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KYIV—In Ukraine today, no topic is more barbed than that of compulsory military service. Few want to talk about conscription publicly; men within service age range, 25 to 60 years old, are particularly reticent. “It’s just too sensitive. I hope you understand me,” one man told me, referring to the many families in his circle of friends whose sons, brothers, and fathers are on the front or have perished there. Some fear that speaking out might prompt a letter from the Defense Ministry announcing their call-up. Or worse, they might be plucked randomly by recruitment officers on the streets and, should their documentation prove their eligibility for service, sent straight to boot camp.
In early October, Marco, a Ukrainian energy analyst who requested anonymity, said his brother-in-law, an IT specialist, had been stopped by traffic cops on a road near Kyiv. But the officers weren’t alone. Defense Ministry personnel assigned to the recruitment division accompanied them. They demanded to see the 30-year-old’s “military ticket,” a passport of sorts issued by the ministry that contains all data relevant to military service, such as age, professional status, and health condition. All Ukrainian men between 18 and 60 are required to have one. The brother-in-law’s bona fides lacked documentation of an annual physical exam, and thus he was brought to a local medical clinic, given a two-hour physical examination, and the next day sent to a training grounds outside Kyiv.
KYIV—In Ukraine today, no topic is more barbed than that of compulsory military service. Few want to talk about conscription publicly; men within service age range, 25 to 60 years old, are particularly reticent. “It’s just too sensitive. I hope you understand me,” one man told me, referring to the many families in his circle of friends whose sons, brothers, and fathers are on the front or have perished there. Some fear that speaking out might prompt a letter from the Defense Ministry announcing their call-up. Or worse, they might be plucked randomly by recruitment officers on the streets and, should their documentation prove their eligibility for service, sent straight to boot camp.
In early October, Marco, a Ukrainian energy analyst who requested anonymity, said his brother-in-law, an IT specialist, had been stopped by traffic cops on a road near Kyiv. But the officers weren’t alone. Defense Ministry personnel assigned to the recruitment division accompanied them. They demanded to see the 30-year-old’s “military ticket,” a passport of sorts issued by the ministry that contains all data relevant to military service, such as age, professional status, and health condition. All Ukrainian men between 18 and 60 are required to have one. The brother-in-law’s bona fides lacked documentation of an annual physical exam, and thus he was brought to a local medical clinic, given a two-hour physical examination, and the next day sent to a training grounds outside Kyiv.
In our conversation, Marco shook his head in disbelief. He wasn’t the kind of guy the armed forces needed on the front, he told me. Without professionals like him, Ukraine’s economy would grind to a halt.
After nearly three years of relentless assault, Ukrainians have grown weary of the daily deprivations and larger tragedy of a war they reckoned would end sooner, and yet has no end in sight. Many are unhappy about the call-up—and its intrusive methods—a consternation compounded by a recent tax change that docks incomes with a 5 percent military levy, up from 1.5 percent, for the provision of the armed forces.
“There’s a lot of fear—that’s understandable,” said Ivona Kostyna, the director of the NGO Veteran Hub, which offers and supports services for former soldiers. “You have to take into account that there’s not a person in this country whose life hasn’t been turned upside down by the war.” Kostyna called expanded conscription and the new tax necessary but warned against belittling the sacrifice they entail.
The thinness of Ukrainian soldiers on the long front line in the east and south—and since August in Russia, too—is no secret, and fresh manpower is urgently required. Some infantries have battled relentless Russian offensives from the trenches since the spring of 2022, when the full-scale Russian invasion began—and some longer—without proper leave. Ukraine’s armed forces have no demobilization procedures, which basically makes service a one-way ticket: a condition neither fair to those in the field nor attractive to civilians considering enlistment.
Russia, on the other hand, has a population three and a half times that of Ukraine, and its active-duty military personnel total about 1.5 million, compared with Ukraine’s roughly 900,000 (though estimates vary). And as of October, North Korean troops—currently numbering around 3,000—are lending a hand on the battlefield and adding a new twist to the war. The Ukrainian government says 12,000 are being trained in Russia. Obviously, Russia, too, is struggling to fill its ranks.
Until recently, Ukraine had been more circumspect than its foe about resupplying exhausted and depleted ranks, even though men under 60 have been barred from leaving Ukraine since the war began. The nature of conscription is hotly debated, with some favoring a mandatory service model like Israel’s and others an all-voluntary system as in the United States. In April, Kyiv dropped the mobilization age from 27 to 25—and narrowed exclusions from the draft. Monetary incentives to volunteer were boosted, and a fresh media campaign launched.
