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How life is changing in a Perm village where the same president is elected time after time

In the 2018 presidential election, 83% of voters in the village of Putino in Perm Krai cast their ballots for Vladimir Putin, who was seeking a fourth term. The arguments ranged from regular pensions to "anything but war." Six years later, journalist Victoria Samarino traveled to Putino and spent three election days there—March 15–17—to see people again voting for the incumbent president, this time with the wish for the war to end soon.

We are publishing this story together with New Tab edition.

We enter Putino, a 25-kilometer drive along a cleared road from the district center of Vereshchagino. A taxi costs 650 rubles—a direct bus runs here only once a day. The hilly terrain allows for immediate access to all the local beauty: centuries-old pine trees dotted throughout the village, a large pond on the outskirts, and a strip of forest beyond.

The roads in Putino are also cleared of snow—a tractor rumbles along the street in the distance. The buildings are typical of a rural area: two-story brick buildings stand side by side with private wooden houses, some of which have carved window frames.

Election symbols are everywhere. Leaflets with the letter V in the colors of the tricolor are posted on fences, in stores, and on lampposts.

Despite the abundance of advertising, Putin's supporters are in no hurry to vote. Around nine o'clock in the morning on Friday, March 15, a couple of cars pulled away from the polling station. There are no crowds of public sector workers, as in many Russian regions: the area around the polling station in a village with a population of just over a thousand is almost deserted.

An elderly woman in a warm, colorful headscarf walks briskly down the neighboring street toward the bus stop. She introduces herself as Alexandra. She explains that she went to the pharmacy in Vereshchagino because she hasn't had one in Putino for six years. She's in a festive mood today.

"Of course! It's the election day!" she smiles. "I'll definitely go vote."

When asked for whom exactly, the pensioner answers with some surprise:

"For Putin, who else? We Putinites are always for Putin. We're happy to have him," the woman exclaims, adding with a smile, "He's the same age as me; we even have birthdays close to each other."

Alexandra has lived in Putino her entire life, working as a pediatric paramedic. She recalls the past with a barely perceptible sigh, saying that at the local outpatient clinic, "everything used to be for the people." But, assessing what has changed in the village in the six years since the last presidential election, she says, "everything has only gotten better."

"The roads are good, they've got gas," the pensioner lists, but clarifies that she doesn't have enough money for gas yet. "Well, I'm still buying firewood, but at least I'm moving. They're paying my pension—thank God." The woman looks up for a few seconds and smiles again. "Overall, I think our village is nice. The scenery is beautiful, there's a pond. Come visit in the summer!"

Putin's supporters elect their president at a local club—the same place where they spend the rest of their days doing handicrafts, throwing discos, celebrating holidays, and, recently, weaving camouflage nets. A homemade sign with neat red letters proclaims "Putin Leisure Center" adorns the gray, nondescript building.

On election days, the club is strictly silent. A large board in the lobby, usually decorated with children's drawings, is now covered with photographs of presidential candidates. A woman dressed in the colors of the tricolor—a white blouse and a blue and red scarf—walks intently between the entrance and the room where the ballot boxes are kept. She watches everyone entering the polling station, keeping outsiders out.

Maria Vasilyevna, a smiling woman with a short haircut who works at the leisure center, isn't involved in the election process. Multicolored pieces of chiffon are laid out in her small office—she needs to iron them quickly to decorate the stage for Maslenitsa.

Maria Vasilyevna explains that on normal days, the club is mostly attended by children—they play with them and learn drawing and handicrafts. Recently, for example, elementary school students made trench candles for the SVO participants. The entire village collected tin cans for the project—a notice detailing the "container requirements" still hangs at the club entrance.

Together with the local school administration, the recreation center staff also held a "Letter to a Soldier" campaign. At the same time, the club is weaving camouflage nets for the soldiers. This work is primarily done by pensioners, and even women from neighboring villages come to help. Maria Vasilyevna says the women were united by the desire to "pay their respects." The activists, together with the district administration, have already packed and sent two vehicles with letters, candles, and nets to the front.

