Silent watchdog show

In Georgia, there is an office officially dedicated to protecting human rights, acting as a check against arbitrary state action and guaranteeing that fundamental rights do not remain empty words. This office is called the People's Defender, better known internationally as the Ombudsman. His task is clear: to be critical, to be inconvenient when necessary, to publicly contradict the government if necessary, and to point the finger at precisely those wounds that those in power would prefer to conceal.

But in Georgia in 2025, the picture is quite different. Instead of a loud, confident, and uncomfortable voice for its citizens, we see an institution that resembles an old Soviet television in the living room: a heavy, angular device that, while officially supposed to be an information channel, actually broadcasts only a single channel – and as soon as things get dicey, either starts to static or simply goes black.

Levan Ioseliani, the incumbent People's Defender, seems to embody this metaphor with admirable consistency. Since his appointment, trust in the office has plummeted dramatically. After all, the ombudsman in Georgia is constitutionally supposed to be completely independent, a kind of overseer of the government in the service of human rights. But with Ioseliani, Georgian Dream installed a candidate who is considered extremely loyal to the governing majority. And loyalty to power is not what an ombudsman needs.

Trust lost: From human rights authority to rubber stamp

His election was anything but a model of democratic transparency. Critics spoke of a backroom deal that deliberately circumvented the will of the public and ignored international recommendations. The Paris Principles on the independence of national human rights institutions were, at best, a footnote. Resistance even arose within his own agency: Dozens of employees publicly protested his cozy approach to the government and warned that the agency was being degraded to a toothless tiger.

His conduct in office has only confirmed these fears. Those hoping for clear criticism were disappointed. Ioseliani prefers a cautious, mild tone that leaves virtually no one in the government uneasy. When he says anything at all, it usually sounds like the diplomatic version of a shrug. Sometimes his statements seem almost as if they are intended to paint the government's actions in a positive light. It's no wonder, then, that representatives of Georgian Dream have sometimes explicitly praised his statements.

Repressive laws at breakneck speed: Silence in the test pattern

Meanwhile, Georgia is sliding ever deeper into repressive waters. Since December 2024, parliament has passed a whole series of new laws in an emergency procedure, all of which serve one goal: to weaken the opposition, criminalize protest, restrict media freedom, and intimidate critical NGOs.

Yet, pre-election chaos has long reigned in the country. Leading opposition politicians are in prison – often on absurdly exaggerated or purely politically motivated charges. Many parties have decided to boycott the upcoming elections because they consider fair conditions illusory. Demonstrations have now become part of everyday life – as have arrests, fines, and threats against anyone who dares to publicly criticize.

This is precisely where the ombudsman is needed. He should actually be a central voice of opposition to the abuse of power. But instead, we experience an awkward silence. And if there is any sound at all, it is the quiet hum of an old tube television trying to transmit the state program without interference.

Anonymous witnesses and drug trials: A perfect weapon

One example that particularly alarmed Georgian civil society: In June 2025, Georgian Dream passed an amendment to the Criminal Procedure Code that completely anonymizes the identities of prosecution witnesses in certain cases. Not even judges are supposed to be allowed to see these people. This is supposedly intended to protect the witnesses. But in a country with an unfortunate tradition of planting drugs on opposition figures, this law represents a license for political abuse. Investigators can claim that some unknown witness provided information, and that's enough to put someone behind bars.

One would think an ombudsman would raise the alarm. After all, this is about the abolition of basic defense rights and the real danger of political imprisonment based on secret, unverifiable statements. But Ioseliani? He remained silent. No press conference. No appeal to parliament. No public appeal. A faint crackle from the loudspeaker, nothing more.

Penal camp for protesters: If you don’t pay, you’ll be imprisoned

But that was just the beginning. The administrative offense law drastically increased the penalties for protesters. Anyone who blocks a street must now pay 5,000 lari—a sum that is ruinous for many people in Georgia. Those who don't pay the fine and protest again can no longer expect another fine, but are immediately sent to prison for 30 days. A clearly political message: Anyone who opposes the government will either lose their last pennies or their freedom.

Not a single serious word from Ioseliani on this either. No critical analysis, no human rights assessment, no warning to the government that protest is part of democracy and that such punishments stifle any opposition in the bud. Instead: silent movie mode.

Freedom of expression in retrospect: laws backwards

At the same time, the Freedom of Expression Act was also revised—a masterpiece of authoritarian legislation. In the future, the burden of proof in defamation lawsuits will no longer lie with the plaintiff, but with the defendant. This means that anyone who criticizes a public figure must, in case of doubt, prove that their criticism is correct. What's particularly dangerous is that this regulation applies retroactively to the last 100 days. Critical posts on Facebook or in the media can suddenly be inundated with lawsuits without the plaintiff having to do much. In addition, the term "public insult" was expanded to include social networks, turning even crudely worded criticism into a legal trap.