Everywhere in Kyiv—on billboards, along streets, in the metro and trains, and also in busy cafes and bars—Defense Ministry placards beckon to young people. “Wide range of positions, according to your experience and preference,” one of the ads reads, featuring an armed soldier in a black face mask. “We guarantee you can select the unit you want to serve in,” it adds, a perk that enables family members to serve together. Another displays a young woman in an army-green T-shirt holding a cat. It announces the post of medical squad commander and a signing bonus of 150,000 Ukrainian hryvnia, or about $3,600.
The Defense Ministry says voluntary enlistment is still high but that it is simply not enough to compete with Russia’s demographic advantage and cold-blooded recruitment tactics.
In downtown Kyiv’s Independence Square, the sprawling pop-up memorial to the war’s fallen gives some idea of the number of Ukrainian soldiers who have already forfeited their lives—a figure that the government, for purposes of morale, does not disclose. Many thousands of hand-sized, blue-and-yellow Ukrainian flags—as well as portraits, candles, wreathes, photos, and other flags—are packed onto the lower slopes of the hillside square. On the flags, a handwritten name is followed by birth and death dates. Above the solemn, breathtaking display soars a 200-foot column topped with a statue of a woman with a rose branch in hand—the symbol of Ukraine’s statehood.
In the months following the 2022 invasion, men and women had flocked to sign up. The lines at enlistment centers looped around city blocks. Private donations poured into the brigades. Today, the existential threat posed to Ukraine is no less imminent—and Ukrainians’ passion to live according to democratic standards is undiminished. And in Kyiv continued public support for the armed forces is ubiquitous, like the hole-in-a-wall café-bar Kharakternyky off of the Maidan, run by exiles of the occupied city of Mariupol who fundraise for a brigade that includes soldiers from their region.
“But it’s a different situation now,” said Andreii, a Kyiv tour guide and philosophy student. At the war’s start, “it was the true believers, those who wanted to be on the front and fight. Now it’s different.” Andreii is 23 years old and thus under draft age. But if he could leave the country, he would. “The cause is righteous, and I know we need soldiers,” he said. “But why should it be me when so many [of my peers] are in the diaspora now and others have the money to pay off officials or doctors?”
Cases of bribery to avoid conscription have plagued recruitment drives as well as degraded public trust in the state and military. This month, new allegations charged 33 officials with paying off medical experts to enable them to fake physical disability and thus evade the draft and leave the country at will. The latest scandal prompted Ukrainian President Volodymyr Zelensky to announce the year-end closure of the medical commissions in charge of examinations.
Ukrainians know well the caveats that enable men—and women involved in health services, who are also draftable—to sidestep conscription: for example, student status, health issues, and employment in critically relevant professions. Ohla, the wife of a front-line officer, told me that she grits her teeth when passing a gym full of strapping young men working out to techno beats. But, she admitted, she doesn’t know those men: they could be under 25 or veterans or even training to prepare for deployment.
“In Kyiv, you can see that Ukraine’s still not working as a war economy,” said Kostyna, referring to the relatively high living standard and swanky nightlife. “This is going to change. Our military needs reinforcements in the field and funds for its operations.” If these contributions don’t come voluntarily—or in the volume necessary—then the state has to mandate it, she said. Kostyna says that average Ukrainians will accept this—as the alternative, Russian victory, is incomparably horrific.
Kostyna said there is plenty more fight in Ukrainians but that poor governance, including corruption and bureaucratic inefficiency, takes a toll on ordinary people. “It’s got to get better,” she said. “The burdens have to be distributed more equally.” There must, for example, be demobilization opportunities for front-line troops and a proper military reserve, she said. Currently, Ukraine’s only reserve is the pool of veterans.
Some observers blame the general pique on a government that has soft-pedaled the true extent of the war’s burdens. Until recently, “the government tried to shield civilians from the reality and gravity of war,” said Adil Abduramanov, a philology student in Kyiv, “and then it couldn’t hold the facade anymore. It was forced to be the bad guy and take unpopular measures. This change of narrative is a whiplash for the average Ukrainian.” It is also inauspicious for the start of a winter that will surely test Ukrainians’ will.