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.
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