Irma Kipshidze
Once, a bird of astonishing beauty flew into the glass-enclosed Technopark—a creature cloaked in blue, with golden feathers beneath its wings. It bore an invisible wound.
Lasha and I, intrigued and compassionate, acquired a cage, equipped it with food, a mirror, and a swing. Observing this mysterious guest, we named it Chito.
When the migration season arrived, Lasha left the door of Chito's cage open. Tears streamed down my face, but Lasha offered no comfort.
At the cafeteria beside the Waki pool, I fetched myself a melon ice cream from the refrigerator. Having walked from home, I decided to rest before my swim. As I began to peel the wrapper off my ice cream, my eyes fell upon a girl sitting alone.
"She resembles a cheetah, oh, how she does! Yet, she wears no blue, nor does she resemble a bird. It's odd why my mind wanders to Technopark's Chito at this moment," I pondered, choosing to sit nearby despite numerous vacant seats.
Irma Kipshidze's first and transcendent love was dance. From the tender age of three, she gathered neighborhood children in the courtyard, her lithe body performing self-crafted stunts to their applause.
Before school age, her mother had enrolled her in artistic gymnastics. By thirteen, Irma was Georgia's undisputed champion, and later dominated the Soviet Union championships without formal training. From Tbilisi, she was selected for the national team in Moscow, paving her path to Europe and the Olympics in the Land of the Rising Sun. Upon her return, she resolved to leave her life in the USSR behind. With white Guda in tow, she traveled through Turkey to Germany, welcomed by a benevolent family who had witnessed her talent in Georgian dance. They adopted her, adding to their family which already included a daughter named Irma Data.
A visit to the doctor is routine in developed countries, yet nothing prepared the Düsseldorf physician for the shock of Irma’s X-rays. The spinal trauma, a relic of neglect during her youth, rendered it miraculous that she could move, let alone dance.
"You are lying!" Irma recounted the harsh rebukes from communist coaches, who accused her of fabricating her pain. "They pushed us beyond endurance, deprived us of food and water. My spine ached from mineral deficiencies, yet I trained from dawn to dusk, sustained only by unsalted boiled rice before competitions."
And all for what? Merely sixty seconds on stage: thirty seconds awaiting the announcer's call, and thirty more departing the limelight.
Yet, within those fleeting moments lay a joy vast and pure—like a divine communion, a dance with the gods!
As I swam, thoughts of Chita and Irma intertwined. I realized the pervasive shadow of the Soviet Union was not just a historical note, but a personal battle, influencing even my reluctance to free Chita.
The day waned as I remained, mesmerized by recordings of Irma dancing.
Author: Makuna Kavtaradze
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