Life of people in remote mountain villages of Dagestan

There are places where life goes at a different pace. The morning begins with caring for the earth and the night ends with prayer and gratitude. The people here are never in a hurry, not out of laziness, but because their world is filled with a deep understanding of life, rooted in time of traditions and the wisdom of their ancestors. This is Dagestan, one of the remote modern villages, where life is surprisingly simple. Here people work the land to provide for their families, giving what they can and taking only what they need. The soil is cultivated just as it was hundreds of years ago. In places as remote as Dagestan, life flows slowly, at its own rhythm. People aren't hurried now and the time isn't an enemy, but a reliable ally. Every day is filled with meaning, simple yet profound. They place their trust in the land and in return it yields its generous gifts. It's work that carries quite dignity, even if it never becomes legend. Each spring people return to the fields with plovs and animals, leaving tracks no vast, leaving canvas, the land. This is how it has always been, and it seems it will continue like this, forever. The spores, even though they disappear beneath the grown plants, continue their endless cycle of birth and renewal. Astrology doesn't always leave a visible trace. It quietly shapes everything it touches. How do you pay for it? Do you have an exchange or do you pay in cash? No, they give me 350 rubles per day. How many days are there? One day. The bag of feed costs 700 rubles. We also add manure. It costs 250 rubles. Ouch, ouch, ouch. And hay, too. Only 70 rubles per barrel. How much does it cost? How do you buy hay? We cut it ourselves. If it's not enough, we order it from there. It costs 300 rubles. Sudanka costs 400 rubles. Lucerne costs 500 rubles. Ouch, ouch, ouch. We often believe that greatness is measured by power or fame, forgetting that the most essential things in life rely on those who remain unseen. These quiet workers of the land care for their families and uphold the very foundation of our society. True strengths live in their humble, selfless hands. We are used to measuring results by what's visible. We paint pictures, construct buildings and launch companies. But here, traces are left in another way, through earth. They may disappear, yet they continue to live on, nourishing generations to come. What if the real trace isn't what remains forever, but what carries on through our legacy? We tend to believe that when something disappears, it's lost. But here, everything disappears. The furrows, the harvest, the people. Yet at the same time, they continue in another form, sometimes invisible. These people don't work for riches, recognition or status, but for something far greater than themselves. Are you happy? Yes, very happy. Why are you sitting separately from the men? Don't they take you with them? They bite. They bite? No, they don't want to. They work all day, but we don't. At first, they didn't want to come. We respect men. We sit in a circle with everyone. Don't you get offended when men don't invite you to their circle? No, we don't. We don't care. You have your own secrets, and they have theirs, right? To make it easier for the potatoes to rise, we break all the big lumps of the earth. Big, big potatoes. Do you get tired? Yes. Do you work like this every day? Or do you also rest? I rest and work. How do you rest? At home. My grandmother is at home. Your grandmother? How old is she? She is 89 years old. A long-lived woman. In one kitchen, meals are being prepared. While in a deep pantry, astonishing amounts of provisions are stored. But this isn't just food. It's memory. The old woman preserves this with care, her heart holding the echo of postwar years, when even a single crumb was worth waiting out. Grains, flour, and sugar stored in sacks may seem unusual to the modern eye, but to this grandmother they are symbols of love and protection. Each sack is not merely a reserve for hard times. It's her quiet way of saying, I love you, and I never want you to know hunger. How old are you? What year? 100 years. I'm 45. I'm 75. I'm 79. She preserves it well, right? She is more energetic than me. I can't even catch up with her. You look great. I wouldn't even say you're 100 years old. Are you going to plant potatoes today? No, I'm done. You're done? These are old fabrics. They were of no quality before. Wool. Did the women make these themselves? Yes, she did. Did you make them yourself? Yes, she did. Wow! How do you make such rugs? We make them ourselves. They look like new ones. We have a machine for sewing. This is a bag that my mother made herself. This is wool. That's great. What was the bag used for before? For wheat, for corn. Guests gather around the table. Children, family and friends. It feels as though the whole house is filled with light, as the flower itself is a secret ingredient in every dish. And the grandmothers' warm hands are protecting us from all the dangers of the world. Every small step carries the DNA of something greater. We believe the fate of the world is shaped by great leaders, but perhaps it's really shaped by women who feed their children each day. We think history is written by those who built magnificent structures, but perhaps it's created by those who till the soil so that tomorrow we have bread. We believe greatness belongs to those remembered by millions, but perhaps the truest meaning lies with those no one will remember. Yet without them, the world couldn't be what it is. They don't let me out of this village. They put me at the table again. It's probably the tenth time we've had tea. They baked a cake and put bread in the oven. It's very hospitable. A guest is more important than a brother who is far away or in a neighboring village. A guest is a peace of the world. He is valued in every house. Any person who has passed by could come into any house and say, I'm your guest. They could live for weeks and no one would say a word. It's better that they have a house. They will give it to a guest. A guest is more important. Hello again. You called us. We came. Did all the cows come? Not yet. How many cows do you have? 15-20. Will you milk all of them? No. Only 8. Not all of them. Are there not many young people like you in the village? Not many. We don't have young people at all. We are the youngest family. We take care of the farm. The rest are leaving. Yes. To the city. Try it. Don't you have butter? We call through us others we leave. And without even knowing it we become part of their story, their path. We are just a small fragment in the vast mosaic of life. Yet when the tiniest missing piece leaves the picture incomplete. Sometimes just leaving, truly leaving, is the most powerful trace we can leave behind. Some go to temples, others to the floor. Some lift their hands to the heavens, others sink them into the soil. But the essence is the same. To give life to what comes after us.