A dense bassline, ambient electronics, and a hypnotic pattern of ancient phonetics — the music of the Svan-language project Margiān feels equally at home in the clubs and playlists of Tbilisi and Berlin, yet its lyrics carry a sonic code forged in the Caucasian highlands centuries ago.
Svan — largely an unwritten language of the Georgian highlands — is losing speakers with every passing year; in 2011, UNESCO classified it as an endangered language. Since then, the situation has only deteriorated: without a standardised writing system, dedicated school instruction, or long-term revitalisation programmes, the language is gradually disappearing from everyday life.
Like other minority Kartvelian languages, Svan has no official status or state protection in Georgia. As a result, a growing number of children in the region are becoming passive speakers — able to understand the language but neither speak nor write it.
Yet while official statistics fail to acknowledge the scale of the problem and officials remain wary of linguistic separatism, young musicians, businesses, and activists are breathing new life into Svan, transforming it from a museum piece into a manifesto of cultural resilience.
‘In a few decades, almost no one may speak Svan anymore’
According to the Ethnologue database, a comprehensive catalogue of living languages, as of 2020, Svan is spoken by approximately 12,000 people — down from an estimated 40,000 in the 1980s.
‘Of course, Svan speech can still be heard on the streets, in shops, and between neighbours’, says Roma Ratiani, a journalist from Svaneti now based in Tbilisi, ‘but the main problem is that young people speak Svan less and less frequently’.
Ratiani left Svaneti after finishing school, but he regularly returns, witnessing the steady decline in the language.
‘Children don’t hear it from their peers’, Ratiani tells OC Media. ‘Unfortunately, the overall picture looks quite alarming. If the current trend continues, in a few decades, almost no one may speak Svan anymore. It might remain only in people’s memories and in the speech of the older generation’.
Ratiani says he is trying to teach Svan to his young son, seeing it as both a personal responsibility and his own contribution to preserving the language.
Thomas Wier, an assistant professor of linguistics at Tbilisi Free University, believes that even the survey statistics are almost certainly too optimistic, noting that there has been a ‘catastrophic decline’ in the number of children learning Svan in the last 20–25 years.
Compared to Megrelian, which is widely used at home, but not in government offices, at school, or in church services, Wier notes that many Svan speakers do not speak the language fluently enough to carry on more than extremely basic conversations even with their own family members.
Yet why has the state done so little to protect the language?
According to Wier, resistance to teaching minority languages stems from several fundamental barriers, including deeply rooted beliefs about ‘correct’ and ‘incorrect’ forms of language. He cites the Georgian Orthodox Church’s portrayal of Megrelian and Svan as dialects, rather than true languages; the Soviet education system that fostered a false equation of ethnic and linguistic identity, whereby teaching regional mother tongues became seen as a threat to Georgian national identity; and a long history of under-investment by the state in educational infrastructure outside major cities.
Yet, Wier argues, the greatest obstacle remains fear of separatism. For decades, Georgian politics has been shaped by concerns that cultural or linguistic diversity could be exploited by internal or external actors to undermine the country’s territorial integrity.
One illustration of this institutional deadlock came when Georgia’s fifth president, Salome Zourabichvili, publicly supported introducing Svan and Megrelian as elective school subjects. The proposal never progressed beyond a public statement: the Education Ministry effectively ignored the initiative.
Wier emphasises that these fears are deeply misguided, citing numerous examples of countries, including the US or UK, where linguistic differences are not considered significant sources of separatist belief.
Ratiani also believes that introducing Svan as an elective subject in local schools would significantly improve the language’s chances of survival. According to him, it is now common to hear adults speak to children in Svan only for the children to respond in Georgian.
‘And this doesn’t apply only to Svan. In the regions, other local languages — such as Megrelian, Laz, and others — should also be taught’, he says.
‘Music as a Bridge’
While state institutions remain constrained by political caution and bureaucracy, independent musicians and cultural activists have stepped in as the language’s most visible advocates.
For musician Giorgi Margiani (Margiān), the decision to write and perform in Svan became far more than an artistic choice. It evolved into a cultural manifesto, a way of protecting a fragile linguistic heritage, and a means of preserving his own sense of identity.
