Grandfather Gigos, an 83-year-old resident of thevillageofLusahovitin the Tavush Marz, is digging in the earth near his house.

With every blow of the shovel, small pieces of dry soil fly and fall around like pieces of sandpaper. There hasn't been rain for a long time, and an outside observer would find it hard to believe that anything could grow near Grandfather Gigos's house.

“I have some seeds. I'm going to plant potatoes,” said the old man.

“Isn't there anyone else younger at home to do that? “ I asked.

“No, there is no one else.”

Grandfather Gigos had four children, one daughter and three sons. His daughter is married and one of his sons died several years ago. The other two went toRussia. “They make money and send it here, so we can live here.” His grandsons have also left. One is inMoscowand the other is in distantSiberia.

“The last few years they've stayed there; they don't even visit anymore, “ said Gigos and immediately justified his sons' and grandsons' behavior. “If a child is hungry, what can he do? Should he die of hunger? There are no jobs here.”

“You don't have land?” I asked.

“Sure we do,” Gigos said, and pointed into the distance where his and his sons' fields are located. The work and expenses there sometimes equal the crop we harvest, but more often the expenses are greater than the yield. Sometimes the hail damages the crops, sometimes the drought, but more often the lack of agricultural machines is the problem. “Last year, half of the crops in Khasharak (the neighboring village) were lost, because no combine was available,” said Gigos, adding that even in the case of natural disasters the government doesn't help.

According to him, people in the city live a different life. They don't know the situation of people in the villages, and so they do not do anything to help. When he says “city people”, he means officials, people responsible for the country's economic and social welfare. He remembers the MP from Tavush. “We had a parliamentarian, he never came to ask how we were living.” He says that the city people only come before elections, make big promises and then forget about them once they are elected.

We met Grandfather Gigos on of April 22, 20 days before the parliamentary elections. There were posters of for the Republican Party and the ARF (Dasnaktsutiun) throughout the village. Other parties had not been to Lusahovit, perhaps because of the distance, or perhaps because the results of the election were had been predetermined.

“Who are you going to vote for?” I asked.

“I'll vote for whoever they tell me to,” said 83-year-old Gigos.

“Why don't you choose whoever you want?”

“There is no equality. That's why we don't vote.”

“What is equality?”

Before replying, he studied me suspiciously, and then explained. “If Kocharyan buys a pair of slippers inYerevan, he will wear them out in two years, right? If I buy a pair of boots, they last for one visit to the fields. Is that equality?”

Grandfather Gigos doesn't expect any change for the better—he doesn't believe that life will ever improve in his native village, he doesn't believe that his sons and grandsons will ever come back to live in Lusahovit—but he also doesn't think that the village will cease to exist because of these difficulties. “No, it won't disappear, it will remain. There are vegetables in the fields, wood in the forest, and if the young people send us some money, we will live somehow and stay here.”