Lamaria church in Ushguli

At an altitude of 2,200 meters above sea level lies the remote mountain community of Ushguli — the highest permanently inhabited settlement in all of Georgia, and according to some sources, one of the highest in Europe. Nestled amid dramatic peaks, this ancient village captivates visitors with its breathtaking alpine scenery, timeworn medieval Svan towers, and the enduring traditions of its people, who still live by the codes of a clan-based society. The sheer uniqueness of Ushguli has long drawn the attention of travelers, historians, and culture lovers alike. In recognition of its exceptional cultural value, Upper Svaneti — the region that includes Ushguli — was inscribed on the UNESCO World Heritage List in 1996. And it’s no wonder.

Among Ushguli’s many treasures, one sacred site holds particular reverence in the hearts of locals: the Lamaria Monastery. This male monastic complex, where women are traditionally forbidden to enter, was built in the 10th century in the village of Zhibiani — one of the four villages that make up the Ushguli community. Set on the edge of the settlement, the monastery stands in solemn majesty against the towering backdrop of Mount Shkhara, Georgia’s highest peak. Encircled by a defensive wall with a fortified tower, the church merges seamlessly with its mountainous surroundings.

“Lamaria” is the Svan name for the Virgin Mary. The church is consecrated in her name, yet the roots of its devotion trace back to an earlier era. Long before the advent of Christianity in the region, the Svans venerated a pagan goddess named Lamaria — protector of the earth, fertility, livestock, and the domestic arts. When Christianity began to take hold in Georgia, this ancient deity’s role evolved, absorbing attributes of the Virgin Mary, particularly her association with motherhood. Over time, as Christian teachings gradually supplanted the old beliefs, the goddess Lamaria faded into legend, and the Virgin Mary assumed her place in the spiritual life of the people. In homage to both traditions, the Svans erected the Lamaria Monastery in the 10th century, dedicating it to the Virgin Mary, yet preserving the echoes of their ancestral reverence.

The church’s entrance lies on the western side, while its chapel extends toward the southwest. Constructed of stone, the architecture is defined by sturdy arches resting on stone columns that rise from the floor. Inside, the church was once richly adorned with frescoes, though the centuries have not been kind to them — much of the painted decoration has faded or been lost. The iconostasis, however, dates back to the original construction, and one need only look closely at the icons to notice something unusual. The Svan artist who painted them deviated from the established canons of Orthodox iconography. In one especially moving depiction, the Virgin Mary does not rest her hand against her cheek, as is traditional — instead, her hand lies gently on her head, a subtle but powerful gesture of mourning.

The final known frescoes were added in the 13th century. Inscriptions discovered inside the church, some over 800 years old, were left by pilgrims who journeyed to this sacred place from far and wide. Local legend holds that the final resting place of Queen Tamar, the beloved ruler of Georgia’s Golden Age, lies somewhere within the grounds of Lamaria. However, there is no evidence to support this claim, and no archaeological excavations have ever been undertaken to verify it.

The internal walls and iconostasis are covered with two layers of frescoes, dated to the 10th and 13th century, now in a state of deterioration. What is more interesting is a local legend, according to which the Lamaria church was the scene of the murder of the nobleman Puta Dachkelani. The legend has it that the entire village brought him to this location and helped pull a cord attached to the trigger of a musket, thus dividing equally the responsibility for killing the man for seeking to impose his rule on the free people of Ushguli.

Formally, the church and monastery bear the name of the Assumption of the Blessed Virgin Mary. Yet among the Svan people, the Virgin Mary is known as Lamara—a name deeply woven into the spiritual fabric of Svaneti. The veneration of Mary in this region overlays a much older, pre-Christian cult devoted to a powerful feminine deity. Lamara was once the goddess of motherhood, fertility, grain, dairy livestock, and handicrafts—an embodiment of nurturing abundance and the rhythm of traditional life. Her worship predates written history, originating in the depths of the pre-Christian era.

Perched on a low hill slightly apart from the village of Zhibiani, the Lamara Monastery stands beside the road that winds toward the majestic Mount Shkhara. Encircled by a rough-hewn stone wall, the monastery grounds include several buildings and, notably, a Svan tower integrated into the western perimeter. From a distance, the entire ensemble resembles a small stone fortress resting atop a rise, austere yet quietly commanding.

One would expect an entrance marked by grand double doors—but not here. The gateway into this sacred enclosure is no taller than a man’s chest: a simple, slanted door carved into the wall, practically invisible from the road. Small arrows painted on the stonework discreetly guide visitors to the hidden entrance. In addition to this main northern portal, there is another on the southern side. This secondary entrance is fronted by a modest stairway that leads not to the village, but out into open fields and pastures—perhaps a route for shepherds or solitary pilgrims.

