was not present then. That came later, after everything was over, when I realized the barbarity I had escaped. They came wielding shovels with brutal force (at first, I thought it was to disperse the crowd), their faces twisted with inhuman expressions, shouting profanities. They beat people mercilessly. Those who were standing on higher ground began climbing into the bushes to hide, but, as if from a nightmare, the soldiers appeared there too, trampling them.
This was a furious (and who knows in what state) specially trained punitive group, the kind used against recidivists or particularly armed forces. I am convinced they were conditioned to see us as mortal enemies, ready to slaughter. They were agitated. Their faces were red with rage.
It is outrageous that the massacre was blamed on “extremist groups” and, even more so, that unarmed civilians were accused of attacking soldiers. What does it mean to speak of extremist groups, as they so often do to justify themselves? Let me repeat emphatically: there was no such group there. On the contrary, the rally organizers called for order and peace among everyone.
I do not believe in a party or a government that seeks to subjugate and lead its people by force and weapons. I believe that the truth will prevail.
I have done my best to write this plainly, free from the influence of emotions.
Citizen R. S. Music School Teacher, Patardzeuli
At approximately 3:45 AM, a voice came through the microphone: “Friends! The Patriarch is with us.” Half an hour before his arrival, heavy rain began to pour, prompting some attendees to head home. A tomb-like silence fell over everything as the Patriarch began to speak with his usual composure. The rain stopped immediately, leaving us astonished. I write about such details to show how carefully I am recounting everything.
The square was packed—I cannot say how many thousands were listening to the Patriarch. When His Holiness finished his prayer, we rose from our knees. He continued: “My children, I have been informed that tanks are set to enter here in a few minutes. Follow me to Sioni Cathedral, where we will pray for our nation and homeland.” Silence fell again. From the crowd, voices rang out: “If we are to die, we will meet death here!” His Holiness said nothing more.
Irakli Tsereteli took the microphone: “Friends, since the arrival of the tanks seems inevitable, I urge the women to leave the rally or seek shelter in the Artists’ House or Kashveti Church. Let’s clear the roadway for the tanks and avoid any provocations. Even if they strike you, do not retaliate!” People waited for the tanks, standing in stillness. Not a single woman left the rally.
At that moment, the singers from the Society for the Blind began a profoundly moving song on the panduri [an instrument]—a song Georgian warriors sang before battle. The rally joined in. Around this time, the tall young man standing beside me, looking toward Lenin Square, said, “They are coming.” Restlessness overcame me. I instinctively turned around and found myself near the Rustaveli cinema. The director, Mr. Nugzar Asatiani, had flung the doors wide open, perhaps sensing what was to come. Without those doors, who knows how many more bodies would have been counted in the morgue.