The Financial Times reported that Sweden, the Netherlands, Spain, and Poland are jointly urging the European Commission to restart work on using more than €200 billion ($233 billion) in frozen Russian central bank assets to fund Ukraine. Belgium blocked the proposal in December over legal and financial concerns.

The Council says the EU’s €90 billion ($105 billion) loan covers two-thirds of Ukraine’s projected funding needs for 2026 and 2027. In the Financial Times, Swedish Foreign Minister Maria Malmer Stenergard called the loan a “manifestation of the EU’s commitment to support Ukraine,” but said it was “clearly not enough.”

A draft obtained by the Kyiv Independent is dated 27 August and asks EU foreign ministers to hold an initial discussion in Ireland on 1–2 September. Three EU diplomats told the outlet they expected it to be sent the same day.

EU rules already channel profits from frozen assets to Ukraine, primarily to help repay EU and G7 loans. The Commission proposed using cash balances from the Russian holdings for a separate reparations loan, while leaving the assets frozen.

In February, Kaja Kallas acknowledged that EU officials had done no further work on the option since December. Separately, Ukrainians and their supporters rallied across dozens of countries from 22 to 24 August to demand that Europe use the assets.

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Ukrainians rally across dozens of countries to demand Europe use Russia’s frozen billions

Belgium’s objections remain unchanged. The government fears Russian legal retaliation and wider risks to financial markets because most of the assets are held in Belgium. No new proposal has resolved those concerns, and the coalition is asking the Commission for a progress report on possible legal and technical solutions.

CIA Director John Ratcliffe visited Moscow on 25 August, becoming the first known serving CIA chief to travel to the Russian capital since November 2021, The Washington Post reported.

The Kremlin said the unannounced trip involved “contacts between security services” but did not identify whom Ratcliffe met or what they discussed. Dmitry Peskov told Interfax that Ratcliffe did not meet with Russian President Vladimir Putin. The CIA and White House did not publicly explain the mission.

Expert raises possibility of a warning mission

Washington also asked Ukraine not to attack Moscow or St. Petersburg during the visit, Ukrainian sources told Suspilne. Kyiv was told that a senior US delegation was traveling to Russia, although officials were not initially told that Ratcliffe would be part of it.

“It is difficult to speculate because there is essentially no information,” Tartu researcher Vladimir Sazonov, an associate professor who studies Russian state ideology and information warfare, told Euromaidan Press.

Ratcliffe may have carried a warning, as William Burns did in 2021, Sazonov said. It could have concerned a possible new Russian mobilization after September’s State Duma elections or Moscow’s escalating hybrid operations against NATO.

Stalled Ukraine diplomacy and Russia’s relationship with Iran were other possible subjects. None has been confirmed.

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Russo-Ukrainian War. Day 175: Another explosion in Crimea

The last CIA visit came before Russia invaded

A US Air Force C-17 flew from Joint Base Andrews outside Washington to Riga, and then Moscow, according to flight data analyzed by The Washington Post. The aircraft remained at Vnukovo Airport for about eight and a half hours before returning to Latvia. The newspaper also verified footage of a diplomatic motorcade traveling through central Moscow.

Ratcliffe’s visit was the first by a CIA director since Burns traveled to Moscow in November 2021 with evidence that Russia was preparing a major attack on Ukraine.

During that visit, Burns spoke with Putin by telephone from the Kremlin because the Russian president was in Sochi. Russia launched its full-scale invasion less than four months later.

Sazonov also raised the possibility that Ratcliffe discussed Americans detained in Russia. The CIA participated in previous negotiations that freed journalists Evan Gershkovich and Alsu Kurmasheva, and former US Marine Paul Whelan, RFE/RL documented CIA involvement.

“If we do not know the answers, all we can do is ask the relevant questions,” Sazonov added.

Ukraine has dismissed Mykola Hladyshenko as chair of the supervisory board of state-owned Sense Bank after NABU released recordings that it says show the bank was used to launder 150 million hryvnias ($3.3 million) to post bail for a former minister.

The Cabinet’s 21 August decision ended Hladyshenko’s powers and appointed a state representative to the board to help restore a quorum. The Finance Ministry and National Bank of Ukraine (NBU) must now ensure the bank is properly governed and prepare it for sale.

New recordings changed the NBU’s assessment

The NBU’s 20 August decision followed a review opened in May, when recordings linked to the wider Mindich case raised questions about Hladyshenko’s independence. The regulator twice asked Ukraine’s anti-corruption agencies for evidence, but they could not release pretrial investigation materials. Hladyshenko stepped aside while the review continued.

NBU Governor Andrii Pyshnyi told Parliament that new public evidence changed the regulator’s assessment. The material suggested that Hladyshenko’s withdrawal had been merely formal and that he continued to influence the bank.

It also raised questions about the remaining board members’ oversight. That evidence emerged on 19 August as part of Operation “Forest Gump”.

The Mindich tapes are recordings from NABU’s investigation into an alleged $100 million kickback network at state nuclear operator Energoatom. They are named after businessman Tymur Mindich, a former business partner of President Volodymyr Zelenskyy.

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The Mindich tapes: anti-graft recordings expose Zelenskyy associate’s $100M nuclear operator protection racket

The NBU also demanded that Sense Bank suspend Liudmyla Snihur, head of the bank’s financial and currency monitoring department, while it investigates possible interference with the bank’s operating systems. The government initiated suspension proceedings against the chair of the management board, Oleksii Stupak.

According to Ekonomichna Pravda’s account of the NABU materials, investigators allege that the group moved illicit cash through Sense Bank, companies under its control, and private individuals before using the money to post bail for former Energy and Justice Minister Herman Halushchenko, a suspect in the Mindich case.

Snihur allegedly helped create a temporary “window” during which transactions passed without the bank’s usual checks.

Sense Bank was already for sale

Ukraine nationalized Sense Bank, formerly Alfa-Bank Ukraine, in 2023 after sanctions barred its Russian-linked owners from controlling it.

Kyiv was preparing to privatize Sense Bank before the current investigation. The government accelerated sale preparations on 20 August and said the proceeds would fund Ukraine’s defense forces.

The local administration told Suspilne that Chernivtsi Oblast, on Ukraine’s borders with Romania and Moldova, has commissioned three gas-fired cogeneration units totaling 3.9 MW since the beginning of 2026. The units generate electricity and usable heat from the same gas, allowing municipal boiler houses to continue supplying heat when grid power fails.

Ukraine’s Communities Ministry says smaller, decentralized plants are part of the country’s response to repeated Russian attacks on energy infrastructure. Producing power close to where it is consumed helps maintain essential services when larger facilities or transmission lines are damaged.

A strike at one large plant can cut off all services. When generation is divided among boiler houses and utilities, damage to one unit affects only that site, while the others continue operating. Disabling the whole system would require attacks on many separate targets rather than on a single concentrated source.

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According to Vasyl Zazuliak’s Facebook post, one 1.2–1.3 MW unit installed in Chernivtsi fully covered a large boiler house’s electricity demand and could send an additional 400–500 kilowatts into the grid. Zazuliak, then Chernivtsi’s deputy mayor, said the boiler house could therefore continue operating during a blackout.

The latest Suspilne report says the oblast installed two earlier units, each with 1.5 MW of capacity, during 2024–2025. Five more units totaling 10.5 MW are due by the end of 2026, followed by seven totaling 20.4 MW in 2027. Officials withheld their locations because disclosure could harm national security.

Delivery has outrun commissioning

Lviv-based investigative outlet NGL.media surveyed Ukraine’s regional administrations about cogeneration equipment supplied during 2022–2025. Its March investigation found that 59% of 137 identified units had been commissioned by February.

Ukraine’s Communities Ministry told the outlet that USAID had supplied 188 units in total, meaning the 59% figure covers the documented sample rather than the entire program. Projects often stalled because utilities could not finance connections or find specialists to install and service the equipment.

The Cabinet later allocated funding to connect 75 existing units with almost 100 MW of electrical capacity. It ordered communities to complete the connections by 1 October after acknowledging that local authorities lacked sufficient financing and technical expertise.

Russian President Vladimir Putin has made inadequate drone defenses and slow repairs grounds for putting private assets under state management. His 24 August security decree opens a new way to government control over Russia’s economy.

It expands a mechanism Russia has used against foreign-owned businesses since 2023, according to research by Nektorov, Saveliev and Partners (NSP), a Russian law firm that tracks state takeovers.

A business need not lose a facility before the measure can apply. Decree No. 604 allows action over late security measures, safety violations, conduct that endangers normal operations, ineffective counter-drone steps, or delayed restoration.

The text does not specify what counts as “ineffective” drone protection or how quickly a facility must be restored. Covered sectors include energy, industry, communications, utilities, transport, logistics, and life-support infrastructure, plus any sites deemed important to Russia’s security or economic stability.

Foreign controllers are also covered, including foreign organizations and citizens controlling Russian companies. Temporary management can reach all or part of an entity’s Russian property, securities, stakes in Russian companies, and other property rights—the rule is not limited to the damaged or vulnerable facility alone.

“Temporary” control has no deadline

At the same time, the text mentions no automatic return deadline. Putin must instruct the government to begin temporary management and then end it. By default, the Federal Property Management Agency assumes the owner’s powers, except for the right to dispose of the assets. The assets’ costs will be covered from its income.

