Something is changing in Georgia, and it is becoming increasingly difficult to ignore. At first, the signals appear tentative. There are discussions about potential increases in museum ticket prices for foreigners. Certain professions seem to be becoming less accessible to foreigners. The overall atmosphere subtly tightens. None of this is extraordinary on its own. States adjust policy. Labor markets evolve. Migration frameworks are revised. But then comes a case that exposes a deeper problem.
Foreign professionals who followed every rule: registered through the Public Service Hall, opened businesses, obtained tax status, and monthly operated fully within Georgia’s legal and transparent framework, are now required, within a two-month window, to undergo an additional procedure through the LEPL State Employment Support Agency. This is where the system begins to unravel.
From the outset, the process signals dysfunction.
The agency’s website does not work reliably. Communication channels exist, but responses do not come. Instructions remain unclear, sometimes even to those tasked with implementing them. Yet applicants are required to register anew and pay an additional fee of roughly 200 GEL: a payment made upfront, regardless of whether the service is ultimately delivered.
At the same time, the agency has no access to data already held by the state. Documents previously submitted through the Public Service Hall or tax authorities must be manually downloaded and uploaded again. The applicant becomes the intermediary between government institutions. A system once defined by integration begins to fracture into duplication. This is the moment where the process stops resembling reform and begins to feel distinctly regressive.
Applicants are required to collect documents across institutions and submit them again to a newly created body that lacks access to those same records. There are no clear consultations, no structured guidance, no meaningful support. At the interview stage, the logic becomes almost explicit: “there are many of you, and I am alone.”
Even the basic functionality appears unstable. Systems fail at launch. Requirements change after implementation. Document formats are updated without notification. Applicants submit exactly what is requested, only to be rejected, and only later discover, through independent research, that a new version of the same document has quietly become necessary. The process demands initiative, and offers no clarity in return.
Time, too, is treated as expendable. Interviews are not scheduled: they are imposed. Invitations arrive less than 24 hours in advance. There is no possibility to select a time, no option to reschedule, no mechanism to explain conflicts. During the whole month, applicants are expected to remain constantly available, unable to plan travel, work, or even medical procedures. A flight, a surgery, a professional obligation: none of these are accounted for. Failure to appear becomes an automatic ground for refusal.
The structure of communication reflects the same disorder. Messages are dense, bilingual, and poorly structured, with critical requirements embedded within polite, non-binding language. “Please bring your passport and, if possible, your residence permit.” “If possible.”
In practice, there is no flexibility. Without a passport, the interview does not proceed, even if the applicant presents a valid Georgian residence permit. This raises a simple question: if a state-issued residency document cannot verify identity within the state itself, what is its purpose?
Equally striking is the institutional isolation of this procedure. This appears to be the only state service in Georgia that cannot be accessed through the Public Service Hall called House of Justice: the institution that once defined the country’s administrative reforms. The “one-window” principle, built on clarity and accessibility, is entirely absent here. The implication is difficult to ignore: a system that exists outside the main architecture of public service begins to operate outside its logic of “Justice.”
The practical effect of the reform reveals a deeper imbalance. It does not regulate the informal labor market. It does not affect those working outside the legal framework. Instead, it imposes additional costs, administrative burdens, and uncertainty on those who have already complied. Those who registered. Those who paid taxes. Those who monthly followed the rules. They are required to repeat procedures, pay additional fees, and navigate a system that offers neither clarity nor guarantees. Compliance becomes a liability.
One possible explanation lies in broader trends, including a decline in the number of foreign professionals and an attempt to recalibrate or financially structure their presence. There is nothing unusual in a state seeking additional revenue. But if that is the objective, there are simpler and more transparent ways to achieve it. Charge the fee. And respect people’s time.
Do not construct a system that forces individuals to act as couriers between institutions, to monitor their inboxes constantly, or to reorganize their lives around unpredictable administrative demands. Because what exists now requires both money and time, without guaranteeing either service or outcome.
This is not a failure of policy. It is a failure of delegation. A complex and sensitive function has been entrusted to the LEPL State Employment Support Agency, a structure that, in its current form, appears unprepared to carry it. The result is not merely inefficiency. It is a reputational risk.
Because Georgia’s image, built over three decades, rests on a clear promise: that the state is understandable, predictable, and functional. When that promise is undermined, even temporarily, the consequences extend far beyond one agency. They affect trust. They affect investment. They affect the decision to stay.
This situation does not appear inevitable. It appears avoidable. Which makes the final question unavoidable: Why was such responsibility entrusted to a system that was not ready to handle it?
By Ivan Nechaev
