Rave for Democracy: How Georgia’s Techno Scene Fuels Protests

TBILISI, Georgia – On June 15, marking 200 days of relentless protest, a few thousands people once again filled Rustaveli Avenue. The crowd was thinner than in earlier weeks, as steady rain soaked the pavements. With hoodies pulled tight, faces painted and scarves wrapped high, they marched on - unbroken after months of unrest.

The movement had been building since October, when parliamentary elections handed victory to the Georgian Dream party—founded by billionaire Bidzina Ivanishvili—amid widespread accusations of fraud. The outcome deepened public frustration, further delaying Georgia’s path to EU membership and fueling public outrage.

(c) Ezz Gaber

From the Dancefloor to the Frontlines

As protests swelled, drawing hundreds of thousands into the streets, Tbilisi’s renowned techno clubs took an unprecedented stand. On November 29, six of the city’s most prominent venues declared an indefinite strike, urging ravers to leave the dancefloor and join the movement.

With nightlife at a standstill, Georgia’s underground electronic music scene became a rallying force in the country’s political turmoil.

For many Georgians, club culture and activism are inseparable. In 2018, armed police stormed Bassiani and Café Gallery — two of Tbilisi’s most iconic venues — in what was widely seen as an attempt to silence progressive communities under the guise of a drug crackdown. The response was immediate: thousands flooded Rustaveli Avenue, turning the capital into an open-air rave. The Rave Revolution had begun.

“I was supposed to play at Bassiani that night,” recalls Berlin-based artist Florian Lepa, aka Ateq. “But just before my set, police raided the club. Suddenly, friends of friends were being arrested. Within hours, people gathered in front of Parliament. One of the organizers asked me, ‘Do you have music with you? Would you like to play here?’ And I said yes. My words felt powerless to encourage people, but at least I could give them music. I played right there, in the streets. It was one of the most heartfelt experiences of my life.”

The protests ultimately forced an apology from then-Prime Minister Giorgi Gakharia, marking a major victory for Tbilisi’s techno subculture. Since then, the city’s clubs have continued to merge electronic music with political defiance.

A Culture of Resistance

In Georgia’s deeply conservative society — where homophobia is reinforced by the Orthodox Church — techno venues have become rare spaces of freedom, particularly for younger generations seeking refuge and belonging.

“Clubs have always been a revolutionary force,” says Giorgi Kikonishvili, a queer activist and spokesperson for Bassiani. “For the LGBTQ+ community, they’ve long been a sanctuary from cultural and religious oppression — places where we have resisted and survived. Authoritarian regimes see this as a threat. If one takes hold in Georgia, clubs will be among the first to be shut down. That’s why they stand at the forefront of protests.”

The government’s response has been brutal. In December alone, nearly 500 demonstrators were arrested in a single week, with reports of torture in detention.

“But unlike in Russia or Belarus, where crackdowns silence protests, here they only grow larger,” Kikonishvili says. “The more they try to suppress Georgians, the stronger and angrier we become.”

For many, protesting is no longer just an act of resistance—it’s a duty.

“I stand in the same place where my parents protested 30 years ago,” says writer Iva Pezuashvili. “And I’m still demanding the same rights.”

(c) Ezz Gaber

A Growing Cost

The government has tightened its grip, imposing fines of up to 5,000 lari ($1,850) for blocking streets — far exceeding the average monthly salary. Activists say AI-powered facial recognition cameras make it nearly impossible to evade penalties.

“You don’t have to do anything special to get fined—just sit on the sidewalk peacefully, and you’ll receive a fine in the mail,” Pezuashvili explains. And if you try to hide your face with a scarf or mask, that’s illegal too.” In response, activists and ravers have organized fundraising efforts to cover fines and support arrested protesters. Some have even taken their raves underground — literally.

In December, a group gathered for a secret protest rave in a tunnel beneath a bridge. “It was risky,” says Lepa. “If the police had used tear gas, there would have been no way out. The tunnel had only one exit. But it felt so good to play there and see familiar faces — people who had also been part of the 2018 Rave Revolution.”

Clubs in Crisis

After more than five months of continuous protest, some clubs — facing financial strain — have reopened for a few days per week, a decision that has divided opinions.

“I don’t understand how people can dance in clubs while the country is ruled with an iron fist. It feels like a betrayal,” says Pezuashvili. “We expect a lot from techno clubs. They sparked this culture of protest.”

Others argue that reopening is vital to support club staff, especially in venues like Bassiani, which provide jobs for the LGBTQ+ community members.

“Survival doesn’t mean abandoning the cause. It means preserving the space where people can gather,” explains Gogla Koviridze, founder of Ravegram — an Instagram platform that promotes techno music, while raising political awareness and mobilizing protesters. Her father was an active participant in the 2018 Rave Revolution. Today, she’s carrying the spirit forward, convinced that “the dancefloor has always been political.”

A Struggle Beyond the Dancefloor

When Erekle Koplatadze joined Georgia’s Parliament as an international relations expert, he believed he was helping guide the country toward Europe. He didn’t expect to find himself dodging riot police in plainclothes.

But after signing a public declaration condemning the government’s anti-EU stance, Erekle was quietly pushed aside. “They told me they didn’t trust me enough to take me to Strasbourg anymore,” he says. Weeks later, he received a notice that his position was being eliminated in a “restructuring.”

Around him, friends were fined for standing on sidewalks, and others—like the student walking his dog—were detained by masked men in civilian clothes, thrown into unmarked cars, and disappeared into legal purgatory.

Now in his thirties, Erekle has four protest fines totaling over €6,000. He’s paid one out of pocket and is appealing the rest, not because he expects justice — “the court is just theater,” he says —but to build a record for Strasbourg, should it come to that.

His biggest fear? That sovereignty itself is being traded away—stitched quietly into deals with shadowy figures he believes report to Russian FSB agents. “They’ve shut down the NATO office and all institutions overseeing EU integration. The media is being silenced. They even planned to censor queer films. They’re rewriting the rules, slowly,” he says.

He speaks not like an activist, but like someone for whom resistance has become a second skin. “This isn’t democratic backsliding anymore,” he tells me. “It’s a free fall.”

Last year, 37-year-old Georgian trans model Kesaria Abramidze was stabbed to death in her Tbilisi apartment — a day after the government passed a law banning public references to LGBTQ+ issues. The attack forced many in the community into exile. Others, like Kikonishvili, have chosen to stay.

Like many who danced in the streets in 2018, he still believes that when the window cracks open again, Georgians will be ready to push. “For us, this isn’t only about EU membership,” Kikonishvili says. “It’s about dignity, freedom, and the kind of country we want to live in. This is a historic battle. If we lose, we lose Georgia as we know it.”