Interfax published Denis Manturov’s remarks. The first deputy prime minister said the measure would be used selectively for specific security tasks and would leave formal ownership unchanged.

Komsomolskaya Pravda’s Alexander Kots raised a practical problem: Russian law, he wrote, gives businesses no instructions for defending sites against drones or cruise missiles, while barriers require extensive approvals, and private guards cannot easily be given weapons more powerful than shotguns.

The decree followed weeks of Ukrainian attacks on Russian refineries, ports, and warehouses. Ozon reported six disruptions at its facilities after 22 August. The listed retailer’s shares fell as much as 29.09% from Friday’s close on Monday, after five weeks of strikes on privately held Wildberries.

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Why did Ozon fall as much as 29% while Russia’s market lost 2.9%?

Refining hit two-decade lows as strikes forced Russia to import gasoline, while a sixth Ust-Luga attack since March struck the country’s largest Baltic port.

NSP’s nationalization study records more than 100 cases since 2022 and about 6.5 trillion rubles (about $78 billion) in seized assets. It says cases averaged one court hearing and roughly two months.

The NSP temporary-management table lists several foreign-owned businesses placed under “temporary” management from 2023 whose owners still lack access because the arrangements remain indefinite.

Independent businesses selling through M.Video, Russia’s largest electronics chain, waited months to receive customer payments for goods already sold. One seller received it only after filing a formal demand that usually precedes a lawsuit, according to a Vedomosti report.

The sellers are independent businesses using M.Video’s website as their storefront. Under M.Video’s seller contract, a customer buys from the independent business while M.Video collects the payment as the seller’s agent.

The business pays M.Video a commission for listing the product and handling payment and delivery. Until M.Video transfers the proceeds, the seller has already handed over the product but has not received the money from the sale.

Some sellers turn to legal demands

Sellers said payments for goods sold in May and June were still missing in August. One sent M.Video a formal demand on 13 August, giving the company five days to pay and waiving interest. The money arrived on 18 August.

Another business said its demand went unanswered, while its assigned manager stopped responding. It continued shipping orders until mid-July because M.Video had promised to transfer payment for its May sales.

Similar complaints had already surfaced two months earlier. M.Video told ABN that transfers were regular, but rapid growth sometimes required additional checks before funds could be released. The same report cited a business that had waited 24 working days after approving its sales statement; its previous transfer had also arrived late.

Independent sellers are taking a larger role in M.Video’s business. M.Video’s annual results show that products from these sellers accounted for one in every ten orders in 2025. According to its half-year marketplace update, turnover from these businesses quadrupled year-on-year as M.Video expanded beyond electronics. The number of products listed grew nearly sixfold.

The shift follows heavy losses in M.Video’s store-based business. M.Video’s annual results show that it lost about 64 billion rubles (about $770 million)—nearly one-fifth of its annual revenue. The chain closed hundreds of underperforming stores and opened only 11.

Ukrainian strikes on Ozon’s warehouses sent the listed retailer’s shares down 29.09% from Friday’s close at Monday’s low, RBC’s market report said. The Moscow Exchange shifted Ozon’s main trading session to a 30-minute auction, while other trading modes remained open, exchange rules show.

Unlike privately held Wildberries, Ozon’s listing made investors’ response to the disruption immediately visible. The sell-off came before Ozon had calculated the physical damage, which the company said it would assess later in its statement on Chapayevsk.

Since 22 August, Ozon has reported disruption at six facilities: warehouses in Chapayevsk and Orenburg, three facilities in southern Russia, and another warehouse in Krasnodar.

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Ukrainian drones hit warehouse belonging to Russian online retailer Ozon for the first time

Russia was simultaneously attacking Ukraine’s retail and logistics infrastructure. Russian strikes burned two Epicentr hypermarkets in Odesa on Monday morning and caused fires at food warehouses in the city, regional authorities said.

Two days earlier, President Vladimir Putin had said Kyiv should “expect a response targeting your most sensitive economic sectors” in comments published by state journalist Pavel Zarubin.

Ozon falls farther than the market

The MOEX index fell about 2.9% on 24 August. Ozon’s 29.09% decline went far beyond the broader sell-off, indicating that investors were reacting to company-specific risk rather than merely following the Russian market.

That risk had appeared before Ozon’s warehouses were struck. Its shares fell 2.3% on 22 July over concerns that the retailer might become a target. Six days later, VTB Bank fell 2.5%, with analysts attributing part of the decline to uncertainty surrounding its Wildberries partnership.

Wildberries, Ozon, and their smaller rivals sell goods and services worth the equivalent of 8.5% of Russia’s GDP and employ 4 million people—more than 5% of the country’s workforce.

The August attacks turned that risk into operational disruption. Ozon reported fires at its Makhachkala facility and Krasnodar warehouse. In Chapayevsk, the company evacuated more than 500 workers, suspended operations, and redirected shipments. The following day, it evacuated more than 300 workers and closed its Orenburg warehouse.

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Rerouting allowed Ozon to keep orders moving by transferring the workload to facilities that remained open. That is the business risk investors were pricing: a distributed warehouse network can absorb an isolated closure, while repeated attacks progressively reduce the capacity available to absorb the next one.

Each strike leaves fewer warehouses

Ukraine’s campaign against Wildberries shows how warehouse losses accumulate across a retail network. By the end of July, Verstka counted eight affected warehouses covering 860,000 square meters, or 15.4% of the company’s total warehouse space.

By mid-August, ISW counted seven of its ten largest hubs knocked out. The two estimates measure different things, but both show disruption spreading through the network.

A distributed warehouse system can absorb an isolated closure by moving shipments through other hubs. As more sites are lost, fewer alternatives are available to carry out that work. The economic effect, therefore, depends not only on the value of the buildings or goods destroyed, but on how much spare capacity remains after each strike.

Russia’s attacks on Ukraine illustrate the same logistical resilience. Two strikes destroyed warehouse buildings at Aurora’s distribution center, CEO Taras Panasenko said, but the retailer kept its stores open. Ozon similarly redirected shipments after closing warehouses in Russia.

Continued sales do not mean that the strikes had no economic effect. They show that retailers can absorb individual losses by relying on the rest of their networks. Repeated attacks gradually consume that protection, and Ozon’s public listing allowed investors to price the risk before the company could calculate the damage.

Ukrainians and their supporters are holding rallies across dozens of countries from 22 to 24 August, marking 35 years of Ukrainian independence with four demands—including that Europe use frozen Russian assets to fund Ukraine.

The demand has a number behind it

About €210 billion in Russian central bank assets remain immobilized in the EU, most of them held in Belgium. When the European Council met in December 2025 to finance Ukraine through 2026 and 2027, one option was a €140 billion reparations loan based on those assets.

Belgium opposed the proposal. The EU instead approved a €90 billion support loan financed through market borrowing and backed by its budget, leaving the Russian principal immobilized.

That choice leaves European taxpayers covering the loan’s debt-servicing costs and bearing its financial risk while Russia’s assets remain untouched.

If Russia launched this war, why are European citizens paying for it?

The argument has moved before

When Ukrainian communities rally, the answer from some politicians is familiar: legally impossible, governments will never agree.

The #MakeRussiaPay campaign began nearly three years ago as a grassroots initiative and grew into a multi-level advocacy effort on one principle — Russia must pay for the war, not European taxpayers.

At a rally in Brussels co-organized by ICUV, activists unrolled a meter-long receipt itemizing Russian crimes in Ukraine against the frozen Russian central bank assets held worldwide.

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Belgium says Europe’s €140 billion Ukraine plan could bankrupt it. Is that true?

In 2024, G7 leaders agreed to provide about $50 billion in loans to Ukraine, to be repaid with revenues generated by immobilized Russian sovereign assets.

In December 2025, Ukrainian communities rallied in 13 European cities on the eve of the European Council summit, and the reparations loan — dismissed as unrealistic a year earlier — was on the agenda inside the room.

It did not pass. Ukrainian advocacy did not secure direct access to the frozen assets, and Belgium’s objection held. What changed is that the question is no longer whether Russia’s money can be used, but when, and under what legal structure.

What the rallies are asking for

ICUV and the Communities Army are campaigning on four demands this year:

• Make sanctions bite. Twenty-one packages have been adopted; Russia works around them through third countries, shadow fleets, and re-exports. The problem is enforcement, not new declarations.
• Make Russia pay. Direct transfer of frozen Russian assets into a dedicated reconstruction and defense fund.
• Sky shield. Ukraine intercepts drones effectively; Russia has shifted to mass ballistic strikes. A unified air-defense system with partners, countermeasures against guided bombs, and joint production of anti-ballistic systems.
• Justice and accountability. In May 2026, 36 countries and the EU adopted an agreement establishing the Management Committee of the Special Tribunal on the Crime of Aggression. Its entry into force remains pending while some participating states complete internal procedures.

Europe’s governments now face a straightforward choice: keep asking their own taxpayers to carry the cost of a war Moscow started, or use the money of the state that started it. This weekend, Ukrainians abroad will say which one they expect.

Vlada Dumenko

Vlada Dumenko is the Head of Communications at the International Center for Ukrainian Victory and the co-coordinator of the global “Belgium, stop blocking the Reparations Loan” rallies.

Editor's note. The opinions expressed in our Opinion section belong to their authors. Euromaidan Press' editorial team may or may not share them.