The net-weaving room is empty on election days. And it's unclear whether this new form of folk art will resume in Putino: raising money for materials has become too difficult. Notices asking for donations for net-weaving are posted all over the village. "Some people contribute, some don't," Maria Vasilyevna notes.

By Friday afternoon, the village is becoming livelier. The rich, woody smell of wood-burning stoves wafts from the two-story wooden barracks on Komsomolskaya Street. The front door is wide open, and underfoot are patches of frozen ice mixed with melted snow.

In the courtyard, third-grader Sonya is helping a neighbor's boy slide down a snow slide. Sonya's mother, Ekaterina, a young woman with a gloomy expression, is keeping an eye on the children along with a neighbor. Both village women are lightly dressed, as if they were getting ready for something in a hurry. Ekaterina works as a milkmaid at the local agricultural enterprise "Zarya Putino" on a two-on-two-off schedule. Today is her day off, and on days off, her main concern is the sauna.

The woman plans to vote, but tomorrow, because "I have to anyway." When asked who she plans to vote for, Ekaterina counters with a question: "Who's even there now?" Neighbor Natalya immediately responds to the discussion: "Oh, they were explaining something to me, but I still don't get it."

“I’ll vote for Putin, and that’s all.” “What else is needed,” sums up Ekaterina.
“Probably everyone will vote for him,” her daughter Sonya chimes in.
“Well, not everything,” the girl’s mother corrects.
“Well, maybe that’s all,” the schoolgirl continues to insist.

The woman turns her daughter's attention to Aida, the dog—a plump mongrel who's dragged a large meat bone from somewhere. The entire household feeds Aida. Besides Aida, the barracks' residents also have to feed a whole horde of cats. Ekaterina complains that some of them are "deliberately given to them."

Next to the barracks on Komsomolskaya Street stands its twin building. Some apartments have plastic windows, but the building itself is noticeably leaning in places. A couple of rather aged examples of the domestic automobile industry are parked next to a stack of firewood. Suddenly, a middle-aged woman, wearing a light jacket and flip-flops on her bare feet, runs out of the entrance. "Are they demolishing it? Are they demolishing it?" she cries in fear.

The woman's name is Nadezhda. She saw her house being photographed through the window and thought it had something to do with the resettlement. Her barracks were built in 1933. Nadezhda claims it's not listed as unsafe and "it's unclear where it's listed." "Even if it collapses, they'll probably say it's supposed to," she jokes.

Nadezhda has lived in the barracks for almost thirty years. She's grown accustomed to both the place and the people, and has no intention of leaving. She has five children, an elderly mother, two dogs, and three cats. Three of her adult children have already moved away and now visit with their grandchildren. Only her youngest son, who's in school, and her daughter, who's about to give birth, remain in Putino. Nadezhda has no particular leisure time.

Like many local women her age, she used to work at Zarya Putino as a milkmaid and a drover, but her health no longer allows it. Now, Nadezhda spends most of her time tending to the house and garden, while her husband works and provides for the family.

Nadezhda plans to go to the polls on Saturday, but she's not particularly enthusiastic about it. When asked about Maslenitsa, which takes place on Sunday, she responds with great enthusiasm: "I'll definitely go, of course, and I'll bring my two grandchildren."

Meanwhile, 69-year-old Anatoly Chadov is rushing not to the elections, but to a school meeting. The longtime physical education teacher at Putin's school has just recovered from a hospital stay—he suffered burns to his face and hands while fighting his burning house "in a T-shirt and one sock." He says no one came to his aid. Chadov recounts this calmly, without offense, but with some surprise, as he himself has repeatedly put out fires in the village, "throwing himself into the thick of it."

The fire in his private home started early in the morning. Anatoly Dmitrievich recalls that he started his Renault to warm up, sat down to enter grades in the online journal, and when he left the house, the car was ablaze like a torch. The fire spread to the house, completely destroying the part of the house where Chadov lived, all the outbuildings, and the building materials purchased for future renovations. The neighbors who lived in the other half of the house were unharmed, but Anatoly Dmitrievich will have to repair their roof. 

