Batik and the Machinery of Propaganda

Years ago, I was working on a documentary film in South Ossetia with the support of the OSCE. It was the first and, I believe, the last time the separatist regime in Tskhinvali allowed a Georgian media crew to operate there.

The arrangement was simple: the project would be joint. A Georgian journalist and an Ossetian journalist working side by side. I represented Tbilisi; my counterpart from Tskhinvali was a young colleague named Batik.

There was an enormous amount of work ahead of us: visiting every village in the region, conducting interviews with OSCE officials, representatives of the UN High Commissioner for Refugees and staff from various field offices. In reality, we ended up carrying most of the workload ourselves. Batik had no experience. He was very young - only twenty.

Our team included a British producer, Georgian and Ossetian cameramen, drivers, and one representative from the Tskhinvali regime - a woman assigned to “observe” the entire process. The film itself wasn’t political. It focused solely on OSCE rehabilitation programs. Still, the authorities insisted on monitoring every step we took.

Before filming began, we barely communicated. Or rather, they didn’t want to. For me, working with Ossetians posed no problem at all. But years of conflict had built quiet walls. The OSCE even organized several preparatory “team building” meetings to help us bond. The atmosphere was stiff and awkward, like strangers forced into trust exercises.

The ice finally broke during a coffee break. One of the Tskhinvali cameramen who had been silent the whole time suddenly turned to us, spoke Georgian, and asked for a cigarette.

That small, ordinary moment changed everything.

After that, things gradually softened. When we were alone, he spoke Georgian. The others - including Batik - preferred Russian. Conversation became easier. Suspicion gave way to familiarity.

We worked together for a month and genuinely grew close. Long days on the road tend to do that. One evening, Batik invited me to a cafe. It turned out to be a tiny room with a few tables covered in cheap plastic cloths, more like someone’s kitchen than a café but he treated it like a special place.

He kept asking questions.

“Do you have places like this in Georgia?”
“Do you even have electricity?”
“Are there normal roads?”
“If your phone isn’t on MTC, who operates it?”
“Do people really kill each other in the streets?”
“Do you hate us? Will you kill us?”

He wasn’t joking. He was serious.

At that very time, Georgia was one of the safest countries in the region. State institutions were functioning. Batumi and Sighnaghi were flourishing. Tourists were pouring in. Life in Tbilisi was loud and vibrant.

But Batik belonged to the post-war generation. He had grown up in isolation. He had never seen anything beyond Tskhinvali and the surrounding villages, not even Russia. Everything he knew about Georgia came from television and official narratives. Against the backdrop of relentless regime propaganda, his questions didn’t surprise me.

I calmly told him the truth: all of it was lies. And if he wanted, I would show him.

After filming wrapped I approached the regime’s representative who had turned out to be unexpectedly warm and friendly and asked for permission to take Batik to Tbilisi for a few days. She promised to talk to the right people.

The next day she answered awkwardly, almost apologetically.

“Unfortunately, it’s impossible. You can’t guarantee his safety.”

It wasn’t his safety they were worried about. They just didn’t let him to see the reality with his own eyes.

I’ve often thought about Batik since then - a bright, curious young man raised inside a sealed pot, shaped by propaganda into a distorted view of the world, denied even the chance to see the people living just a few kilometers away across the occupation line. Especially tragic for someone who called himself a journalist.

Things changed, and so did Georgia. Now the country is fast-forwarding toward an authoritarian state, its institutions crumbling one by one, and we have burned all the bridges with the civilized West. Today, I watch people laughing and sharing yet another Georgian propagandistic television report blaming the opposition for rising prices. The comments are full of sarcasm and jokes: “Do they really think their voters are this stupid?”

But this isn’t funny at all.

And the question itself misses the point.

We still don’t fully understand how propaganda works.

Propaganda is not a single lie or one absurd news segment. It is not a one-time deception. It is a long-term, systematic, psychologically calculated process. That television report is just one small brick in a massive structure.

The gradual suffocation of free media, carried out deliberately for years, is part of that structure. Restrict alternative information. Control television, online platforms, and social networks. Label dissent as “enemy”, Discredit independent journalists. Call them “agents,” “traitors,” “foreign puppets.”

When people receive information from only one source, slowly, over time, that version becomes their reality.

Propaganda repeats the same messages endlessly. It reduces complexity to slogans. It scares people. It convinces them that war and destruction are inevitable unless “these leaders” remain in power. It tells them that without the ruling party’s protection, the country would already be burning.

Eventually, you can make people believe almost anything - even that the opposition controls supermarket prices.

You can convince them that Europe is their enemy, that the West wants to destroy them, that absurd conspiracies are true.

Walk down the streets. Talk to people. You will see how deep these metastases of the Georgian ruling party’s propaganda have spread.

We laugh at North Koreans crying hysterically when another Kim dies. But it isn’t funny. For many it’s genuine panic. They truly believe their savior is gone and the country is ruining.

Years ago, Western ophthalmologists entered North Korea and secretly brought along a National Geographic journalist. After cataract surgeries, when patients had their bandages removed, something striking happened. Instead of thanking the doctors who had restored their sight, they knelt before portraits of Kim, weeping and thanking him.

Some even promised to take up arms and fight Western enemies.

The filmmaker later asked: was this fear, or genuine belief?

Her conclusion was chilling. After years of propaganda and constant fear, belief had replaced fear. These people were sincere.

So why do we think Georgians are immune to this?

Why do we assume we are somehow smarter?

In 1945 Korea split along the 38th parallel. In just a few decades, one nation became two completely different societies - one democratic and technologically advanced, the other impoverished, isolated, and systematically brainwashed.

And we are witnessing similar processes in Georgia today.

The cult of the leader. Manufactured “experts.” Religious authorities weaponized. Absolute control of national broadcasters. Professional journalists replaced by obedient, unqualified staff. Manipulated statistics. Twisted narratives. Isolation repackaged as patriotism.

And armies of trolls ready to drown out any attempt at fact-checking.

This is not accidental.

It is a system.

And because of that system, the victims of propaganda simply don’t know another reality exists.

Just like Batik didn’t know that we have cafes, electricity and streets that aren’t soaked in blood.