A Gallup poll from August 2025 reveals that 66% of Democrats view socialism favorably, while only 42% hold a positive view of capitalism. This disconnect has fueled protests where Soviet flags and hammer-and-sickle symbols appear as emblems of resistance. Figures like Sen. Bernie Sanders, Rep. Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez, and New York City Mayor Zohran Mamdani have built political careers on what they term 'democratic socialism,' attracting young voters who see hope rather than history in that label.
I will not counter them with statistics or economic models. Instead, I offer my family's story.
In February 1951, in the Georgian village of Bebnisi, 14-year-old Shota Gelashvili fell asleep over his German textbook. At 2 a.m., Soviet secret police stormed his home, ordering him, his father, two sisters, pregnant mother, and 100-year-old grandmother to dress quickly and leave without gathering belongings. The soldiers seized the textbook, treating it as incriminating evidence.
The family was herded into a cattle car with hundreds of others. Many were beaten with rifle butts. The train sat for three days while more families arrived. Inside, people hung clothing to create a makeshift toilet. A young man, driven mad by thirst, jumped out to reach a stream and was shot dead on the spot. The four-week journey to Kazakhstan stopped only twice for water, with just two people per family allowed off.
Upon arrival on an open steppe, they were told, 'This is your new home'—a flat, empty field with no shelter or explanation.
Why were they deported? My grandfather had been captured by Germans during World War II. That he escaped, joined partisans, and fought the Nazis until the war ended counted against him. Surrendering was bad enough, but local Communist Party officials resented his initiative and leadership. They placed him on a deportation list labeled 'former prisoner of war' and 'kulak'—the socialist term for middle class.
In Kazakhstan, the family dug a dugout to live in. Guards on horseback drove 'special settlers' to work with whips. Children labored alongside adults and were occasionally shot while scavenging for food. Torture was routine for anyone showing defiance, and Shota endured it multiple times. Many died from starvation and disease.
After Stalin's death in 1953, two Georgian colonels arrived at the camp. Of the fourteen wagons that left Georgia, only two returned—my family among them—told the deportation was an error. Years later, when I was vetted for Georgia's Ministry of State Security, Moscow's document read: 'Fully exonerated. All charges groundless.' But the stigma persisted. Back in Bebnisi, Shota and his sisters were two years behind in school. Neighbors had taken their furniture, dishes, and carpets. My grandfather rebuilt what he could, but his heart gave out at 46.
I am Shota Gelashvili's son, born in 1972. I grew up knowing exactly what socialism is. My father made sure I understood, because he watched it destroy his own father and strip him of his livelihood. Socialism, in practice, does not work without force and brutality, even with nice adjectives like 'democratic.' It is not a policy or economic system; it is a machine designed to destroy anyone capable, principled, or stubborn enough to threaten those who operate it. It does so legally, bureaucratically, and when necessary, with bullets. Even when it disappears, it leaves behind impoverished, authoritarian basket-case countries with decades of problems.
In 1988, the same year my father secretly listened to Radio Free Europe—a crime under Soviet law—Bernie Sanders sat bare-chested in a Soviet banya, wrapped in a towel, singing with his hosts over vodka toasts. He later called it 'a very strange honeymoon.' His hosts knew what to show him and what to hide. Democrats today should ask themselves what they are missing.