A month has passed since the fire. Chadov's wife moved to Perm to be with their children, while Anatoly Dmitrievich himself remained behind, continuing to teach physical education at the school and prepare the children for competitions. He lives near the school, in the home of a former student's parents, and is pondering what to do next. Fellow villagers, former students, and acquaintances, upon learning of the fire, began chipping in. One transferred him 100,000 rubles, another brought him a change of clothes.

Anatoly Dmitrievich says he's not yet "ready to leave the place where he's accomplished so much." He's lived and worked in Putino for 46 years: he came from Perm for a year while the Putino school was being built, and then took over the village's sports activities and stayed. Over the years, the school's population has dwindled from 600 to 200, but he still strives to engage his students in sports and "pull them away from the dragon of idleness."

Chadov is not indifferent to politics—he served as a member of parliament at various levels, both during the Soviet era and after the collapse of the USSR, writing articles "on topical issues" for local newspapers. He says he wanted to develop the village and help people, but then realized that "one man is no match for another":

"A village is still a village. It's an underprivileged one. The city has stadiums, swimming pools, and places to enroll, but in the village—well, where can you go? You'll hang out at the club sometimes, cut things out. And then there's the gym, which was built in 1979. And nothing's been updated since then."

The teacher spreads his arms, as if to show that his small coaching room hasn't changed since Soviet times: the same old wooden equipment racks and a small, well-worn table. The school gym also has a bygone atmosphere. Anatoly Dmitrievich raises funds for sports events himself, because "funding is almost nonexistent." Even new balls, nets, and other equipment are provided to the school thanks to the help of a graduate; "there's almost nothing from the school." The gym teacher also often drives students to competitions in his car.

In 2018, when Putin wrote reportage When Yevgeniya Volunkova, a journalist from Takie Dela, came to report on the presidential elections, Anatoly Chadov was the only village resident who openly stated his disagreement with Putin's policies and his disapproval of the president's talk of war and the arms race. Now, the schoolteacher is no longer so categorical. He says that "everything depends on the system" and that "one person can't solve everything":

— Let's say Putin is pursuing his own line, but he can't embrace everything.

Chadov believes the country has many "flaws" that need to be addressed. He cites his own fire situation as an example: "A person burned to death—an emergency. So they could have given him an apartment with a 50% discount. There's nothing like that."

Anatoly Dmitrievich is also upset that the “guys” who are fighting in Ukraine have to raise money for equipment.

“It seems like there’s a war going on, but the state…” Chadov drawls thoughtfully. “People are weaving webs, and recently, right before Ukraine…” piled up An entire KamAZ truck of humanitarian aid. I'm telling you, Putin can't handle everything. Everything needs to work smoothly, locally. And then, perhaps, Russia will continue to thrive and develop. And the countryside, too.

Chadov is also concerned about the way conscripts are trained in the Russian army. He even wrote a letter to the president, demanding, as he now recalls, that "order be restored in the units" and that "the children be trained first, and only then sent off to fight." He received no response.

Anatoly Dmitrievich finds it difficult to discuss the motivations of the "children" who go off to war. Some, he believes, go because "who else but me?" while others do so because of a lack of money and work. The teacher is outraged that after the mobilization began, "everyone fled the country." "And so our guys are laying down their lives there, while these others are living it up. That's the worst thing," he insists.

One of Chadov's former students who went to war in Ukraine was buried in 2023. According to the teacher, he was serving a sentence for petty theft and decided to join the front with six months left before his release. Anatoly Dmitrievich admits that not everyone agrees with calling this man a hero, but he believes he died for his country and "he is entitled to all the honors."

We were unable to determine the exact number of people participating in the "special operation" among the residents of Putino. Some say there are currently around fifteen people fighting in Ukraine, while others claim at least twenty. However, almost all the locals we spoke with mentioned acquaintances or relatives who went off to fight. After the war, the village was left without a craftsman who made beautiful carved window frames. Neighbors won't reveal his name, saying only that he was over forty and volunteered for the war.