The Lamara Church itself lies within the enclosure, freestanding in the monastery’s courtyard. Interestingly, it is not adjoined to any of the walls. This church, rarely mentioned in written sources, is dated by architectural study to the 9th or 10th century. Yet at first glance, it does not resemble a sacred building. It appears more like a humble dwelling, weathered and leaning, with a pitched gable roof. On the eastern side, a prominent two-sided apse spans the width of the façade, its angles adorned with pilasters that arch into semicircular forms above—an unusual and richly ornamental feature for a Svan church, where decoration is scarce. These pilasters are further embellished with decorative borders, lending a rare artistry to the otherwise austere structure.

The western façade bears a relief cross and a carved stone plaque inscribed with four lines of Georgian script, rendered in a hybrid of khutsuri and mkhedruli. Paleographic analysis dates the inscription to the 11th century and identifies a female patron named Gurandukht—a rare and evocative glimpse into the past.

Attached to the church from the west and south is a narthex, which is half the height of the main structure. Interestingly, although the church is relatively tall, its interior floor lies nearly a meter below ground level, while the floors of the annexes remain at ground height—possibly evidence of later additions.

Entry to the church is through the western narthex, which itself is accessed from the south. The doorway into the narthex is strikingly low—it barely reaches shoulder height—and if not for the cross carved into the tympanum above it, one might mistake it for the entrance to a storeroom. Inside, the atmosphere is cave-like: dim, solemn, and cool. Two narrow windows provide limited light. A small modern cabinet sits in one corner, stocked with small cloth bags of Svan salt—an aromatic local seasoning—labeled as having come from Ushguli. Whether the salt is blessed or not remains a mystery, but it is available for purchase through an honor system: the price is listed (five lari), and visitors simply leave the money beside the bag they take. This quiet trust, found throughout Georgia’s rural churches, reflects a deep cultural value—far removed from the bustling commerce of urban cathedrals. In most village churches, there are no vendors, only simple boxes of candles with posted prices. You leave a coin and take your candle. Such is the gentle rhythm of Georgian religious life.

The interior of the Lamara Church is striking in its simplicity. A small, elongated rectangular space with rounded vaults and a shallow semicircular apse, the church is of a single-nave basilica type. The floor of the apse is raised above the nave, accessible by a three-step stone staircase. A primitive yet evocative stone altar screen separates the apse from the nave, carved and painted in a style that speaks of deep antiquity. Light is scarce—only two narrow windows pierce the walls—casting the interior in solemn twilight.

Frescoes once covered the walls and vaults, depicting biblical themes. Scholars believe the church was painted in two stages: the first layer dating from the late 10th or early 11th century, and a second, more fragmentary layer from the 12th–13th centuries. Time has not been kind to these images; much of the paint has flaked away, leaving ghostly traces of saints and scenes, dulled and fading. The narthex was once frescoed as well, though little remains visible today. Nonetheless, some elements are thought to date from the 13th century.

Despite its modest size and fading decoration, Lamara Church remains active. Services are still held here, and on our visit, we entered during a liturgy attended by just five or six local women—yet even that small number nearly filled the space, each standing reverently along the walls. The intimacy was striking, the sacredness palpable.

A local legend imbues the church with darker history. According to this tale, Lamara Church was the site of the assassination of Puta Dadeshkeliani, a noble from the powerful Dadeshkeliani clan. This ruling family once governed parts of Upper Svaneti and sought to extend its control over Free Svaneti, including the fiercely independent community of Ushguli. It is said that Puta was invited to the monastery for negotiations. A feast was prepared, and when he let down his guard, a bullet was fired—perhaps from the very courtyard. A stone bench allegedly marks the spot, though we found none.

The most chilling part of the legend recounts how responsibility for the murder was collectively shared. A musket was rigged with a cord attached to the trigger, and representatives from each family in Ushguli pulled the cord together, ensuring that no single person could be singled out for vengeance. Thus, the tradition of blood revenge was cleverly circumvented—one man may be slain, but you cannot avenge yourself on an entire village. Especially one that fights back.

Ushguli, part of the historical Free Svaneti, was famously defiant. Again and again, its people resisted would-be overlords. Legend holds that seven nobles met their end at the hands of Ushgulians. Puta Dadeshkeliani was the last of them. These events, shrouded in myth and memory, are believed to have taken place in the latter half of the 18th century.