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Russia’s summer fuel crisis is back for a second wave, driven by Ukrainian strikes on its oil refineries. This time, it has forced rationing back into both Moscow and St. Petersburg and pushed its largest oil producer to cap gasoline nationwide.

St. Petersburg drivers ran into limits again on 20 August, when several major oil companies restricted sales across the city, Bumaga first reported. Gazprom Neft reinstated a 60-liter-per-receipt cap it had lifted on 4 August and blocked customers from filling more than one canister.

Tatneft capped AI-95 and AI-92 at 50 liters. Many Gazprom Neft stations carried no AI-95 at all, its own station map showed. “Gazprom and Lukoil are dropping dead,” one driver wrote in a local chat.

The limits followed Moscow’s by a day. There, Gazprom Neft cut sales to 40 liters per car, and AI-95 turned up at a single Neftmagistral station, The Moscow Times reported. Rosneft went furthest, capping gasoline at 30 liters per car at every one of its stations across Russia, with no limit on diesel. In June, the same network was still letting drivers take up to 90 liters a fill.

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By mid-August, gas stations in at least 12 regions were again seeing hours-long lines, Meduza’s regional roundup found, citing a count by the outlet 7×7. Lipetsk Oblast brought back odd-even rationing by license plate on 13 August and held fills to 30 liters, a step Governor Igor Artamonov announced; Sochi’s authorities asked residents and tourists to leave their cars at home.

Ukraine has spent months hitting the plants to choke off both the fuel Russia’s army runs on and the oil revenue that funds its war. At least four refineries went offline in August alone.

Officials say supply is holding. Energy Minister Sergei Tsivilyov said on 18 August that fuel remains available, even as he acknowledged the lines. Gasoline averaged 76.04 rubles a liter ($0.89) on 10 August, off a July peak that ran nearly 20% above where the year began.

Wheat buyers from Egypt to Indonesia are paying more after an unspoken wartime arrangement that kept Black Sea grain ships safe collapsed in July. Jordan canceled two wheat tenders and two for barley this month after attracting few offers.

Asian mills face delays on 2 to 2.5 million tons booked for summer delivery—30% to 50% of their import needs—and Indonesia is looking to Australia, Argentina, and Romania to replace about 600,000 tons contracted from the region.

Ukraine’s infrastructure ministry counted 67 attacks on port facilities in July, 35 on civilian vessels in port, and 22 on ships in the maritime corridor. The corresponding figure for all of 2025 was just 14, according to Reuters.

Egypt bought 82% from two countries at war

Egypt sourced over four-fifths of its wheat imports from Russia and Ukraine in the first half of 2026. Its private sector, which imports more than half the country’s wheat, has less grain stored than the government, and “the situation is getting worse by the day,” Alexandria-based trader Hesham Soliman told Reuters.

A vessel heading to load grain for Egypt was attacked approaching Novorossiysk last week. Ukrainian President Volodymyr Zelenskyy said he discussed the threat with Egyptian President Abdel Fattah al-Sisi.

Black Sea wheat trades at about $260 to $280 a ton. Australian wheat is quoted at $315 to $320, including cost and freight to Asia, while the cheapest American wheat is at $305, Reuters data showed.

Chicago wheat futures have climbed more than 17% since early July. For now, stronger local harvests in parts of North Africa have cushioned the impact—Egypt procured record volumes of domestic wheat.

Sunflower first, now wheat

India’s refiners shifted to soybean as 150,000 tons of Ukrainian sunflower cargo sat delayed at Black Sea ports. Now the same is happening in wheat.

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Ukraine’s agriculture ministry has warned that exports may fall nearly by half this season. On the Russian side, Novorossiysk’s largest grain terminals halted after drone strikes in August; few shipowners will now enter either country’s ports, traders told Reuters.

Gasoline was available at 28% of Russian gas stations last week, down from 41% the week before—despite a July government decree that authorized refineries to divert chemicals from industry, including defense production, into fuel, Izvestia reported on 18 August.

The diversion has since triggered motor oil shortages, and, as Kommersant reported, a government commission that met in mid-August to reverse course could not agree on how.

Moscow runs dry

Izvestia correspondents checked 21 stations in Moscow and Moscow Oblast on 17 August: only seven sold AI-92, and five sold AI-98. Gazprom Neft has reimposed purchase limits—40 liters at automated pumps, 60 at staffed ones, RBC reported on 19 August.

Russia has meanwhile received a tanker of Indian gasoline in Murmansk, initially priced at 130,000 rubles ($1,550) per ton—nearly double the 73,000-ruble ($870) domestic exchange price, Izvestia reported.

The chemicals in question—benzene, toluene, xylenes, and phenol—are intermediate refinery products used to make rubbers, plastics, and synthetic materials for industry, including defense. A 2 July decree authorized refineries to blend more of them into gasoline as an octane booster. The ISW assessed on 19 August that the diversion is now draining raw materials from industrial supply chains.

Motor oil shows the damage. Prices have risen 15–20% since January, with some products up 40% and imported brands roughly doubling, Kommersant reported on 19 August.

Dmitry Prokofiev, director of external communications at NEFT Research, told the paper that the lower-grade Euro-2 and Euro-3 fuel now at Russian stations wears engines faster and requires oil changes 1.5 to 2 times more frequently.

Drivers forced onto worse gasoline burn through motor oil faster, but the raw materials that would go into producing it are being diverted to make more gasoline.

From rationing to Rosgvardia

A Russian insider source cited by ISW claimed on 18 August that Rosgvardia—Russia’s heavily militarized internal security force—has deployed to gas stations in Moscow Oblast.

Rosgvardia personnel have reportedly appeared at no fewer than 13 stations across Russia and occupied Crimea over the summer.

A month ago, the governor of Rostov Oblast did something similar, sending Cossacks and volunteers to gas stations to keep order.

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Separately, Russia’s legislative commission approved a bill on 18 August authorizing rescue forces under the Ministry of Emergency Situations to use physical force and firearms when nonviolent means prove insufficient, Vedomosti reported.

United Russia deputy Anatoly Vyborny, one of the bill’s co-authors, framed the measure as a counter-drone tool for evacuations. ISW assessed that it also provides legal cover for suppressing domestic unrest—an assessment the institute linked to involuntary mobilization reportedly under consideration after September’s State Duma elections.

Moldova will now carry Ukraine’s grain to Romania at half price, and President Maia Sandu is defending that choice against Moldovan farmers who stand to lose from it. What Kyiv was still negotiating a week earlier is now a signed tariff cut, and the growers left to absorb it have threatened mass protests.

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Sandu ties Ukraine’s harvest to Moldova’s security

Speaking on Radio Moldova, Sandu argued that helping a wartime neighbor keep its export income is worth the strain at home, NewsMaker reported.

“If Ukraine cannot sell its products and has no money to defend itself, then we will have bigger problems than we do today,” she said. “We cannot turn our backs on Ukrainians who are bombed every night and every day wake up, grow grain, and resist. Through their resistance, they protect our peace too.”

She set Moldova’s role against that of larger backers: “Other states help them much more—with financial aid, with military aid. Here we can help them, with these transit routes.”

Farmers set a 21 August deadline

Moldova has halved rail transit tariffs on Ukrainian goods from 10 August to 31 December 2026, a move that could earn Moldovan Railways several million euros and route around 10% of Ukraine’s expected six million tons of 2026 cargo through its territory, Curs de Guvernare reported.

The cut has unsettled local growers. The association Forța Fermierilor (Farmers’ Force) says they face real risks and wants a seat in overseeing the transit. After meeting Prime Minister Vasile Tofan on 17 August, it warned of “massive” protests unless the government shows progress by 21 August.

Russian strikes push grain onto the rails

Ukraine wants the overland route because Russia’s strikes have made the sea route unreliable. Odesa’s ports handle about 90% of Ukraine’s grain, and an overnight strike on Odesa on 17 August damaged another foreign civilian ship.

In July alone, Russian attacks damaged 28 vessels at Greater Odesa’s ports and killed 21 sailors, monitor Andrii Klymenko reported. The rail line to Romania’s Constanța port is the safer alternative. Even in 2023, when Moldova moved to shield its market from Ukrainian grain, it kept transit open.

India, the world’s biggest edible-oil importer, bought a 10-month high of about 1.5 million tons of vegetable oil in July, up roughly a third from June, as refiners restocked for the August-to-November festival season.

The jump was led by palm oil, up by half, and soybean oil, up about a third, data compiled by UkrAgroConsult. Sunflower oil rose just 4%, the weakest of the three, and India buys most of it from Ukraine and Russia, the world’s leading exporters.

Now the sunflower supply is the one going into reverse. India’s sunflower-oil imports are set to fall in August to their lowest since February, with about 150,000 tons of cargo delayed at Black Sea ports and buyers in the south switching to soybean, four traders told Reuters.

The switch is only partly about the war. Soybean and palm oil are cheap, and India’s own mills are pressing less oil from a smaller domestic harvest, leaving refiners leaning on imports, Rajesh Patel told OFI. The GGN Research partner expects soybean oil imports to top 500,000 tons a month into the autumn.

Russia’s strikes close Ukraine’s window

Ukraine is in no position to capture that demand. Russian strikes on Chornomorsk in mid-July forced Kernel, its largest exporter, to halt its terminals there, and the country’s farmers’ union reckons the summer attacks have cost a third of its capacity to ship grain by sea.

