The Statue of Ilia Chavchavadze in Batumi: On Symbols That Endure… and Others That Are Erased

During my recent visit to the coastal Georgian city of Batumi, I paused in reflection before a bronze bust of a figure whose features were unfamiliar to me, yet whose presence commanded respect. I stepped closer to read the inscription: Ilia Chavchavadze.

One of Georgia’s great national revivalists stood, a poet, thinker, and reformer of the 19th century who championed the Georgian language, identity, and sovereignty under Russian rule.

But this was not just a moment of cultural discovery — it became a moment of questioning:

How do civilized nations preserve their memory? And how do living nations honor their symbols?

In countries where democracy and pluralism prevail — such as modern Georgia — cultural figures are celebrated and immortalized in public spaces, educational institutions, and even on currency. These nations respect their past not by rewriting it, but by building upon it, layer by layer.

In contrast, many developing nations suffer from a chronic illness: their collective memory is hostage to political power. Statues are toppled, street names erased, and entire cities renamed at the whim of whoever holds the reins of authority, as though history must be rewritten with each new regime.

Baghdad as a Stark Example:

In Baghdad, the city of civilizations, the pattern is clear — public names and symbols change with every political shift:

• Al-Rasheed Street, once Baghdad's cultural and commercial artery, now stands in neglect, stripped of its former glory.

• The King Faisal II Bridge, inaugurated in 1957, was renamed 14th of July Bridge after the 1958 revolution, and later became known as the Republic Bridge, reflecting not a narrative of continuity, but one of repeated rupture.

• The City of Al-Thawra (Revolution City) became Saddam City, then was renamed again as Sadr City, erasing and rewriting identity with every ruling regime.

• The statue of Caliph Abu Jaafar Al-Mansur, founder of Baghdad, was targeted multiple times after 2003, removed under sectarian or ideological pretexts, then reinstalled under public pressure — as if even stone must submit to political negotiation.

Such treatment of public memory does not reflect critical reflection or cultural dynamism — it reflects a profound identity crisis and the absence of a mature state ethos.

Standing before Chavchavadze’s statue in Batumi was not merely a touristic pause, but a moment of meditation on the value of symbolic continuity, cultural reverence, and honoring those who serve society through intellect and words, not swords and slogans.

Will Baghdad ever honor its true minds — from Al-Jahiz and Al-Mutanabbi to Ali Al-Wardi and Muhammad Mahdi Al-Jawahiri — with monuments that transcend political fashion?