In some countries, hope is a right.
In others, it’s a ritual.
But in Georgia, hope is a performance.
We’ve been prisoners without trials.
Citizens with debts we didn’t choose.
Heirs of grief that was never properly buried.
And yet…
we laugh.
We laugh through teeth broken by inflation.
We laugh in kitchens where grandmothers pour water instead of wine,
but still raise their glass and say: “Gagimarjos.”
We laugh because silence would feel like surrender,
and Georgians don’t surrender.
We transform.
We turn pain into punchlines.
We turn trauma into theatre.
We turn a one-room apartment into a sanctuary of joy —
where even the router becomes a character in the play.
“Where are we going?” she asked Sabri.
“I’m going to poop, you’re going to pay,” she answered.
And just like that, dignity returned.
We’re not poor. We’re poetic.
We don’t have money — we have timing.
We don’t have justice — we have satire.
We don’t have therapy — we have Sabri.
And above all… we have each other.
So if one day you see a girl placing her foot on the table,
pretending it’s art,
or using her underwear as an anti-evil-eye flag —
don’t laugh at her.
Laugh with her.
Because she’s not just surviving.
She’s teaching the world a forgotten language:
The Language of Laughter in the Land of No Excuses.
And in that language…
she’s a national poet.