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Vegetable oil and meal earn more than 15% of Ukraine’s foreign currency, among its largest sources of the hard cash that funds the war, the industry association Ukroliyaprom has said.

The squeeze runs through geography Ukraine cannot change: almost all its farm exports leave by sea, through a handful of Odesa ports now under regular fire, with no land route at anything near the scale.

Kyiv now expects to export barely half the harvest it had planned to sell abroad this season, and is arranging emergency loans so farmers can plant the next crop. Since the start of August, grain leaving by rail has dropped by more than three-quarters year-on-year, according to Ukrzaliznytsia data.

Sberbank has reported another jump in profit, on course to pay a dividend even bigger than the record one it handed shareholders earlier this summer. Shareholders in the European Union, the United States, and every other country Moscow calls “unfriendly” will not see a ruble of it.

The bank earned more than 1 trillion rubles ($12 billion) in the first half of 2026 alone, up nearly a fifth on the year, a gain in an economy the Central Bank of Russia itself describes as only moderate after a downturn at the start of the year.

Full-year profit hit a third straight record in 2025. Sberbank pays out half its profit, and the dividend it set for 2025 was already the biggest it had ever paid.

For a shareholder in New York or Frankfurt, none of it is money he can spend. About a quarter of the 2024 payout was set aside in restricted “type-C” accounts for holders from “unfriendly” countries, and nothing has changed since: the dividend is credited to him and then locked.

The Russian state, which owns just over half of Sberbank, faces no such block. It collects roughly half of every payout, while its budget deficit runs past 6 trillion rubles ($71 billion) in five months.

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The market moves the other way

The records are landing on a market that has barely moved in four years. The MOEX index, the main gauge of the Moscow Exchange, had fallen 17 straight weeks by mid-July, its longest losing streak since 1997, back near where it stood the week Russia launched its full-scale invasion in February 2022; anyone who bought Russian shares at the start of the war has made almost nothing since.

Sberbank yields more than 10% on paper, but the stock has fallen about 14% over the past year, so the record dividend does not even cover the price drop, and the foreign holder takes that loss without the payout that might soften it.

Moscow keeps tightening the lock

Russia built the type-C system in 2022 as a countermeasure to Western sanctions that froze its reserves abroad, and officials say the money stays until those reserves are freed.

Within that system, dividends owed to “unfriendly” foreigners are deposited into blocked ruble accounts that they can spend only on Russian taxes, government bonds, and fees.

In June 2026, the block reached ordinary bank deposits after a few words were added to the founding decree: “bank deposits (deposits).” Repayments and interest above 10 million rubles (about $120,000) a month now go the same way.

One court opens a crack

In a ruling dated 14 April 2025, the Supreme Court held that a bank cannot refuse to swap an investor’s frozen depositary receipts—certificates that stand in for shares held abroad—for the actual Russian shares, merely because those securities sit in a blocked type-C account.

A Moscow court then sided with the investor, Vladimir Pelevin, and fined Raiffeisenbank for the delay. The ruling allows a holder to swap receipts for shares, but it does not affect the dividends those shares pay, which still land in type-C.

A compensation scheme, based on a March 2024 decree, pays out only when no “unfriendly” foreigner is anywhere in the ownership chain.

A draft law before Russian lawmakers would allow the state to seize the balances in type-C accounts outright. The decree that created them, in 2022, is titled “On the temporary procedure.”

Ukraine’s Zaporizhstal plant plans to shift much of its output to lower-value pig iron to keep exporting under the European Union’s new steel quotas. The move would idle up to half the plant’s capacity, its parent company, Metinvest, says.

The EU says the quotas shield its own producers from a global steel surplus. For Ukraine, whose steel entered duty-free after Brussels lifted tariffs after the 2022 invasion, they land on an industry already hit repeatedly by Russian strikes and cut off from the sea. The tariff-free quota fell by half on 1 July, with a 50% duty on anything above it.

Ukraine’s new allowance runs to roughly 1 million metric tons, about 60% below its 2025 shipments to the bloc, the Kyiv consultancy GMK Center calculates.

Steel makes up about 15% of Ukraine’s exports, and the EU buys close to four-fifths of it. The country’s Federation of Employers estimates the curbs could cost $1.2 billion in foreign earnings and cut GDP by 0.6%.

Falling back on pig iron

Pig iron, a semi-finished product, falls outside the quota, so lifting its share keeps the furnaces earning. But the switch would force the plant to reassign the workers behind those idled lines, Oleksandr Myronenko told Reuters. “Instead of support from the European Union, we face restrictions,” said the Metinvest chief operating officer.

Ukrainian mills cannot easily sell elsewhere: they are less efficient than cheaper Turkish and Chinese suppliers and are undercut in Europe’s own market, Myronenko said.

With the Black Sea route closed, importing coking coal through other European ports now runs $30 to $40 more a metric ton. Rail freight rose 30% this month, and an EU carbon charge has been applied to steel imports since 1 January.

A strike, and a plan in doubt

A Russian ballistic missile killed seven Zaporizhstal workers and shut the plant on 11 August.

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The fate of Metinvest’s $8 billion, 15-year plan to convert to cleaner “green steel” is unclear; Myronenko called the modernization unrealistic in wartime. Zaporizhstal is the largest employer in the Zaporizhzhia region and, with the rest of Metinvest, is majority-owned by Rinat Akhmetov, Ukraine’s richest man.

On the plant floor, senior foreman Artem Kalinevych said: “As of today it’s not clear what comes next.”

During President Volodymyr Zelenskyy’s recent visit to Serbia, he was asked whether Belgrade could continue to count on Ukraine’s position on Kosova. Zelenskyy reaffirmed that position, saying that Ukraine respects Serbia’s territorial integrity and international law and that its stance on Kosova’s “unilateral declaration of independence” remains unchanged.

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For many Kosovars, who have stood firmly with Ukraine since Russia’s full-scale invasion, this is difficult to understand. There is particular pain in hearing President Zelenskyy appear to dismiss what Kosovars endured—when it is precisely that memory of war, displacement, and atrocities that made Kosova one of Ukraine’s most instinctive supporters.

The danger of “unilateral”

There is a big problem with the way Kosova is being discussed by President Zelenskyy. Describing its independence simply as a “unilateral declaration” removes everything that matters about how Kosova actually became independent.

It also plays directly into an argument Vladimir Putin has been making for years: if the West accepted Kosova, why should it reject what Russia has done in Crimea, Donetsk, or Luhansk?

Ukraine should be dismantling that argument, not inadvertently reinforcing it. Kosova’s declaration was unilateral in one narrow sense: Serbia did not consent. But Ukrainians should understand the problem with treating the aggressor’s consent as the decisive test.

Imagine telling a community in Ukraine devastated by Russian forces that Moscow must retain a permanent veto over the political settlement that determines its future.

Kosova’s path to independence

Kosova did not simply decide one day in 2008 to break away from Serbia. The declaration came at the end of a process that had lasted years. Kosova’s path to statehood came through the violent dissolution of Yugoslavia, a federation that ultimately fragmented into seven independent states, and after years of systematic repression of Kosova’s overwhelmingly Albanian population. The culmination was the 1998–99 Kosova war.

Serbian and Yugoslav forces conducted a campaign of violence and forced displacement against Kosovar Albanians. Nearly 800,000 people were expelled from Kosova in a matter of months because of a violent ethnic cleansing campaign of the Serbian army against Kosovars.

Hundreds of thousands more were internally displaced. Thousands of civilians were killed, cities and villages burned, homes destroyed, and women subjected to sexual violence.

When the war ended in 1999, Kosova did not declare independence. Nor did Albania invade Kosova and annex it. Instead, Kosova was placed under UN Security Council Resolution 1244. For almost nine years, its institutions developed under international administration while its final status remained unresolved.

And then there were negotiations. UN Secretary-General Kofi Annan appointed former Finnish President Martti Ahtisaari to lead talks between Belgrade and Pristina over Kosova’s final status. After those negotiations failed to produce an agreement, Ahtisaari concluded that returning Kosova to Serbian rule was no longer a viable option and recommended internationally supervised independence.

This matters because Kosova’s declaration in February 2008 did not reject that international process. It embraced it. The declaration committed Kosova to implementing the Ahtisaari settlement and invited continued international involvement, including an EU rule-of-law mission and NATO’s security presence.

Call the final declaration unilateral if you wish. The process that produced it was anything but.

What the ICJ found

Even after independence, the issue was subjected to further international scrutiny. At Serbia’s initiative, the UN General Assembly asked the International Court of Justice to examine the declaration. In 2010, the court concluded that Kosova’s declaration “did not violate international law.” It also found that it did not violate UN Security Council Resolution 1244.

None of this means Kosova’s path to independence was simple or uncontested. Clearly, it was not. But reducing this history to the word “unilateral” creates precisely the opening Russia needs to manufacture a parallel with Ukraine.

Crimea breaks the comparison

Putin has used Kosova for years to claim that the West created a precedent Russia merely followed: Kosova separated from Serbia without Belgrade’s consent, so why should Crimea be different? Because that is clearly where the similarity ends.

Crimea, Donetsk, and Luhansk were annexed following a Russian invasion. Moscow occupied Ukrainian territory, installed or backed proxy authorities, staged referendums under military occupation, and ultimately claimed Ukrainian land as its own.

