Morality – and we beneath it

Generally speaking, humankind has an insatiable desire to understand why it came into this world and what its purpose is. Driven by this desire, I immersed myself in literature and listened to various people. Some say that humankind has no purpose and that we are merely biological beings. The topic of reincarnation is also discussed, along with the question of how humanity can rise and become enlightened, freeing itself from this wearying cycle of reincarnation. Much has been written about morality and moral people, and much more will likely be written, but certain markers are set by real people. That is to say, it is not only through information conveyed by writers about what we are meant to live for, but also through concrete examples from other people that this is revealed to us.

And if life is merely a chemical process in the brain, then these very examples demonstrated by humans are the source of those magical chemical processes that make life worthwhile, that make one love one's child, and that make one become a simple soldier of one's country and go to one's death. There are many such examples in our history, but it is something else entirely when a living person sets an example of heroism, patriotism, and the highest limits of morality.

Aren't there many countries where life is better than ours? Yet those who showed humanity during the Nazi era or in communist Germany are almost forgotten. Such people often remain only in history, relegated to the graveyard of texts. Life in Georgia today is difficult and full of trials, but when viewed from a distance, one recognizes that heroes are emerging before our eyes, heroes who have passed from the pages of a book into reality.

One such heroine is Mzia Amagolobeli, who dedicated her entire life to fighting injustice and was ultimately imprisoned. Much has been written about her, and much more will be written, but today we are talking about Zviad Ratiani.

Poet and translator Zviad Ratiani has been charged with assaulting a police officer.

The prosecution accuses him of committing a crime under Article 353¹, Part 1 of the Criminal Code, which criminalizes an attack on a police officer. This offense carries a prison sentence of four to seven years.

As one of Ratiani’s lawyers, Mariam Pataridze, told journalists, the prosecution claims that Ratiani “slapped Teimuraz Meshvelashvili, the head of the Didube–Chughureti Patrol Police unit, in the face.”

According to Ratiani, the motive for the slap was his protest against the arrest of Mzia Amaghlobeli.

For context: Amaghlobeli is also currently serving a sentence for allegedly slapping a police officer.

He deprived us ordinary, mortal, sinful people of our final argument. The argument for why we weren't sufficiently angry about Mzia's arrest. Sure, we took to the streets, then we went back inside, then work got in the way or the child, and so this passion, which shouldn't have been so easily dissipated, dissipated. Routine is an astonishingly efficient tool—not only for organizing daily life, but apparently also for neutralizing outrage.

It's hard to imagine how sweet freedom is when you don't have it. Perhaps many didn't understand how much Mzia sacrificed for us, for our children, for our future. Perhaps we did understand—and yet we didn't act. That, too, would be an explanation.

It was precisely this injustice that compelled Zviad Ratiani to act like a true knight and follow the same path – with the predictable result: prison. There's nothing surprising about that. In a system that values loyalty more highly than principles, consistency inevitably carries a risk.

But his example acts as a precisely placed counterargument against any form of excuse. It shows what morality truly means—and what it doesn't. Not what we conveniently imagine it to be, but what has consequences. What costs money.

He drew a line. A line our ancestors knew, and one we have apparently successfully repressed. And since then, a problem has existed: anyone who presents themselves as patriotic today must be measured against this line. The result is, to put it mildly, sobering.

Self-proclaimed writers, pseudo-patriots, and professional outrage managers will not be able to attain this status. Not because they lack words—there are plenty of those—but because they fail to grasp the consequences. There is a distance between rhetoric and risk that not everyone is willing to cross.

This text arises from a feeling that is hard to ignore: powerlessness, helplessness, and the unpleasant realization that moral demands rarely correspond with actual behavior.

Perhaps in the end only one hope remains: that we at least raise a generation that doesn't have to learn through shame what we should have known long ago.