Last weekend, a great drama played out in Georgia’s capital, Tbilisi, as voters headed to the polls in an election widely seen as determining the country’s future.

But for the village of Mejvriskhevi, just 50 kilometres northwest of the capital, it might as well have taken place on another planet.

Mejvriskhevi lies along what’s known as the Administrative Boundary Line (ABL) that separates the two sides of one of the Caucasus’ longest-running conflicts: that between Georgia and South Ossetia. As the Soviet Union collapsed in 1991, long-running tensions between ethnic Ossetians (concentrated in the South Ossetia Autonomous Oblast, in the north-centre of Soviet Georgia) and Georgians erupted into war. A ceasefire in 1992 saw the Ossetians retain de facto control of most of the Republic of South Ossetia, their breakaway state that had declared independence.

The area sat in relative calm until 2008, when Russia launched a five-day invasion of the rest of Georgia from the territory. For the past 16 years, Moscow’s troops have occupied South Ossetia, using it as a Russian bridgehead jutting into the heart of Georgia.

Amidst this landscape of unresolved conflict and displaced communities are a patchwork of Georgian villages, where people live largely as they always have – with the exception, of course, of the semi-militarised ABL that cuts through them.

Mejviriskhevi is one such place. Sitting on the southeastern section of the ABL, its 2,300 inhabitants make it the largest Georgian village in the area. It’s also one of the most vulnerable: the unofficial line separating free Georgia from Russian-occupied South Ossetia runs right through it.

“We have no idea where the exact ‘border’ line is supposed to be,” says Spiridoni Gigauri, a 72-old local in Mejvriskhevi. “Look at that house right there,” he says, pointing to a dwelling on a hill a few hundred metres away, seemingly contiguous with the rest of the village. “It is occupied by the Russians,” Gigauri says.

The vagueness of the situation, and of the precise location of the twisting boundary line, leads to regular incidents. While Mejvriskhevi and its surrounding have not been subjected to Russia’s infamous ‘borderization’ policy – in which Russian troops suddenly move forward the barbed wire fence demarcating parts of the ABL, effectively claiming new land overnight – detentions of local villagers are a regular occurrence. The latest came on September 17, when two Mejvriskhevi inhabitants were arrested by Russian soldiers.

While South Ossetia presents itself as independent, the Russian military presence in the area is overwhelming. Russian bases and installations dot the hillside, their intimidating towers visible even from Georgia’s main east-west highway, which passes within a kilometre of the ABL at points. Conversing with local Georgians gives the impression that Moscow’s troops have almost entirely replaced the local South Ossetian militiamen who fought Georgian forces in the early 1990s.

“All the patrols, all the incidents - it’s only ever Russian troops [who are involved],” says Gigauri. “Every now and then they bring two or three Ossetians with them, just to show that they exist, but it’s clear who’s running the show,” he says.

Spiridoni Gigauri: “We have no idea where the exact ‘border’ line is supposed to be.”

Despite all of this, October 26’s election still went ahead here, as it did in the rest of Georgia. As with many places in the countryside, the ruling Georgian Dream (GD) party seems to have dominated.

“I voted for GD,” says Gigauri. “I wasn’t bribed or anything - it was my choice. I felt that they would win anyways, and that they have the best hope for a good future, but it’s still unlikely that we’ll ever get these lands back,” he says, gesturing towards South Ossetia.

Others were more enthusiastic. At an apple orchard just outside Mejvriskhevi, a group of 20 locals were taking a lunch break from the autumn harvest, sharing bread with briny sulguni cheese and spicy red adjika sauce – and, of course, bottles of homemade wine.

“All of us are happy with the results [of the election],” says one woman, as several of her colleagues nod in agreement. “I don’t believe this opposition propaganda about Russia. We are a hospitable people – we love everyone here, whether they are from Europe, Russia or wherever,” she says.

“I like the idea of [Georgia] joining the European Union,” says another man. “Almost everything about it is good, except for this nonsense about gay marriage. We don’t need that here.”

There are few signs of the recent vote here. A handful of GD posters are stickered across road signs and public buildings, including the local police station. They are not accompanied by anything from any of the four main opposition coalitions.

For many others in Mejvriskhevi, it’s clear that whoever rules in Tbilisi is of little concern, given the all-encompassing security issues quite literally on their doorstep.

“Not one politician came here to talk to us [before the election] – not from the government or the opposition,” says Tamara Merabishvili, an elderly villager. “It’s clear that no one cares about us. So why should I care about any of them?”, she says.

Why should we apologise to them?

Merabishvili has two sons, both of whom work in Tbilisi as bus drivers. One of the two was himself detained by Russians a decade ago after inadvertently walking into Russian-controlled territory in the village. He was held in a Russian prison for a month and a half before being released.

“We can hear the Russians shooting almost every night,” Merabishvili says. “I don’t know if they are just trying to scare us or what, but we can hardly sleep because of it,” she says.

Merabishvili’s other son, 30-year old Dato, is presently visiting his mother to help with the autumn harvest. He was incensed at the idea of Georgia apologizing to South Ossetia for the 2008 war, a plan floated by GD leader Bidzina Ivanishvili shortly before the election.

“The idea of Georgia ‘apologising’ [for 2008] is crazy,” Dato says. “We allowed Ossetians to live peacefully on our lands for many years, many centuries. Instead of being thankful, they made war on us. Why should we apologise to them?”, he says.

Despite this, it’s clear that Dato harbors no ill will towards Ossetians as a people – a sentiment echoed by his two neighbours and uncle. All begin to reminisce about their previous friendships with their estranged neighbours.

“I remember before the [2008] war, how we used to drive through Ghromi,” Dato says, describing an ethnic Ossetian village just a few kilometres north of Mejvriskhevi. “The people there were so friendly – they would always stop us on the road and give us their excellent local beer and khabidzgina [an Ossetian cheese-and-potato pie]. I can’t understand how it turned from this into killing each other,” he says.

There are still several ethnic Ossetian families living in Mejvriskhevi, as well as many mixed marriages, Dato says. None of this has been a problem.

“There are some families here that everyone knows are Ossetian,” Dato says. “No one cares, no one makes a scene about this. There are no problems just because of someone’s ethnicity,” he says.

It’s clear that the one thing Dato does dislike isn’t Ossetians but politics.

“I don’t care about any of these bullshit politicians,” Dato says. “The conversations are all the same for many years now, and none of them involve us. I didn’t even vote in the election, because I don’t see a point,” he says.

Asked what he thinks will happen in the country now, Dato succinctly illustrates just how divorced the struggle for power is from his reality.

“It’s harvest season,” Dato says. “I have to go out to the fields, next to the Russians, and gather my crops. That will happen whether it is this government, or a different one.”