The Eve of Turmoil

If there was anyone who could force the fractious Soviet republic leaders to pick up the phone and talk, it was Gennady Yanaev—far away in Moscow but commanding a presence that demanded attention. Kravchuk and Shushkevich returned from the Kremlin weighed down by anger and anxiety. Without delay, they called the Georgian President Zviad Gamsakhurdia to inform him of the latest crisis—and to urge him to prepare for what was coming.

Still half-asleep, Zviad was jolted awake by the repeated news. Sitting upright in bed, clutching the phone, he spoke with a tense excitement that betrayed his thoughts: "Are you serious? Yanaev intends to revoke the UN seats of Belarus and Ukraine? That's not just politics—it's a declaration of war against the member states."

If Zviad had once worried about lacking allies, Yanaev's move now pushed him and other dissident leaders firmly into an anti-Soviet alliance.

"Yes, President Zviad," Shushkevich said, hearing the undercurrent of triumph in the Georgian's voice. He understood well what this meant. The Almaty incident had already fractured the Soviet Union's fragile unity, and Georgia's nationalist fervor had driven ethnic relations into a dark abyss.

"I say we plan how to resist Soviet rule openly," Zviad said bitterly. "It's time to expel these vampires from Georgia, just as they exiled our people to Siberia's frozen wastes."

His resentment for Moscow's historic nationalist policies, particularly under Stalin, ran deep—twisted into hatred for the Abkhaz and Ossetians within Georgia. The ethnic tensions simmered dangerously.

"They still stir up ethnic unrest," Shushkevich noted grimly. "After the 1989 riots, Moscow has tread carefully with its republics. The more we resist, the weaker Moscow looks."

In voicing such blunt contempt for the Communist Party, Shushkevich skirted treason. But in 1991, when party membership had become a stain rather than a badge of honor, his words were hardly shocking.

"Haha, Shushkevich, you don't need to remind me," Zviad laughed. "That's what we excel at."

A man born in the streets of Tbilisi politics, Zviad had built his power inciting crowds to storm government offices, openly accusing Yanaev of tyranny, and casting himself as Georgia's savior.

Few knew that Zviad had accepted US dollars from America's covert aid—something he carefully concealed.

"I'll organize a demonstration in front of the First Secretary's Building of the Communist Party Central Committee, like the mobile propaganda squads Kostava and Tsereteli led three years ago. We'll reignite the flame against Soviet rule. Once the Ministry of Internal Affairs troops respond, we'll riot with no regrets."

"Riot?" Shushkevich's voice lowered, calm on the surface but his mind in turmoil. "President Zviad, do you mean open armed resistance?"

He had always favored non-violent confrontation. The Soviet system was crumbling; the chains of communism would soon fall. But Zviad's approach risked spiraling out of control, forcing conflict into chaos.

"Yes, riots," Zviad said with grim satisfaction. "It's time. Even if the Soviets have military strength, what can they do? Georgia has steady American funding and arms flowing in. We can wage limited skirmishes or guerrilla warfare. I don't believe an army that failed to conquer Afghan mountain tribes has much fight left."

Zviad's confidence stemmed from NATO's secretive arms shipments—Kalashnikov rifles, rockets, even helicopters—crossing the Turkish border into Georgia. The Soviet defeat in Afghanistan fueled his belief: drag Moscow into a protracted war, and its faltering economy will force them to the negotiating table—ceding Georgia for real.

To this end, Zviad courted Chechen separatists and lobbied George H.W. Bush for financial and military support. He wasn't naive. Georgia alone might not topple the Soviet Union, but alongside Chechnya, the Baltic states, Ukraine, and Uzbekistan, the coalition could break Moscow's resolve.

Could Yanaev, surrounded by enemies, hold firm?

"Violence won't solve this, President Zviad. I still hope for a peaceful path," Shushkevich said carefully. Belarus' ties with Russia ran deep, and their national identity was more intertwined than some republics.

"Forgive me, Shushkevich, but I've made up my mind," Zviad answered coldly. "This has been brewing for days. Only when Moscow is weakest will a strong alliance threaten it with force, forcing its surrender. Stand aside if you must. It's late—get some rest. Goodbye."

The line went dead. Shushkevich sighed, a shadow of dread passing through him. Everything felt like it was unfolding exactly as Yanaev had scripted.

Blind obstinacy always exacted a price. Georgia learned this painfully in 2008, when its ambitions led to heavy losses in South Ossetia and the harsh reality that a great power's foundation would not crumble for petty squabbles. But it was still 1991, and with NATO's backing, Georgia dared to look down on others.

Zviad summoned Kostava overnight. Together, they plotted a demonstration outside the Soviet government building. The structure was little more than a hollow shell, its soul drained by decades of decay—but symbolic enough to ignite passions.

What they planned was no mere street protest—it was a carefully choreographed riot.

First, students, teachers, and workers would flood the streets, smashing Soviet symbols and attacking government offices, beating staff. When police moved to suppress the uprising, well-trained operatives disguised in civilian clothes would retaliate with firearms.

After breaking the first wave of military and police resistance, they would storm military bases, seize weapons, and ignite an armed rebellion.

With the Chechen leaders already on board, the Soviet army would be overwhelmed.

In Zviad's mind, every detail had been rehearsed until flawless. The smoothness of the plan gave him a dangerous illusion: this might just work.

For him, the fate of the Georgian people would be decided in the turmoil to come.