Kosova emerged from an international process designed to resolve a conflict; Russia manufactured “independence” as an instrument of conquest. Ukraine should insist on that distinction every time Moscow invokes Kosova.

Ukraine understandably approaches Kosova cautiously. A country fighting for its territorial integrity is wary of anything that might appear to weaken that principle. But acknowledging the exceptional circumstances of Kosova does not weaken Ukraine’s argument. Treating Kosova and Crimea as comparable cases does.

Russia wants Kosova to be its precedent. Ukraine does not have to accept the premise. Ukraine, in fact, has a particular interest in explaining the difference, because Ukrainians know better than almost anyone what Russian-manufactured "self-determination” actually looks like. That is not Kosova’s story.

Kosova chose Ukraine first

There is also an irony here that is difficult for Kosovars to ignore. Kosova has stood with Ukraine since the beginning of Russia’s full-scale invasion. It imposed sanctions against Russia and Belarus, provided assistance to Ukraine, and offered refuge to Ukrainian journalists.

It did all of this without being recognized by Kyiv—Kosovars did not need recognition to know which side they were on.

Ukraine’s experience resonates deeply in Kosova. We know what it means to live through war and displacement. We also know what it means when a larger neighbor invokes history to argue that it has the right to determine your future.

That does not make the two cases identical—but it should make Ukrainians skeptical when Russia tries to turn Kosova into a justification for its own imperial project.

Kosovars did not expect President Zelenskyy to arrive in Belgrade and announce that Ukraine had suddenly changed its position on Kosova. But it is reasonable to expect Kyiv to revisit its approach to Kosova and to recognize the process by which Kosova came to be, a process that Ukraine’s closest allies today understood, supported, and ultimately recognized.

That requires abandoning a framing that reduces Kosova’s history to a “unilateral declaration” and inadvertently gives credibility to the parallel Russia has spent years trying to construct. For Kosovars, the hope is that a more honest understanding of that history will eventually lead Ukraine to reconsider recognition, too.

Not as a reward for Kosova’s support for Ukraine, but as the natural outcome of seeing Kosova on its own terms rather than through the precedent Moscow wants it to be.

Putin has spent years trying to make Kosova his precedent. Ukraine should take that argument away from him. Doing so would bring Kyiv closer to the position of the allies standing beside it today—and perhaps, in time, recognition would follow.

Nezir Sinani

Nezir Sinani is executive director of the B4Ukraine Coalition, an alliance of more than 100 civil society organizations pressing companies and financial institutions to stop enabling Russia’s war against Ukraine. A longtime Kosovar activist, his work is rooted in Kosova’s own experience of war and displacement.

Editor's note. The opinions expressed in our Opinion section belong to their authors. Euromaidan Press' editorial team may or may not share them.

Submit an opinion to Euromaidan Press

Since mid-July, Ukrainian drones have burned their way through the warehouses of Wildberries, Russia’s answer to Amazon, and how much of it is gone has become a question with too many answers.

Estimates in circulation range from a fifth of the company’s network to well over half, and they clash because each counts something different.

Only by sorting out what each figure measures can you see what the campaign has actually done—and what it has done is heavier, where it counts, than the modest numbers suggest.

Ukraine has concentrated its drones on a couple of dozen hubs that move most of the goods, while the hundreds of small depots that pad the total remain mostly untouched.

Wildberries is no marginal target. Nearly half of everything Russians buy online runs through it, a marketplace as woven into daily life there as Amazon is in the West. And Kyiv is not burning it for the sneakers.

Estonian military intelligence reports that Wildberries, though not a military firm, supplies the Russian armed forces with kit bought straight off the platform—body armor and drone parts—a case Ukraine makes too. Wildberries denies it.

Yet once the strikes began, the company pulled its “SVO” tag, the label that had gathered those goods in one place, while the goods stayed on sale under other categories; it also barred warehouse workers from carrying camera phones.

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Count the hubs, and the damage jumps

The clash comes down to the word “network.” Most of Wildberries’ floor space is scattered across small sorting points that would hardly be missed if one burned. Set the damage against all of it, and the loss—about a fifth—looks minor.

But the parcels move through these two dozen hubs that hold more than half the company’s space, and those are the ones Ukraine has hit: more than a third are damaged, and by another count, well over half are out of action. It is the same campaign counted in two ways, and only the second shows its aim.

The gap between a building’s size and its damage is easy to miss, and the biggest hub shows how. Koledino, outside Moscow, covers more than 200,000 square meters, and that number keeps getting logged as a loss.

It shouldn’t be. When a drone came down there on 28 July, the fire took a neighboring warehouse—a separate operator that stocks shelves for chains like Lenta and Auchan—while the Wildberries hub kept working.

Damage reaches beyond the warehouses

The Wildberries strikes are one arm of a declared campaign. On 25 June, Zelenskyy announced a 40-day operation to pressure Russia to end the war.

The warehouse strikes began on 18 July near Moscow and have since spread across a dozen regions, reaching as far as Yekaterinburg in the Urals.

The cost runs beyond floor space. At least eight people have been killed in the strikes so far—warehouse staff and residents caught near the hubs when the drones came down. And the pressure is pushing the company outward: Wildberries is scouting for storage in Kazakhstan, hunting warehouse space beyond the reach of Ukrainian drones.

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The fires have become a line in Russia’s budget. The Kremlin is weighing state loans to keep Wildberries upright—at a point when the federal deficit had, halfway through 2026, already outrun the shortfall the Treasury set aside for the entire year.

Oil and gas revenue, the Kremlin’s main source of war funding, keeps falling short. Russia appears unwilling to let a company this central fail. Paying to save it, hub by burned hub, is the bill Ukraine is now handing Moscow.

Moldova has overtaken Poland and Germany to become the largest foreign buyer of Ukrainian dairy products in the first seven months of 2026. It is not the win it sounds like.

A country of some 2.5 million people now buys more Ukrainian dairy than any EU member, as falling European prices make EU sales less attractive and cheap imports capture a growing share of Ukraine’s home market.

Why the EU sales stopped paying

Over that period, the Association of Milk Producers reports, dairy exports shrank by almost a fifth in value against last year, while imports rose by more than a third. Ukraine now buys about as much dairy from abroad as it sells—unusual for a country used to exporting it.

What pushed producers toward a small neighbor rather than the EU was price: European wholesale prices for butter and milk powder fell throughout the summer, until selling into the EU stopped paying. The association expects that to reverse only if prices climb again in the autumn.

The pull shows up most in butter, where Moldova is now the largest butter buyer, taking more than four of every ten kilograms Ukraine exports, even as the total shrinks.

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Cheaper cheese from Poland and other EU states now feeds more than half of Ukraine’s cheese market, up from under 40 percent at the start of 2025, and Ukrainian cheesemakers have cut production rather than compete.

According to the association, a large share is declared as humanitarian aid, allowing it to enter without being tested, without Ukrainian labels, and free of duties and VAT. The association estimates that this costs the budget at least 730 million hryvnias ($16 million) a year.

Moldova subsidizes its own dairy farmers for every liter of milk they sell, yet it now buys more Ukrainian dairy products than any other country.

Russia’s war budget got a brief respite this spring, when the Iran war pushed oil prices up. By July, it was gone. A single month swung from a rare surplus to an $8.8 billion deficit, leaving the seven-month shortfall already bigger than the entire deficit Russia ran last year, with five months still to run.

As oil money drains away, the Kremlin is covering the gap by taxing ordinary Russians harder and eyeing their savings.

Oil-and-gas income, long the war’s financial engine, fell by about a sixth from a year earlier to 4.6 trillion rubles ($56 billion), Finance Ministry figures show. Spending outpaced revenue, with state procurement up by nearly two-fifths.

The hole was plugged by value-added tax, whose receipts jumped by a quarter after Moscow raised the rate to 22% at the start of the year—a tax levied on ordinary Russians’ spending, not on oil prices or economic growth.

One month of relief, then the gap reopened

The reprieve proved brief. July’s deficit followed June’s surplus even though spring’s higher oil prices should have cushioned the books, Bloomberg calculations showed.

Much of the windfall never reached the budget: it went to subsidizing oil firms whose refineries Ukrainian drones keep hitting, Gaidar Institute economist Ilya Sokolov wrote in a July monitoring paper.

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With the economy barely growing in the first half, a second-half recession could knock out another chunk of tax revenue just as the shortfall widens. Yaroslav Kabakov of the Finam brokerage expects the full-year deficit to approach double last year’s by year-end. Even as revenue shrinks, the military reportedly wants roughly 40% more than planned.

Borrowing, the other fallback, is jamming too. Russia suspended government bond auctions in July after investors balked and it could no longer raise money cheaply at home, even as Finance Minister Anton Siluanov vowed to shield defense and social spending.

Moscow shifts the burden to households

The burden is shifting onto households. The VAT rise alone will raise about $13 billion a year—barely a month of military spending—yet, unlike seizures aimed at billionaires, it reaches nearly every Russian, columnist Agathe Demarais wrote in Foreign Policy.

A draft law would allow the state to move around $40 billion from private pension accounts, and Communist leader Gennady Zyuganov has urged Vladimir Putin to tap the savings Russians hold in banks. Moscow will not run out of cash soon, Demarais argued, but it is “running out of politically affordable ways to raise it.”

