Every day, in the heart of the Georgian capital of Tbilisi, a soup kitchen opens its doors to nearly 400 older adults and children, offering not just food, but company, dignity. Nearby, children gather for counseling sessions that help them navigate trauma, loss and instability. Hundreds of people receive essential services daily, from mental and physical health care to warm beds, social support and the simple reassurance that someone still cares.
This is my country’s shared social safety net, not supported solely by the state, but stitched together by churches, such as the Catholic community’s social service charity, Caritas Georgia, civil society and international partners. This quiet web of care is fragile, but it works. Or at least, it did. For when suspicion replaces collaboration, the web loosens.
Some changes come like a storm, impossible to ignore. And in 2024, Georgia changed.
A country that once welcomed democracy and worked with nongovernmental organizations turned away. Trust turned into doubt. Cooperation became control. The space for civil society began to shrink, and those who once helped to build a better future were now portrayed as enemies of the state. Overnight, rules changed and, despite a strong resistance, the Parliament of Georgia adopted the highly controversial “Law on Transparency of Foreign Influence.” Often referred to as the “Russian Law,” it bears a strong resemblance to Russia’s own “foreign agents” legislation — with the same undertone — suspicion. Soon, a new regulation followed, requiring all foreign grants and donations to be preregistered and approved by the state authorities before any activity begins. Claiming to “ensure transparency,” this law introduced layers of bureaucracy that threaten to disrupt even the most essential and immediate social programs.
Georgia’s civil society, long a key player in the country’s development, raised its voice. Streets filled with peaceful protesters for whom the new legislation signaled a shift away from the path toward greater ties with Europe, supported by the overwhelming majority of citizens. They chanted for dignity, for democracy and trust. The response came, not through dialogue but water cannons, tear gas, violence and mass arrests.
After widespread protests and international criticism, the Georgian Parliament formally repealed the “Law on Transparency of Foreign Influence” and adopted a revised version, titled the “Law on the Registration of Foreign Agents.” Although reframed, the new law retained the core mechanisms of the original — expanding registration requirements and reinforcing control over foreign-funded organizations. The Office of Human Rights of the Organization for Security and Cooperation in Europe has warned that the law “harms civil society,” threatens freedom of association and risks being used to intimidate.
The European Parliament declared the legislation “a serious setback for democracy,” and the European Commission froze Georgia’s candidacy in the European Union. The United States imposed sanctions on the officials involved. International donors began to reconsider their long-term presence.
The hardest questions were not being asked by politicians, but by ordinary people. This is not about partisan politics. It is about presence. It is about whether someone will show up when help is needed. The implications of these changes are not limited to party politics — they are being felt on the ground.
According to Georgia’s National Statistics Office, approximately 864,000 pensioners and 185,000 households receive targeted social assistance. This program reaches almost a third of the country, with benefits ranging from 30-60 lari ($11-$22) per month, far below the subsistence monthly minimum of 252 lari ($193). Despite this support, many Georgians miss the qualifications and fall through the gaps. Government agencies address a portion of these needs, but humanitarian and civil society actors often play a complementary role: They fill gaps in service delivery, not as foreign influences, but as friends, especially in serving the elderly, people with special needs, displaced populations and youth.
“This isn’t about politics. It’s about presence. It’s about whether someone will show up when help is needed.”
According to Pawel Herczynski, the E.U. Ambassador to Georgia, NGOs “often provide vital social services, particularly to vulnerable communities,” and the Asian Development Bank confirms their essential role in health, education, food security and psychosocial support.
But this support is now under threat. More than 90 percent of nongovernmental organizations in Georgia, including Caritas Georgia, rely on foreign funding, and with the new legislation nearly 26,000 organizations could be affected, according to a Council on Foreign Relations analysis from August 2024. Georgia’s aid infrastructure is now tangled in red tape, with programs delivering hot meals, mobile care or youth counseling facing grant freezes, reputational damage and legal uncertainty. For the people we help, these are not minor gaps, but lifelines lost.
If this trajectory continues, Georgia risks losing not only aid but also the mechanism of care that has held its society together. It will silence voices and reduce flexibility, and the ones left behind will be those most in need: the elderly, the poor and the displaced.
Now, we stand at a crossroads, between cooperation and isolation, between solidarity and suspicion, between service and fear. We must remember that democracy does not live in speeches. It lives in relationships. When we lose relationships, it takes more than laws to bring them back.
What is most concerning is not the additional paperwork but the erosion of trust — that slow, invisible damage that makes people question what they used to believe was good. When humanitarian actors are labeled as “influenced,” it becomes harder for the people we serve to accept our help. And in the space between fear and service, someone always suffers.
We are not talking about foreign interference. We are talking about bread on the table. Because at the end of the day, social protection is more than a policy — it is an act of faith. And faith, once shaken, is slow to restore.
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