Judging by what was published on VKontakte video clipDuring the two years of war in Ukraine, at least three residents of Putino and surrounding villages have died. The fourth was a native of the village, 24-year-old contract soldier Karimdin Gafurov, killed at the front a month before the next presidential election. He graduated from elementary school in Putino and then moved with his parents to Perm. Local media reports сообщаетсяthat at the front he was a rifleman in an assault company. 

Gafurov's funeral took place on March 7th, again at the same leisure center. He was buried in a cemetery in the neighboring village of Klyuchi, surrounded by tall pine trees. The wooden cross on his grave is almost invisible due to the wreaths: "To my beloved from Olya," "From loving family," "With sorrow from friends," and "From the Vereshchaginsky Urban District Administration."

Karimdin's name hasn't yet appeared in the special folder being compiled by the local library staff. The folder sits in the reading room on a separate shelf dedicated to those born in the Vereshchaginsky district who died in Ukraine, nestled between dictionaries and holiday idea books. The librarians were tasked with creating this shelf in December 2023. The folder itself contains brief biographical information on A4 sheets of paper about each SVO member. It's limited to bare biographical facts, as the relatives of the deceased Putinists, according to library director Anfisa Gushchina, are reluctant to share their family's stories. A leaflet advertising contract service rests on the edge of the shelf.

Anfisa, a 25-year-old, thin girl with glasses, has mixed feelings about what's happening in Ukraine: she understands that "the guys are defending their homeland," but she's sad that "young people are dying."

Despite the "SVO"-themed shelf, Putin's library gives the impression of being a peaceful and welcoming space. Local schoolchildren gather in the reading room because "it's warm and there's a sofa." The director says they have nowhere else to go: while city teenagers gather in shopping malls, rural children can only play on their phones and socialize here. Although they do read books, Anfisa adds.

True, now she has to be more careful about what works are on her shelves.

"We're pretty strict at our library," the director explains. "We reflect the country's policies. We do whatever they tell us to do."

Anfisa is aware of the recently introduced ban on "LGBT propaganda." She says that if such a book were to be found, it would have to be removed, but, according to her, there's nothing to remove. The librarian also knows that they're "supposed" to mark books by foreign agents, but there are no such books in Putin's library either.

On the first day of the presidential election, Anfisa worked as an observer. She says the atmosphere at the polling station was "good": "Everyone comes and votes calmly. It's mostly the negativity in the city. And we played music for them [the voters] so they wouldn't get bored." She also managed to vote on the first day, but won't say for whom.

In the center of the village, against the backdrop of Putin's wooden and block houses, an ancient two-story red brick building built in 1890 stands out. It once housed a school, then a hospital, and now an outpatient clinic.

Despite the fact that appointments are open in the morning, it's very quiet inside, and there are no lines in the hallways. Only two doctors are on duty at Putin's outpatient clinic each day—a general practitioner and a dentist. A pediatrician sees patients twice a week on a rotating schedule. Both the general practitioner and the pediatrician travel from Vereshchagino.

Dentist Tamara Noskova is beloved here: a notebook pinned to the board with preventative care reminders is filled with grateful words from patients, including poems. She came to Putino from Perm in 1984, immediately after graduating from medical school, and remembers the time when the village had a hospital with an inpatient department, a dental office, and a geriatrics department, known locally as the "mercy department." The inpatient department closed in 1994, and in 2009, the geriatrics department's residents were transferred to Vereshchagino.

"Life here has always been vibrant, but now there's only a very small team left," laments Tamara Vasilyevna. "A girl retired from the physics department three years ago, and a girl from the lab retired this year. And I'm planning on doing the same—maybe another six months to a year [of work]."

The dentist clarifies that she will have a change: a student from Vereshchagino is currently studying under a targeted referral.

Tamara Noskova considers participating in the elections her duty and plans to vote on the first day. When asked who she'll vote for, the doctor declined: "Well, there aren't many good options. At least Zhirinovsky was an option before... Everything he said comes true. And most importantly, he was interesting to listen to."