Ordinary Russians are already moving their money. Through the first half of 2026, they withdrew cash from the banking system at the fastest pace since the pandemic, and the Central Bank has begun allowing banks to flag and freeze “suspicious” withdrawals, Euromaidan Press reported.

Ukraine’s sustained drone strikes on Russian refineries have reversed the country’s position as a net fuel exporter. Moscow now imports gasoline from as far as India and Morocco while rushing crude oil through the Arctic to reach Asian buyers it can no longer supply with finished fuel. The flows are scaling up—and running on the same sanctioned, EU-listed tankers.

The reversal is tightening global fuel markets. Russia runs the world’s third-largest refining industry, and the combined disruptions have acted to squeeze supply worldwide, with Moscow banning exports of both gasoline and diesel to keep its own pumps supplied.

Russian refining falls to its lowest since 2002

Ukrainian drone strikes have driven Russian crude processing to 3.6 million barrels a day in July—its lowest level since 2002 and roughly a third below the seasonal norm, according to EA Analytics data cited by Bloomberg.

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Ukraine hit at least 24 of Russia’s 34 largest refineries in some 50 strikes, with five more struck last week and at least two this week. With refining at a 24-year low, Russia is exporting crude through the Arctic while importing refined fuel from India.

Fuel shortages and rationing now affect about 50 million people—a third of Russia’s population. Moscow is subsidizing both the damaged refineries and the imported fuel replacing their output.

Sanctioned tankers take crude toward the North Pole

Seven tankers carrying about six million barrels of crude were heading to Asia through the Northern Sea Route as of 11 August. That volume already amounts to nearly half the approximately 13 million barrels the route carried during the entire 2025 season.

The route cuts two weeks off the voyage to China compared with the Suez Canal, and ice conditions are relatively mild this year, one trader told Reuters.

But speed is only part of the surge. Tankers on the Arctic route bypass European waters, where enforcement has led to inspections and detentions of sanctioned vessels, and Ukraine’s strikes on Black Sea shipping and the Iran–US standoff at Hormuz have narrowed the alternatives.

Vessel-tracking data show the convoy following a route north of the Severnaya Zemlya archipelago rather than through the traditional and more southern Vilkitsky Strait—putting sanctioned oil tankers within 500 nautical miles of the North Pole. Maritime experts said commercial traffic at this scale has never operated that far north.

Russian crude returns home as Indian gasoline

In the opposite direction, gasoline refined from Russian crude at Nayara Energy’s Vadinar refinery in western India is flowing back to Russia through a chain of ship-to-ship handoffs at Egypt’s Damietta Port. At least three cargoes have cycled through the hub since June. The first reached Russia on 5 August.

Bloomberg’s tracking data show the tanker Cyclone loaded 42,000 tons of gasoline at Vadinar on 18 June, transferred the cargo to the Oman-flagged Garnet off Damietta on 6 July, and the Garnet reached Russia in early August. Two more tankers, Varg and Photon, followed the same route in July, with Photon’s cargo handed to the Russian-flagged Talisman on 28–29 July.

All these vessels are under EU sanctions. Garnet and Talisman are also under US sanctions.

Nayara’s refinery, which processes 400,000 barrels a day, is 49% owned by Rosneft. EU sanctions in July 2025 drove away its non-Russian crude suppliers, so the plant switched to processing only Russian oil and now buys and sells through traders—which is how its gasoline reaches Russia without a direct India-to-Russia sale, as Euromaidan Press reported.

The expected September launch of Rosneft’s Vostok Oil project could push more crude through the Northern Sea Route, traders told Reuters. NSR crude shipments fell 4% in 2025. This year’s opening weeks have already matched half the full-season total.

A Ukrainian drone strike shut the plant that produces 40% of Russia’s liquefied petroleum gas on 10 August, and the country’s fuel crisis snapped back across at least 16 regions within days.

The shutdown of the Sibur ZapSibNefteKhim complex in Tobolsk, western Siberia, removes about six million metric tons of annual LPG capacity from a fuel system that was already under strain.

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Gasoline restrictions had begun easing across Russia at the end of July, when Ukrainian drones temporarily shifted to other targets. When the strikes resumed in early August, fuel rationing returned immediately, the independent Russian outlet 7×7 reported.

Three industry sources told Reuters on Tuesday that the complex stopped operations indefinitely “while the extent of the damage and its consequences are being assessed.”

No LPG volumes were offered from the Tobolsk delivery point on Russia’s commodity exchange—a point that earlier this year handled about 4,000 metric tons of propane-butane mix per day. Sibur declined to comment.

A strike on one unit stopped the entire plant

Tyumen Oblast Governor Aleksandr Moor confirmed a fire at an industrial site following a drone attack but did not identify the facility.

Ukraine’s Special Operations Forces Deep Strike units, working with the Russian insurgent movement Chornaya Iskra (Black Spark), claimed the strike. The plant sits more than 2,200 kilometers from the front line.

Militarnyi’s OSINT analysis identified the specific target as the complex’s central gas fractionation unit—the plant’s entry point, where raw hydrocarbons are separated into usable products before anything else in the production chain can run. About half of ZapSibNefteKhim’s output feeds Sibur’s own petrochemical complex in Tobolsk; the rest goes to market.

Sibur held contracts to supply feedstock to defense-industry enterprises, including the Kamenskiy Kombinat, which produces solid rocket fuel and motors for the Grad, Smerch, and Uragan rocket systems.

Sibur also supplied the Perm Gunpowder Plant, which makes charges for multiple-launch rocket systems, air-defense complexes, and cruise missile boosters, Militarnyi also reported. The Sverdlov Plant and Biysk Oleum Plant, both explosives manufacturers, were also Sibur clients.

Fuel rationing returned within days

Across at least 16 regions, the fuel restrictions that had briefly eased in July are back, 7×7 reported.

In Sochi—Russia’s most famous beach resort—Mayor Andrei Proshunin said on Telegram that fuel was available at only 38 of the city’s 58 gas stations. Deputy Mayor Vyacheslav Bauer told residents and tourists to use public transport or stop driving, the Moscow Times reported.

In Bashkortostan, authorities banned gasoline sales in canisters, leaving at least one resident unable to fuel his lawnmower—as he complained to regional head Radiy Khabirov during a televised address, a Bashkortostan outlet reported. Production at the Ufa petrochemical complex is unaffected by the drone strikes, Khabirov said.

Still, the shortage persists for a different reason: every time a drone-alert protocol is activated, fuel tankers halt en route to gas stations, regional official Elena Prochakovsky explained at a briefing reported by Prufy. Three districts remain in a fuel “red zone,” and 19 of 26 gas stations in Sterlitamak are operating.

Lipetsk Oblast Governor Igor Artamonov told residents not to expect improvement for one to two weeks, Lipetsk outlet Ploshchad reported. “If you can leave 10 liters unfilled, the person arriving on empty will thank you,” he said.

Russia’s fuel system was already breaking

The Tobolsk shutdown lands on an already fractured system. By mid-July, fuel rationing had spread to more than half of Russia’s regions. Ukraine’s drone campaign had struck Russian refineries 194 times in the first half of 2026 alone—eleven times the previous year’s pace—knocking nearly half the country’s refining capacity offline, Ukraine’s General Staff reported on 4 July.

Repair timelines keep slipping because sanctions block the spare parts Russian plants need. To plug the gap, Russia has banned gasoline exports, permitted lower-grade fuel, and begun importing gasoline from India and Morocco, refined from its own crude—shipping it 14,000 kilometers home because its refineries cannot meet domestic demand.

The Tobolsk shutdown removes more LPG output than any single strike of the war. Russia was already rationing fuel in more than half its regions before this strike.

When Sweden’s Anton Källberg walks into the arena on Tuesday to face Vladimir Sidorenko at Europe Smash, the match carries a weight that reaches beyond the table.

Sidorenko is Russian, and unlike the Russian players who spent recent years competing as neutrals, he now takes the table representing Russia, under its flag and anthem.

The change follows a July decision by the International Table Tennis Federation (ITTF) to lift the restrictions on athletes holding Russian passports. It took effect on 28 July, and Russian players can now enter under the same ordinary rules as everyone else.

For critics, the question is hard to avoid: what has changed in Ukraine to justify the change in sport?

What changed in Ukraine? Nothing

Russia’s full-scale invasion has not ended. Yet the penalty imposed in its wake—that Russian athletes compete without representing the Russian state—has now been lifted in international table tennis.

The Swedish Table Tennis Association has openly opposed the move. Its chairman, Tomas Eriksson, said in July that he saw no change in Ukraine that would justify shifting Swedish sport’s position toward Russian participation. The association has said it will not boycott the tournaments.

That tension now lands on Swedish soil.

Källberg and Sidorenko were drawn against each other at Europe Smash, held in Malmö from 8 to 16 August.

For Swedish supporters of Ukraine, the evening presents a real dilemma. Nobody needs to aim hostility at Sidorenko himself, and no one is claiming individual Russian athletes bear responsibility for their government’s actions. The question is what an athlete is asked to represent.

A flag is never neutral

A neutral athlete competes as an individual. Someone introduced beneath a national flag stands in, however indirectly, for a state. Flags and anthems are written into international sport precisely because they carry national and political meaning.

So restoring the Russian flag is more than an administrative tweak. It is a statement—and a pointed one while Russia’s war on Ukraine continues.

