When I first met Khatuna Meshveliani and her husband Murtaz Vekua in December 2021, they were preparing to move into their first home in nearly 30 years.

For decades, the family of five had lived with their close relatives and other displaced families in a former sanatorium in Georgia’s resort town of Tskaltubo. Once a famous place for rest and relaxation, during the 1992-1993 war in Abkhazia, Tskaltubo and its large hotels became one of several temporary homes across the country for the estimated 93,302 families who were displaced by the fighting.

Khatuna remembers the day she arrived at the sanatorium with her grandmother in 1992. “It was a strange environment; we behaved as if we were on vacation, playing with a ball in the yard, walking, and having fun. We were young then, and I turned 18 in Tskaltubo,” she says.

The sanatorium was still functioning: there was a canteen where they served hot meals and cleaning staff. No one expected to stay there for long in the beginning, she recalls.

“Later, in 1993, my parents also left and arrived in Tskaltubo, and then I realized that we would have to stay here longer,” Khatuna says. “However, for the next few years, we hoped to return every day, as if there was an expectation that something would change.”

To date, just over half—48,600—have been rehoused, according to Georgia’s Agency for Internally Displaced Persons, Eco-Migrants, and Livelihood Provision.

I met the family at the Rkinigzeli sanatorium, once a famous hotel and spa for tourists in the Soviet Union. I had gone to see if families displaced by the war had been rehoused yet as part of the government program. The family was very welcoming and, when I heard they would move into their own apartment after over 30 years in the sanatorium, I asked if I could document their transition. The move means different things for Khatuna and her three daughters: the girls are mostly excited for the conveniences of the new apartment but the change is more bittersweet for Khatuna.   

“When we left [Abkhazia], we didn't really have anything; we weren't ready for life. Relatives used to bring us things for the home. Once my father brought home a stove; I still remember the joy from that day. I think, at that time, I realized that the sanatorium was already our home,” Khatuna says. “We never imagined that we would have to live in a sanatorium for so long.”

As Khatuna recalls, when they left Ochamchire, the sanatorium Rkinigzeli still retained its original appearance. “[There were] carpets, curtains, pictures in the entrance, chandeliers — everything was as in a real sanatorium. The headmaster was still here, the nurses continued to work, and the canteen had been operational for years. However, this place later transformed into a laundry area and a warehouse,” she says.

The sanatorium was not designed for permanent living; the rooms were intended for the temporary reception of people. Meals were provided in the common canteen, and most rooms did not have private bathrooms; guests typically shared this space.

Teenagers Anano and Pikria, have grown up here and like Tskaltubo as a city. They have friends here and attend school in the area. Unlike their elder sister Tamta, who remembers more of the stories from Abkhazia, they have less emotional connection with it. According to their mom, they seldom inquire about this topic. Tamta vividly recalls their grandfather's tears as he watched music videos about Abkhazia on television. She remembers how he would mourn the loss of people and places. "Back then, I would look at photos and search for information myself to understand where my roots came from,” says Tamta.

In a couple of years, weddings became common occurrences as couples living in the same sanatorium or one nearby got married. “There was an event hall nearby where we only paid for the dishes, and we had to bring the food. This is how weddings were held. Later on, I got married here, and my husband lived on the fifth floor," Khatuna recalls with a smile. “My wedding was for 200 people, mostly prepared by the neighbors, and we brought the prepared table to the hall.”

“There was another girl living on the first floor of the sanatorium who purchased an apartment elsewhere and moved out. We also requested an apartment for ourselves, as a recently married couple, and eventually relocated there, where we remained until our time in the sanatorium ended. Our three daughters were all born there. I even had the baby's crib in our cramped quarters; it was so tight that if we were all at home, we would bump knees while moving around.”

About 12 years later, the Vekua family transformed an open balcony into a kitchen space. Additionally, their next-door neighbor moved to another city and entrusted the family with the key, allowing them to break down the walls of the neighbor's room to expand their living space. The family took it upon themselves to create basic amenities such as water access.

Khatuna recalls that during this time, she and her neighbors were constantly in a state of waiting — initially hoping to return to Abkhazia, and later waiting for years to receive apartments. “During this period of waiting, some neighbors didn't even repaint the wallpaper once, as finances were limited,” she recalls. “Often, the electricity would go out, but we were fortunate to have a battery. Consequently, the entire sanatorium would gather in our home to watch TV series together.”

"The children were born and raised here; they learned from us why we had to live here. It was how they were raised. If my hometown, Ochamchire, and Abkhazia, in general, appeared on TV, I would call the children to watch it as well. I wanted them to see where we had to move from, so if I cried, they would not understand. They would ask, 'Why are you crying, Mom?' They had no idea about the pain I was feeling. I told them they should know where we could have lived. However, I did not want them to feel this pain in their daily lives; they should be cheerful and happy."

Although Tamta, Pikria, and Anano grew up in the same environment, they are quite different. The oldest sister, Tamta, is 21 years old. She studied Georgian Philology at Akaki Tsereteli State University and recently got married. She will soon move to live abroad. She lived in the new house for just over a year. 

Anano goes to school and also attends dance classes, participates in concerts, and dreams of becoming an actress. Pikria is also a student who wants to be a diplomat and loves football. She is a huge fan of the Georgian national team.

When asked if they miss living in the sanatorium, the girls say yes, but it's not about the living conditions—the sisters fondly recall the nature, the sanatorium surrounded by greenery, snowy winters, summer days, and the relationships with the neighbors in the sanatorium. Anano and Pikria visit the sanatorium several times a week, where a few families still remain.

When we moved from the new apartment to the abandoned sanatorium, the girls started to explore the things left behind and began to play. I saw them bonding over dusty toys and looking through old diaries, and I realized that this might have been one of the last times when the three of them, still children at heart, would play together in the old house.

When Khatuna first came to Tskaltubo as a young girl fleeing a war, the town had just started its descent from resort to ruins. Today her daughters are seeing its rebirth as tourists rediscover the area and all it has to offer. But for the girls, neither the skeletons of old sanatoriums nor the polished marble  of the new hotels define it. Tskaltubo is simply home, and now the family has a place there to call their own.

This photo story was prepared with support from the Friedrich-Ebert-Stiftung (FES) South Caucasus Regional Office. All opinions expressed are the author’s alone, and do not necessarily reflect the views of FES.