On The Way Home

Thirty years have passed since the War in Abkhazia, a conflict which displaced over 200.000 ethnic Georgians within their own country. Director Giorgi Kvelidze arrives in Tskaltubo, where thousands of refugees live in a former Soviet balneotherapy sanatorium. Focusing on a constant dialogue between past and present, he patiently documents the routines of an elderly woman and a young boy. While their lives are marked by uncertainty and trauma, they persevere. Their resilience shines through the empty corridors of a vast building that is now a stark reminder of a grim past.

Despite its brief 60-minute duration, On the Way Home packs quite a powerful punch. Kvelidze experiments with the form, juxtaposing sepia images of the resort's impressive past with the decrepit edifice of today. As the vintage montage highlights numerous contented patients treated in Tskaltubo, the audience is presented with a striking shot of makeshift apartments within the expansive structure.

The Georgian director is aware of the strange beauty of the decaying building, calling attention to the interplay between its vivid blue hue and the vegetation that seems to swallow it. The emptiness of the sanatorium sets the scene for meeting the protagonists, refugees who choose to hide their exhaustion through hope. Far more impactful than the curious charm of the architecture, their stories confer the space a truthful grace.

Iamze is an 80-year-old woman living in a small make-do apartment. She has been patiently waiting for a new home from the government, establishing a life for herself in the sanatorium post-war. The quiet cinematic eye examines her daily routine without interfering. As she slowly recollects her trauma, she confronts unsettling details about the destabilising conflict which upheaved her life over three decades ago. Kvelidze integrates archival war footage to accompany Iamze's emotional story and complete a harrowing image that hauntingly resembles the current invasion of Ukraine.

Nikusha is 12 and lives with his grandmother Khatuna. They manage with limited resources, relying on his mother's help, who works in Turkey to provide for them. The boy maintains a semblance of normalcy, going out with friends and even watching anime, albeit on a smartphone. Without knowing its horrors first-hand, he carries the burden of a war that condemned his future before his birth. The viewer can feel it alongside him as he skateboards around the imposing treatment complex. But, until they receive new housing, he is prepared to make sacrifices.

The Georgian filmmaker beautifully focuses on familial resilience, capturing the enduring capacity of relatives to help each other in drastic situations. Iamze is supported by her daughter, who works in Greece and her grandson, Giorgi, who helps her maintain a connection with the community outside the sanatorium. Nikusha on the other hand is spoiled unconditionally by his grandmother, who argues with his mother about it over the phone. Having experienced the tragedy that brought her to Tskaltubo, she understands the boy's misfortune all too well, enabling him to relish the small joys he has.

Kvelidze is invested in the intimate stories of these families. They tell an emotional narrative of sacrifice in times of turmoil and they animate the cold, decaying Soviet structure. But, as the camera lingers within the vast complex of improvised apartments, a tangible sense of overwhelming loss prevails. Moving into a new home might ease the feeling but it cannot dispel it. The refugees have had it in their hearts for the past 30 years.