The dispute has an unmistakable Swedish dimension. ITTF is headed by Petra Sörling, the Swedish official who was re-elected president of world table tennis in 2025 for another four-year term. She is a former president of the Swedish Table Tennis Association.

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That does not make the reinstatement hers alone to decide; the ITTF Executive Board considered the issue on 10 July. But leadership carries responsibility. ITTF has justified the change by citing equal treatment and proportionality—yet proportionate to what change in circumstances? With Russia’s war on Ukraine still ongoing, the federation has yet to explain what has materially shifted to make the earlier restrictions disproportionate now.

On the evening of 11 August 2026, all of it narrows to something plainer: two players and a table, in front of a Swedish crowd.

Källberg deserves what any Swedish athlete would want at a major home tournament: loud, passionate backing from the crowd. And those who object to the return of the Russian flag have every right to voice it, peacefully, from the same seats.

Symbols cut both ways

Sport does not stand outside the world around it. International federations prove as much every time they raise a flag or set a country’s name beside an athlete.

If those symbols matter when a nation celebrates victory, they matter when a governing body decides who may use them.

And until the reasons for restricting Russia’s national representation have gone, the question facing table tennis stays simple: Why should the restriction disappear first?

Jakob Gottlieb

Jakob Gottlieb is a Swedish tech entrepreneur and volunteer.

Editor's note. The opinions expressed in our Opinion section belong to their authors. Euromaidan Press' editorial team may or may not share them.

Submit an opinion to Euromaidan Press

Russia can’t refine its way out of its fuel crisis, so it is changing who controls the already existing fuel. Months of Ukrainian drone strikes on refineries have driven shortages and rationing across much of the country. The government’s answer isn’t more fuel—it is a different market.

Faced with the shortage, the Kremlin had options. In June, analysts urged it to raise the exchange quota to push more fuel onto the open market and toward the regions running dry.

It did the opposite. The mandatory share of gasoline that producers must sell on the open exchange was cut from 15% to 10%, with the majors pushing for 2%, and the exchange was closed to anyone but buyers who will use the fuel themselves, shutting out traders who bought to resell.

That choice adds no fuel. It moves distribution off the exchange that set prices for a decade and into direct contracts between the big producers and the buyers they pick—handing the majors the chain from refinery to pump. Part of the package came straight from proposals Rosneft head Igor Sechin sent to President Vladimir Putin.

Winners and losers

The winners are the big, vertically integrated oil companies, which refine up to three-quarters of Russia’s oil. Direct deals let them keep the margin that once went to middlemen and choose who gets supplied; drop the quota to 2%, and about 5 million tonnes of gasoline a year move into their private channels.

The losers are the independent stations—60% to 72% of Russia’s roughly 25,000 gas stations, depending on who’s counting, and now unable to buy at the exchange price.

Alexander Moiseev, who owns the Kostroma Fuel Company, has been hauling gasoline from Surgut, 2,000 kilometers away, at 118 rubles a liter ($1.45) with freight, because the majors won’t sell to him wholesale. He works on a minimal markup. Rosneft, meanwhile, has multiplied sales at its own pumps.

What stabilization there is has been narrow. Prices eased mainly where supply was steered—Moscow, St. Petersburg, the big cities—while regions thick with independent gas stations stayed short, independent analyst Kirill Rodionov told Kommersant.

None of this is hidden. Facing the crunch, the government also let refiners sell banned Euro-2 gasoline again; online marketplaces pulled fuel listings; and Deputy Prime Minister Alexander Novak called the market “challenging but under control.”

In occupied Crimea it goes furthest: this week, the occupation authorities announced fuel sales were stabilizing, even as they capped each car at 20 liters and fixed the price of AI-92, the Crimean Tatar Resource Center reported.

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The market goes dark

As the exchange shrinks, its prices no longer reflect the market, and the state publishes less information on output, stocks, and regional supply. The people who most need to see where Russia’s fuel balance is breaking—regulators at home, and the sanctions monitors and energy analysts abroad who read that data—are left with less to look at, market participants told Kommersant. The market is going dark.

Whether the change sticks is contested. Some read the cuts as a passing emergency. Others expect the market to keep sliding toward closed, bilateral deals—less transparent, harder for newcomers, the independent stations ever more tied to the majors, Viktoria Trifonova, Senior Analyst at Yakov & Partners, told Kommersant. The state has reached for limits, subsidies, and hands-on redistribution ever since the 2018 price crisis.

Keeping the independent gas station chains alive was never the goal, NEFT Research’s Dmitry Prokofiev wrote in Kommersant—it was to keep fuel flowing to the big cities of European Russia and, above all, to the priority government sector.

Occupation officials in Sevastopol and occupied Crimea are telling residents the fuel crisis is easing—and this week they resumed “free sale” at a handful of named stations. From 6 August, every grade would again be sold openly on the TES network, occupation governor Mikhail Razvozhaev said, and AI-92, he noted, has been cut and fixed at no more than 100 rubles per liter ($1.23).

The catch is in the same announcement: no more than 20 liters per car, volumes the governor himself called small, and—at ATAN’s seven stations the same day—no filling canisters.

In occupied Crimea, the ATAN network capped diesel at 30 liters per customer and charged 119 rubles per liter ($1.46), the Crimean Tatar Resource Center reported.

Occupation authorities blame logistics and promise the caps will loosen and prices will fall once supply stabilizes. But shortages, high prices, and rationing show that the peninsula’s supply problems are far from solved, the center said. Crimea is caught in a shortage that now stretches across Russia, from filling stations to farms.

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None of this is new. Sevastopol restricted fuel sales on 22 May, Crimea on 29 May, and for weeks drivers have been buying by QR code. Through the summer, Ukraine’s drone campaign has been draining the seaborne lifeline that feeds the peninsula. The worsening supply of fuel, power, and water is a natural consequence of the war and the occupation, Ukraine’s military intelligence said.

On 4 August, Kazakhstan’s Trade and Integration Minister, Arman Shakkaliyev, confirmed that Russia’s largest online retailer is building 260,000 square meters of warehousing space in Almaty and Astana.

In the same appearance, he told Kazakh shoppers to favor domestic marketplaces instead. Take the construction money, steer the customers away: that is Astana’s answer to a war that has driven Wildberries to look abroad for shelter.

The warehouses aren’t new—they’ve been under construction for years. And officially, the ministry says, Wildberries hasn’t asked to move its Russian operations to Kazakhstan at all. Astana is drawing a careful line: a Russian company can build here, but it cannot relocate its business here to escape the drones.

The wariness predates the strikes. Kazakhstan already taxes foreign marketplaces at 12% and can block those that fail to register. Of marketplace complaints logged in 2024, 73.7% concerned Wildberries, even as home-grown Kaspi held more than 70% of the market to Wildberries’ 17.2%. Astana was fencing the platform in before the first drone struck.

The bill reaches the neighbors

Kazakh sellers put their losses at roughly 2 billion tenge ($4.2 million) by one count, and the Ecommerce-KZ association estimates more than $2.1 million—neither figure has been confirmed, and the minister has told people not to trust the numbers circulating online.

More than 120,000 Kazakh entrepreneurs were on the platform at the end of 2025, and Wildberries says it is repaying them in stages, working with the ministry and the business chamber Atameken.

Kyrgyzstan is hit harder. Its garment industry leans heavily on Wildberries, and individual producers have lost between 1 million and 100 million soms ($11,400 to $1.14 million) each—enough that Bishkek offered a tax holiday to garment firms through year-end.

What Wildberries wants sheltered is not neutral cargo. Ukraine says it strikes the retailer because the platform is used to trade body armor, drones, and their components that reach Russian forces.

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That leaves Kazakhstan exposed: it has spent the past year tightening dual-use export controls to avoid Western secondary sanctions, and now a company that sells to the Russian military wants to move its logistics onto Kazakh ground.

For now, the shelter barely exists. Wildberries wants to rent about 100,000 square meters—close to every empty warehouse Kazakhstan has—and the complexes it is building will not open until 2027. By then, Astana may have made up its mind about how much of Russia’s retreat it actually wants on its soil.

Ukrainian drone strikes have forced Russia to import gasoline—shipping cargoes from as far as Morocco to an Arctic port—and to pay for the damage twice over. Moscow now subsidizes both the refineries the drones keep setting on fire and the foreign fuel replacing what those refineries can no longer produce.

Russia caps fuel prices at home below what refiners could earn abroad, and the budget pays them the difference—so they keep supplying the domestic market rather than exporting everything. The payments, together with related reimbursements, reached 1.221 trillion rubles ($15 billion) from April through July, Finance Ministry data show—close to the full annual budget of Moscow Oblast, the region ringing the capital.

Those monthly payments have roughly halved since spring, to about 190 billion rubles ($2.4 billion) in July, as lower oil prices narrowed the gap the subsidy fills.

Russia cannot keep its refineries running

Russian crude processing fell to 3.6 million barrels a day in July, its lowest since 2002 and roughly a third below the seasonal norm. Ukraine has hit at least 24 of Russia’s 34 largest refineries in some 50 strikes.

Fuel shortages and rationing now affect 50 million people—about a third of Russia’s population—according to a Financial Times analysis. Russia runs the world’s third-largest oil-refining industry, so the lost output has tightened diesel and gasoline supply beyond its borders. With less capacity to refine at home, Russia has had to export more raw crude and less high-value fuel.