Tamara Vasilyevna doesn't trust Vladislav Davankov, the New People presidential candidate, because he doesn't have a very strong-willed face. "This is a huge country, after all," she concludes. "You need a comrade with character."

On Saturday, March 16, the second day of the election, the polling station was deserted. Occasionally, cars pulled up; retired couples went to vote, but preferred not to say for whom.

Alexander, a resident of Putino, clears snow from the roof of his house with his teenage son. When asked if he'll vote, he smiles and replies, "Everything's already decided; there's no point anymore. Well, we'll see."

Alexander works as a security guard at a school and at the Permsky Metallurgical Plant. He's a widower, raising his son alone and caring for his father, who has a disability. He once came to Putino to find his wife and stayed. Alexander recalls that it used to be more fun and there were more people, but now the young people are leaving, some for Perm, some for Vereshchagino: "You go out and there's no one there. It's completely silent. A wilderness."

However, not all of Putin's residents are leaving. Many work at the local agricultural enterprise "Zarya Putino," which produces raw milk and raises livestock. Armen Kirakosyan runs Zarya Putino. We meet in his office in the village center. On Sunday, the office is empty except for the director.

The entrepreneur admits that those hearing the company's name for the first time sometimes have to explain that it has nothing to do with the Russian president. Armen's father, Samvel Kirakosyan, rebuilt the former Soviet state farm 25 years ago. Five years ago, he handed over management of Zarya to his son and moved to Sochi.

Armen grew up in Putino, and the village, in his observations, "hasn't changed much." The farm currently employs over 5,5 cows and 224 people—including residents of Vereshchaginsky and other districts of the Perm Krai. Salaries range from 20 to 90 rubles: on job boards, Zarya Putino offers calf-rearing positions starting at 35 rubles per month, while experienced agronomists with a university degree earn 25 rubles per month. Veterinarians, truck drivers, tractor operators, and artificial insemination operators earn the highest salaries.

The equipment used in the production is mostly imported, so after February 24, 2022, the state farm, according to Kirakosyan, "had some concerns" about components, but specialists were able to "establish contacts with Chinese manufacturers." When asked how many of the farm's employees went to fight, Kirakosyan declined to give an exact number, but said that they were mostly volunteers and that it was "their decision."

The entrepreneur says some villagers are trying to make rural life more interesting. For example, Andrey Chertkov, a Putin supporter who now lives in Perm, organized ice car races on a local pond in December 2023, which attracted 30 athletes from several regions. Zarya Putino sponsored the competition. Armen Kirakosyan says he's never seen "so many people gathered at one event, all of whom were actively cheering." According to the Vereshchaginsky Urban District administration, the track races were attended by nearly two thousand spectators—in addition to locals, residents from other districts of the Perm Krai also attended.

At Zarya Putino, they also want to help create interesting leisure activities in the village, and are considering "developing agritourism" by offering tours of dairy farms.

Kirakosyan remembers the village's surge in popularity among journalists. He says that when Putin first came to power, correspondents from various countries tried to trace his roots there. "A lot of dirt was spilled back then," Armen Kirakosyan says, reflecting on the general dissatisfaction of Putin's followers with those publications. "The only correspondent who came was from France—he wrote it straight out. He sent us a newspaper. Ten years later, he came again [and wrote] that the village had actually changed for the better."

However, if we are to believe the reprint of that very article, the French journalist linked the improvement in life in Putin to the activities of the director of the agricultural enterprise, Samvel Kirakosyan, and not to the general policy of the Russian authorities.

March 17, the last day of the presidential elections in Putin, is the busiest. But not because of the voting, but because of Maslenitsa. The public festivities are scheduled for 1 p.m., so from early morning, club workers have been decorating the outdoor stage with bright banners and hand-painted posters, and sticking Maslenitsa suns on wooden poles into the snowdrifts.