And what did the ombudsman do? He spoke out. Not against the law, though. Rather, he spoke out against the tone of some activists. He felt it was important to remind people to please remain polite. That hate speech and insults do not fall under freedom of expression. Not a word about the government currently building a legal weapon to silence Facebook commentators and critical journalists. No protest against the loss of source protection. Just a well-tempered warning to civil society to please express themselves politely.

Camera ban in courts: Transparency on pause

The government also demonstrated creative repression by banning filming and photography in courthouses. Effective immediately, journalists are no longer even allowed to film in the corridors or courtyards of the courts. Control over image and sound rests solely with the judiciary itself—an institution that isn't known for its independence anyway.

At least here the Ombudsman actually managed to express criticism. He warned that the law undermines the transparency of the judiciary and massively restricts media access to proceedings. There was a brief moment when the picture on the old television actually showed something different from the test pattern. But even here, Ioseliani remained conspicuously tame. His main demand wasn't to block the law altogether, but simply that it not be rushed through. He remained reserved about the matter itself, as if the problem could somehow be solved with a slower legislative process.

The result? Georgian Dream, of course, ignored him, passed the law as planned, and thanked everyone for the restrained criticism. Goodbye transparency. And the ombudsman? He turned down the contrast control until nothing was visible on the screen.

Political prisoners and absurd verdicts: A silent record

Anyone who thought this was the lowest point was proven wrong in the run-up to the 2025 elections. Leading opposition politicians were sentenced to seven months in prison for failing to appear before a parliamentary commission. This is an absurdly harsh sentence that bears no relation to the rule of law. Anyone who imposes such a sentence for a simple boycott isn't seeking to dispense justice, but rather to crush the opposition.

One would think that this is precisely where an ombudsman is needed. Someone who would make it clear that this is an unacceptable violation of human rights. But Ioseliani simply visited the prisoners – a mandatory task that was more reminiscent of administration than protest. His public statements contained no mention of these verdicts being a disgrace to the judiciary or destroying trust in the rule of law.

Instead, he dutifully presented his annual report to parliament. It at least contained a reference to attacks against activists and journalists – beatings, abuse, allegations of torture. He noted that these crimes had not been seriously investigated. And that was the end of the matter for him. No media offensive, no campaign, no demands on the public prosecutor's office or the government. An entry in the minutes. Nothing more.

A TV with a single channel

Putting all this together, you recognize a pattern as old as the "Rubin 102" model in Soviet grandmothers' living rooms. The ombudsman acts like a state-controlled medium: officially there for everyone, but in reality an extended arm of power. Critical content? Only filtered, carefully, in homeopathic doses. Harsh criticism? None. Instead, a single channel that calms, appeases, and feeds the audience a washed-out black-and-white image.

The government can count on a partner who doesn't ask awkward questions, doesn't organize loud campaigns, and doesn't provide legal analyses that would reveal political responsibility. And when criticism does arise, it seems like background noise—too quiet, too polite, too late.

International reactions: Concern meets Georgian silence

Meanwhile, international observers are becoming more explicit. The OSCE/ODIHR, for example, declared in July 2025 that it was observing developments in Georgia with "deep concern." Its statement stated unequivocally that the government was increasingly passing laws that hinder the work of civil society, arresting peaceful protesters, and targeting political opponents. ODIHR called on the Georgian authorities to repeal the new laws and respect the rights to freedom of expression and political activity.

Particularly noteworthy was the reference to the practice of imprisoning opposition politicians for months for boycotting parliamentary hearings. This, too, is a red line in any democracy.

And the People's Defender? He said they'd be happy to get in touch if they knew if they could give an interview. Maybe. Soon. Sometime.

An office in a deep sleep

One could almost call it tragic, if it weren't so dangerous. The ombudsman isn't a dispensable decoration, but rather is supposed to be the last institutional shield citizens have against abuse of power. Yet this shield seems rusty, dusty, and out of date. Like a television set sitting in the corner while outside protests are being clubbed down and laws are being passed at lightning speed to restrict people's rights.

The irony is hard to miss. At a time when the country is facing crucial elections and the risk of an authoritarian relapse is more real than it has been for a long time, an independent, critical, and vocal human rights institution would be more important than ever. Instead, the People's Defender broadcasts only a static message that bothers no one.

Not a happy ending

Georgia stands at a crossroads in 2025. The Georgian Dream government has shown that it is willing to bend the rule of law and democracy at will. The opposition is intimidated, the media is harassed, and activists are ruined or imprisoned.

And the ombudsman? He's decided not to be a nuisance. Not to offend. Not to be loud. He provides the perfect test case for a government that wants to avoid criticism.

Perhaps this is his contribution to political stability: no flickering images. No debate. No real questions.