Two months ago, I fled my country — not because I wanted to, but because staying meant prison and silence. Living as a journalist in exile means poverty, loss of dignity, and constant uncertainty. This is what exile actually feels like, and why truth still matters even when the world wants it quiet.
On a freezing January morning in Tbilisi, I walked into an eviction with a microphone in hand and walked out beaten, bruised, and nearly arrested. Covering corruption in Georgia isn’t just a job — it’s a battle against private lender schemes, corrupt courts, and violent police. That day, my cameraman and I were attacked simply for doing our work as journalists. But our coverage didn’t just tell a story — it stopped another family from losing their home.
