
A large statue of Stalin has been removed from its public plinth in the Georgian city of Gori, the Soviet dictator's home town. The six metre bronze - taken from its plinth in the dead of night - had stood in the centre of town since the early 1950s; it will now be housed in a local museum. It was thought to be the last large-scale statue of Stalin still standing in its original position in the whole of the former Soviet Union.
The toppling of statues as a result of changing political tastes - or, as with Stalin, a reappraisal of an historical legacy - is, of course, nothing new; many former leaders once immortalised in grandiose public works of art have undergone a fall from grace, often spectacularly so. Some of the more famous recent examples include not only the USSR but the entire Eastern bloc, where the Communist penchant for the cult of personality once littered the region with monuments to the party's senior apparatus.
But many of these statues were destroyed in the rash euphoria that swept the Warsaw Pact nations after the reintroduction of democracy some twenty years ago. Some, however, were saved, left to gather dust in storage or kept in museums. In some places, such as Budapest, the monuments were collected and displayed in an open-air park, an acknowledgment that although times had changed the historical significance of the communist years could not be overstated. When I visited in 2005 it was already an extremely popular spot for tourists and locals alike.
On other occasions not even regime change would be needed for an individual to fall out of favour. Take Trotsky, for example, or Dzerzhinsky; both were senior figures in the Bolshevik party and both had their reputations ruined long before the regime fell, in part the result of deliberate efforts to blacken their names.
And yet, paradoxically, the very failure to remove these same statues can make a statement just as profound as that made by their destruction elsewhere. In the Belarussian capital of Minsk, for example, Lenin still stands proud in front of the parliament buildings and a statue of hated Dzerzhinsky - founder of the Cheka, the secret Soviet police - graces a tree-lined avenue. Hammer and sickles can be seen everywhere, in a country that voted to secede from the Soviet Union less than two decades ago. The fact that these monuments still exist in situ tells us that in independent Belarus memories of the USSR's glory years are very much there for all to see.
So it might have been something of a surprise that in Georgia a statue of Stalin still existed in a public place well into the 21st century at all, despite the Man of Steel's Georgian ancestry evident in his real surname of Dzhugashvili. Georgia, after all, was far more forthright than Belarus in its quest for nationhood and has enjoyed an often antagonistic relationship with Moscow ever since. But respect for the local boy that would go on to rule the largest country on earth with an iron fist has long outlasted any affections for Russian rule. So why now, in 2010, has Stalin finally vanished from Georgian public life? The answer, as always, lies in politics.
The relationship with the large neighbour to the North is key. Relations between Russia and Georgia deteriorated into open war in 2008 and Moscow's diplomatic recognition of the breakaway regions of South Ossetia and Abkhazia have meant that a return to something resembling normalcy any time soon is extremely unlikely. Georgia has also made overtures to the West, its application for NATO membership proving particularly antagonistic to Moscow. Georgia has also left the Commonwealth of Independent States as a direct result.
And so to Stalin. Despite being a Georgian Dzhugashvili spent his political life in the Soviet Union and had no interest in independence for his homeland. Stalin was not a Georgian nationalist, instead ruling over the very state that would throttle the quest for autonomy for the Union's individual republics. His story does not fit with the Georgian nationalist narrative, nor aid that cause's promotion.
So Stalin - and the whiff of Russia - must go. As is so often the case the presence - or absence - of historical monuments is dictated not by that history but rather the political mood of the present; it would seem that the glorification of those who are deemed no longer worthy of it simply will not do.




