The polling station inside the club—unlike those in the capitals and several other Russian cities where lines have formed "against Putin"—is empty at midday on Sunday. A young man who dropped off his ballot shortly after midday explains, perplexed, that he came to vote at this time because "I couldn't do it earlier."

Maria Vasilievna, who was ironing chiffon for the stage on Friday, draped a bright scarf with flowers over her shoulders—she will be singing with Putin's pensioners' ensemble.

The ensemble's leader, Taisiya Noskova, who also chairs the local veterans' council, also donned a colorful, patterned scarf. She says their group sings at every election, and in the summer, they tour neighboring villages and participate in festivals. She says they sing "to keep old age from catching up with them."

The ensemble has a song about the village and Russia—they wrote it themselves. They sang it six years ago during the presidential elections, and they'll sing it again today, albeit with a different tone. "You see what life is like now. We sing and weep," the pensioner says sadly.

Reflecting on Russia's future, Taisiya Nikolaevna sighs: "I hope there's no war." Six years ago, some villagers used this phrase to explain why they voted for Vladimir Putin. When asked how she feels now, she replies: "It's scary, of course, scary. I wish there was peace, peace. And I feel so sorry for these guys, so sorry. Just recently, they buried him at the club. The guy was twenty years old. I wish he'd lived a little longer."

Taisiya Nikolaevna's son is 50 years old and is also fighting in Ukraine as a volunteer. He comes back periodically on vacation. The pensioner says that one missing veteran from Putino has been missing for a long time. She won't reveal his last name. She advises the missing man's family "not to mourn prematurely."

The ensemble members call Taisiya Nikolaevna to rehearsal—there's half an hour left before they go on stage.

Meanwhile, holiday guests are gathering in front of the club: children, teenagers, and young families—around 30 people in total. Some have come from Perm and Vereshchagino to visit their parents for the weekend. There are still no signs of anyone willing to vote: the hall and the small area near the club entrance are occupied by the farewell to winter, as final preparations for the holiday are underway.

The crowd grows, and we see Nadezhda from the barracks on Komsomolskaya Street—as planned, she came with her two grandchildren. She managed to vote, but she won't say for whom either.

The host begins to loudly invite the "honest people" to Maslenitsa. The younger children are uninterested in the scene—they're sliding down a snowdrift formed after the snow clearing. Meanwhile, a group of pensioners performs that same song about their native village, where "the air is sweeter than honey," and Russia, where "blue eyes, fair hair."

The Maslenitsa games are beginning. Children and adults compete in nail-hammering, fight with bath brooms, throw felt boots, and run races with wooden stumps attached to their feet. A meter-tall effigy of Maslenitsa, wearing a brightly colored scarf, stands alone in the center of the club's courtyard: this year, it was decided not to burn it "for fire safety reasons."

When the festive program is over, the ensemble members go into the club to warm up. Over pancakes and tea, they discuss the elections. For Taisiya Nikolaevna, election day is always a celebration. She went to the polling station on the first day, posted a photo on social media, and left a "message to the president." Among the wishes for cheap mortgages for young people and a peaceful retirement for the elderly, she also asked for "an end to the SVO."

The pensioner is upset that not all Putin supporters are going to vote: this, she says in a stern voice, is a civic duty, and it must be fulfilled.

“We’ll elect a president and end the war,” Taisiya Nikolaevna concludes, pushing a plate of pancakes towards us.

Two members of the precinct election commission enter the pensioners' room to take a break and have some tea. They say that by lunchtime on March 17, about 70% of voters in Putino had cast their ballots. The precinct election commission members still have to travel to nearby villages to conduct home voting. The only thing the precinct election commission members dislike about home voting is that residents "transfer their negativity onto them." "But they vote, and that's good," one of the commission members concludes with a sigh.

According to the regional election commission, 91% of Putino residents voted for Vladimir Putin in the 2024 elections, compared to the Russian average of 87%. The official turnout in the village was 96%. Almost half of the voters, or more than 500 people, according to the election commission, cast their ballots at home.

Author: Victoria Samarina