‘Writing in Georgian or English would certainly be an easier commercial shortcut, but art isn’t just about math or market reach — it’s about truth. Svan is an unwritten language for the most part; it lives in the mouth, throat, and chest, carrying unique micro-tones and emotional weights that lose their soul if translated. Being born and raised in Svaneti, in an environment where Svan was spoken much more actively, left a permanent mark on me’, he tells OC Media.
He explains that one of the main reasons he began writing music was ‘the huge amount of problems that exist in Georgia, in our region, and in the world, where the truth is hidden behind labyrinths of propaganda’.
‘That creates a long-lasting sense of insecurity and depression, making you realise there must be another way to express yourself — to improve your mental health and help others who feel that way’.
Margiani says that certain melodies and ideas could only be expressed through the phonetic architecture of Svan — ‘like ancestors whispering through the rhythm’.
His first listeners were family members and close friends, people for whom the lyrics carried an immediate personal meaning. Over time, however, he began receiving positive responses from audiences across Georgia, many of whom either do not speak Svan at all or know only a few words.
‘Listeners tell me that even without understanding literal lyrics, they feel the weight of the mountains and history. Music acts as a bridge, converting foreignness into intimacy, turning passive listeners into active cultural allies’.
Yet the situation within Svaneti itself remains more complicated. On the one hand, being Svan continues to be a source of pride and an essential part of many young people from the region’s identity. On the other hand, migration, globalisation, and the dominance of Georgian and English encourage younger generations to prioritise languages they perceive as more practical, reducing Svan to something spoken mainly at home.
‘When I write my music and poems, my goal is to talk directly to my peers. When young people see their native tongue reflected in modern art and cool aesthetics, it rewrites their perspective from an old dialect into a unique superpower on a modern stage’, Margiani says.
He believes contemporary music could help remove Svan from the category of ‘domestic tradition’ and restore its prestige among younger people, extending its reach far beyond the mountains where it originated.
‘Formal initiatives — like academic preservation, textbooks, and state programmes — are vital because they build the structural foundation and archives for a language. But the problem is that they often treat it like a museum exhibit behind glass’.
He believes that music, on the other hand, can help the language ‘breathe’.
‘When you wrap ancient words and cadences into a modern arrangement, beat, or electronic texture, you aren’t just studying the language — you are living in it’.
‘Culture wins when people want to consume it and live in it’.
‘Speaking to people in their own language’
While artists and activists may be leading the charge, private businesses are also increasingly playing a role in revitalising Svan.
One of the pioneers in exploring Georgia’s linguistic diversity through a commercial project was the clothing and accessories brand Giovanni Morra. In 2020, the company launched its Linguistic Diversity project, translating its entire website into Svan, Megrelian, and Laz.
‘Language is much more than a means of communication. It carries memory, humour, traditions, ways of thinking and seeing the world’, says Mariam Osepashvili, a member of the Giovanni Morra team. ‘When a language disappears from everyday life, we risk losing part of that accumulated cultural memory with it.’
The initiative was launched to bring Georgia’s four Kartvelian languages — Georgian, Svan, Megrelian and Laz — into contemporary everyday life. After translating its website, Giovanni Morra turned to fashion, creating T-shirts featuring words in Svan, Megrelian, and Laz alongside their meanings.
‘We wanted someone to encounter a Svan word not only in an academic publication or an ethnographic context, but on a T-shirt worn by a young person in Tbilisi or elsewhere. For us, this was a way of saying that these languages are not relics of the past. They are a living part of who we are’, Osepashvili tells OC Media.
Because Svan is predominantly an oral language, the brand’s team faced a number of complex linguistic challenges. To avoid taking a superficial approach, Giovanni Morra worked with people who had knowledge of the respective languages and consulted the relevant language communities.
‘Our objective was not to “standardise” Svan through a fashion project or pretend that a brand could resolve linguistic questions that belong to linguists and native-speaking communities. Our role was to approach the language respectfully, make it visible and encourage curiosity about it’, Osepashvili explains.
The brand says that the same principle guided its design approach: the language itself was meant to remain central rather than becoming merely a decorative element.
The audience’s response was particularly emotional, Osepashvili recalls.
‘When a familiar word from your family, village, or childhood suddenly appears on a contemporary fashion item, the reaction is very different from seeing an ordinary graphic or slogan. For some people, these words were connected directly to home, parents or grandparents, and to a part of their identity that they were not accustomed to seeing represented in modern commercial or visual culture’.
She also recalls seeing curiosity from people who did not speak the language themselves.
