In Soviet times there was a popular anecdote that went like this:

Our sparrow flew to the West.

"What’s the matter, is there no feed where you’re from?" asked

a western sparrow.

"And how – as much as you want! You’ll never find as much grain

as there is scattered on the ground back home."

"Then why didn’t you stay there?"

"Because I wanted to squawk!"

It’s been eight years since Ukraine became independent, and today even your long-suffering, long-silent peasant can now "squawk" about the powers that be and the state of affairs in his country. Yet, unlike for the sparrow, there is no plentiful grain scattered everywhere for him - he survives only by hard work on his own small personal plot of land. The collective farms are falling apart and jobs are scarce. Some of the younger villagers have become farmers, leasing small plots of land, but their toil brings no profit, with exorbitant taxes eating up all the revenues. Village agricultural life was never easy, and now on top of everything else, there are no tools, tractors, seed or stock. There are no established markets for selling your crops, and worse still, fuel has all but disappeared.

In the villages there exists a natural system of barter. On a large scale, sunflower oil from the northern and eastern provinces is exchanged for potatoes which grow well in western Ukraine. On a smaller scale, village women, lacking the basic necessities of life, get up at five in the morning, and carrying two, three large bags, catch overcrowded buses for Lviv or the nearest market town. Each is laden down with whatever they can sell – milk, butter, cheese, cream or eggs. In the springtime it’s lettuce and radishes; in the summer, fruits, berries and vegetables; in the fall, apples, pears, and potatoes. Their goods are of good quality, fresh, ecologically clean, and inexpensive, but the markets are overflowing and they are often forced to carry their trade in unsuitable locations out on the sidewalks. Here they are forced to lower their prices to try and sell their goods as fast as possible, before the police or "militsia" arrive to fine them for selling in unauthorized locations. This is how thousands of villagers survive, how they manage to feed and clothe their families, and raise and educate their kids. Their sad peasant eyes may reflect a lack of hope, but their calloused, overworked hands will not give up.

"So long as it doesn’t get worse!" my grandmother used to say.

"So long as it doesn’t get worse!" my mother used to say.

"So long as it doesn’t get worse!"

In our villages live very good and kind people. The village men, though, have a special status – "Hospodar" or master of the house. Feminism has bypassed the village entirely. If you come to the village unexpectedly and walk through the door of my family home, you are likely to find an empty bottle on the table, a few crumbs, and the master of the house fast asleep. My mother is outside in the yard talking with a neighbour. Seeing the irritation in your face, the neighbour becomes apologist –

For this, his neighbours love him, take care of him, and are generous with their hospitality – in exchange for work, he receives not money, since no one has any, but drink. Alcohol is the most troubling problem for the women of the village. Men are enamoured of it, from the youngest to the oldest. And, of course, the women love their men. When any male friend, neighbour or relative crosses the doorstep, you can be sure there is a flask of intoxicating, momemade moonshine in his pocket. Seeing their smiling faces, the lady of the house is expected to get busy and prepare a nice slab of lard, and slice up some onions and pickles. Soon the table is graced with pickled mushrooms, the skillet is sizzling with eggs frying, and the room is filled with the aroma of freshly baked bread. Everything is homemade.

This is how the village lives, or more accurately, survives. They are used to working the land, working hard from dawn to dusk. Even old age does not succeed in deterring them from work – the defining essence of their existence.

And of course there is barter. Even telephone bills in the village are often settled with potatoes, sugar or preserves.

The youth of the village lives without any special consideration or purpose. At one time, a month would not pass from the return of a young man from his army duty, without a responsible inspector and the head of the village paying him a visit and asking why he had not reported for work assignment. But now, the young are completely ignored. Finding what work they can, more often or not bartered for the natural currency of alcohol, drink becomes their only comfort and distraction. In the cities there are no jobs, and the young men returning from their army service to their parents home, keep working the land with little hope for any kind of future. They work their little plots of land to feed themselves and us city folk.

May God help them! With faith in God, with faith in goodness, with faith that their efforts will eventually be rewarded, thus live our good and kind village people.