‘For us, success was not simply about selling a T-shirt. If somebody saw a Svan, Megrelian, or Laz word because of the collection and asked, “What does this mean?”, a small but important conversation had already begun’.
A more practical and socially oriented approach has been taken by the pharmacy chain PSP. In summer 2026, the company placed a series of billboards in Svaneti featuring messages in Svan about the risks of ultraviolet radiation in mountainous areas.
‘For a brand operating all over Georgia, it is important to adapt a shared message to each region’s language and everyday life. That is why we communicated in Svan in Svaneti and in Megrelian in Samegrelo’, PSP’s PR Manager Natia Khabeishvili tells OC Media.
The campaign’s main message was: ‘You can’t hide from the sun’. PSP sought to raise awareness that sun protection is important not only at the beach but also in everyday life, particularly in the mountains, where UV radiation becomes more intense with altitude.
‘Speaking to people in their own language makes the message feel more relevant and helps us build a personal connection. Seeing their language on a billboard shows that the brand recognises local people and respects their culture’, Khabeishvili says.
She notes that the importance of this decision was also reflected in feedback from local communities.
‘Many people wrote to us about how much the initiative meant to them and their language. Their responses showed us that, alongside the message itself, people appreciated the attention given to their language and culture’.
Khabeishvili acknowledges that a single campaign cannot guarantee the survival of a language, but argues that using it in contemporary public spaces can still make a contribution.
The experience of these Georgian companies suggests that the commercial sector is gradually beginning to recognise its role in preserving the country’s linguistic heritage. Without replacing educational institutions, businesses can give Svan something it urgently needs today: relevance and a visible presence in everyday modern life.
Preserving the cultural code
Today, the struggle to preserve Svan is about far more than just protecting a mountain region’s linguistic heritage. It is an effort to safeguard a unique way of seeing the world — one without which Georgian culture itself would become poorer and less diverse. Yet there remains a profound gap between a language’s formal survival and its ability to thrive as a living means of communication.
For Svan to flourish, it needs meaningful institutional support, freedom from outdated stereotypes, and, above all, spaces where young people can use it naturally and adapt it to the realities of 2026, Margiani says.
‘Survival is about defence; thriving is about expansion. To truly thrive, Svan needs to step out of the shadows of folklore and enter the digital age, becoming tangible, real, and social’.
Yet, he believes there is not enough time, resources, or money spent on solving the issues facing the Svan language.
‘We can’t rely solely on bureaucratic efforts. Yes, there are scientists, professors, and teachers doing important work, but we need to reach ordinary people outside academic circles’, he argues.
Ratiani also believes the state must assume greater responsibility for preserving Georgia’s regional languages.
‘First and foremost, it is necessary to change the approach to the educational system in regions like Svaneti so that local languages receive their proper place in the learning process. After all, the Svan language is not only the heritage of the Svans, but a part of the overall Georgian cultural wealth, our history, identity, and centuries-old tradition’.
Global experience in language revitalisation offers a clear lesson: grassroots activism alone cannot save a language if the state continues to ignore its decline. At the same time, government funding and institutional support are unlikely to succeed if communities themselves no longer wish to speak their ancestral language, Thomas Wier notes.
‘There are famous examples of languages revived with state support, such as Hebrew, Welsh, and Basque. But in all cases, state support only came after long campaigns by activists. Hebrew’s success, for instance, was also linked to the fact that 19th-century activists were not “linguistic purists” and adapted ancient grammar to modern realities’, he explains.
Yet, he also emphasises that state support without public desire also does not work, citing Ireland as a case example, where the Irish language receives massive subsidies, yet much of the population prefers English. Similarly, activism without the state yields only modest results.
‘Hawaiian, for example, has about 20,000 speakers, but almost all learned it as a second language, with only 300 native speakers remaining from childhood. For a successful revitalisation campaign, both grassroots activism AND state institutional support are vital’, Wier says.
Experience from around the world shows that languages rarely disappear overnight. Instead, they fade quietly each time the authorities postpone introducing them into school curricula and official statistics fail to reflect the scale of their decline. Yet while institutions hesitate, the voice of the Svan mountains refuses to fall silent. It lives on in family conversations, in those who continue passing it on to younger generations, and in the driving guitar riffs of the indie scene. As long as that voice continues to be heard, Svan will remain not only a language of the past, but a living manifesto of the future.