With its refineries down, Moscow is now paying a second subsidy—this time to the importers bringing gasoline in. Gasoline is arriving by rail from Belarus and Kazakhstan and by sea from India and, in mid-July, Morocco: a cargo loaded at the port of Tangier and discharged at Murmansk, on the Arctic coast.

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Ukraine has already named the import route as a target. In early July, presidential sanctions commissioner Vladyslav Vlasiuk called Russia’s new reliance on imported fuel a fresh vulnerability and said Kyiv had raised a response with the European Commission—though the EU’s next sanctions package, now in preparation, is so far built mainly around other measures.

A country that ships crude out of the Arctic is now shipping gasoline in through it.

A Russian drone clipped one of Serhii’s wind turbines; his crew repaired the blade and carried on. He runs an oil-pressing plant in southern Ukraine, where the grid gives him about two hours of power and then 10 without. The turbine is one of six he has bought—Dutch machines, pulled from wind farms in the Netherlands for being too small, and shipped east.

In the Netherlands, a turbine like that is barely worth the paperwork. Over a blacked-out Ukrainian factory, it is worth shipping across a continent. That gap is turning into a market.

The market has formed largely on its own. Buyers like Serhii got their turbines through what Bert van der Lingen, vice-chairman of the Dutch wind association NedZero, calls “free market conditions”—private deals, one at a time—ahead of the Dutch government program meant to organize the trade, “Renewed Energy for Ukraine,” which began only in December 2025 and is still in start-up.

NedZero wrote to Euromaidan Press to correct an earlier report, drawn from the Dutch daily De Telegraaf, that called the turbines worn out. They are not.

A machine comes down in the Netherlands only because a newer model on the same spot would earn five or six times as much. The old one still works. Stripped, inspected, and fitted with new bearings and a rebuilt gearbox, it has “fifteen to twenty years of technical life remaining.”

“This is a story we want to see grow,” van der Lingen added, “and getting the baseline right helps that.”

Why blacked-out Ukraine wants Europe’s spares

Ukraine is one buyer in a market that predates the war. “There is an active world market for refurbished wind turbines,” van der Lingen notes: Dutch machines freed up by repowering already spin from Poland and the Baltics to Jordan, Kenya, and Chile, sold with maintenance records and spare parts to match.

The supply is thin, and slow to move. By NedZero’s own survey, 486 Dutch turbines are due to come down over the decade to 2035—a floor, it says, since not every producer answered—and only a portion will be shipped anywhere, fewer still to Ukraine. A market like this gets built one deal at a time.

What makes Ukraine the eager buyer is what Russia has done to its lights. Four winters of strikes have destroyed or damaged more than 80% of the country’s power-generating capacity, by the energy ministry’s own count—its big Soviet-built plants are so few and so concentrated that one missile can darken a whole region.

Kyiv’s answer is to scatter generation so widely that no single strike can repeat the trick, an approach the ministry describes as “energy cells.” One refurbished turbine beside one factory is that doctrine at its smallest scale.

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Small, slow, and off the books

Money is the bottleneck. Development banks lend in amounts far too large for a handful of turbines—support from the big institutions starts at around €10 million ($11 million)—so small orders have to be bundled into projects large enough to finance. How many turbines reach Ukraine, the association says, depends on whether that bundling comes together.

Then there is the wiring. A turbine only makes power when the wind blows, not when the factory needs it. And most are built to shut down automatically when the grid fails, so a blackout silences them too—exactly when the factory needs them most—unless they are rewired, with batteries, to run on their own. That is what the microgrids are for.

NedZero cannot say how many Dutch turbines are already working in Ukraine. It has no consolidated count of what its country’s firms have delivered, nor of the megawatts they have added to the grid, and offers only to go and count them. What is coming free is on the books; what is already turning above a Ukrainian factory, holding its lights while the grid is dark, is not.

Two weeks ago, Russian strikes drove the ships out of Ukraine’s Black Sea ports, and Euromaidan Press reported that grain was piling up with nowhere to go. Now the bill is coming in.

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First to the farms. With no ships to load, traders have stopped buying, and the price they offer has dropped so far that Ukrainian farmers are, in places, selling wheat for less than it costs to grow. Port prices fell another 12–15% this week.

Grain buyers pay the world price, and when it suddenly costs far more to move Ukrainian grain out by rail than by sea, they hand that extra cost back to the farmer as a lower offer. That is how the head of Ukraine’s main association of agricultural producers, Oleh Khomenko, explained it.

When the ships stop, the mines stop too

Ukraine mines iron ore and exports it by ship, just as it exports grain. The blockade has now spread into heavy industry. Ferrexpo, one of the country’s large ore producers, has suspended operations at its plant in central Ukraine—no point in digging ore that cannot leave the country.

After a Russian drone hit a vessel carrying its cargo, the company warned it will run out of cash by mid-September without fresh money. Metinvest, the steel group owned by Ukraine’s richest man, Rinat Akhmetov, has idled one of its own mines.

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Together, that is a country losing its two biggest foreign-currency earners. Ukraine’s central bank has now measured the loss: $2.5 billion in export income gone in the second half of this year, and almost a full percentage point—0.9%—knocked off the whole economy for 2026.

It could have been worse. An economist at the Kyiv School of Economics who tracked the 2022 blockade found that one cost Ukraine six times as much of its output. The sea lanes are not completely shut this time.

Abroad, the price moves the other way

For the rest of the world, the strikes cut the other way. As grain gets cheaper inside Ukraine, it gets dearer everywhere else, because buyers can no longer be sure the wheat will arrive. The UN’s political affairs office told the Security Council that world wheat prices have climbed 20% since the start of July.

Ukraine ships about 7% of the wheat sold across the world’s borders, USDA figures show, most of it bound for the Middle East and North Africa, where buyers have few other places to turn.

The real danger is that everything converges on one month. The corn harvest arrives in mid-September, with nowhere to store it. Ferrexpo’s cash runs out in mid-September. And the Danube—the shallow river route carrying what little the ports cannot—drops too low to help the month after. None of those alternatives replaces a deepwater port.

Ukraine’s wartime business optimism has split in two. In July, the construction sector, funded by state money for roads and damaged infrastructure, remained the country’s most confident, even as service firms slid into outright pessimism, and overall confidence in the economy stopped improving.

The divide is about money. Rebuilding, paid for by the government and its foreign backers, is thriving. The businesses that earn their own keep—transport, hospitality, professional and financial firms—are squeezed by rising costs and a shortage of skilled workers.

Each month, the National Bank of Ukraine asks companies whether they expect business to improve or worsen. In July, there was only barely more expected improvement than decline: a reading of 50.1, where 50 is the dividing line, down from 50.4 in June.

A year earlier, more firms were gloomy than hopeful. As 2025 closed, the divide ran along a different line: retail firms stayed confident while industry shrank under Russian strikes, and the overall mood was still a shade negative.

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Where the rebuilding money goes, confidence follows

Construction was far above the line, at 54.2, lifted by financing for road repair and rebuilding—even as the same survey listed intensifying strikes on critical infrastructure among the factors holding activity back.

Industry and trade stayed barely positive. Services alone fell below the line, into pessimism, squeezed by higher costs and too few skilled workers. Only builders expect to hire; industry and services plan to cut.

For Ukraine’s partners, the survey shows where rebuilding money actually reaches. That spending—part-funded by Western aid, which the bank lists as one reason confidence holds up at all—is a preview of the demand that a full postwar rebuild would bring.

In June 2026, Russian strikes on that same industrial base pushed Ukraine into its sharpest wartime contraction since 2023.

The next survey, covering August, is due on the first working day of September.

For most of the war, a circle of generals decided which companies got paid to arm Ukraine. They named the suppliers, they named the models, and the money followed the list.

Then the defense minister Mykhailo Fedorov took that power away and made the companies compete on price and on how their weapons performed at the front. Three weeks ago, the minister was fired. Now, the people who did well under the old list are pushing to get it back.

What makes this more than a lobbying fight is that its two loudest voices agree on almost nothing else: Fedorov, who says he believes the overhaul cost him his job, and an anti-corruption watchdog who owes him no favors. Both say the reform may not outlast him.

What rides on it is real money, and Ukraine has little to spare. It now pours almost all its own revenue into defense, while the West covers nearly the entire civilian budget, roughly $50 billion in 2026. Every dollar lost to a rigged contract is one that never reaches a front already too short of soldiers to absorb the waste.

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They describe it from opposite corners. Fedorov told Ukrainska Pravda on 30 July he believes his removal was tied to the procurement overhaul—the restructuring, he said, “sparked significant dissatisfaction” among powerful people who then leaned on President Volodymyr Zelenskyy.

Fedorov is not a neutral witness: he has said he would take the job back tomorrow. He does not have to be neutral to be right about what he built.

Four days later, Tetiana Nikolaienko told Radio NV what the fight looks like from inside. Anonymous Telegram channels attacking one drone maker, then the next. Investigators searching companies’ offices. A loud public argument over which drones are overpriced.

These are not separate quarrels, said Nikolaienko, deputy head of the public anti-corruption council that watches Defense Ministry spending—they are the opening moves of a scramble to grab a bigger share of the weapons money, now that the man who set the rules is gone.

What the reform actually changed

What they are describing is the unwinding of one specific change. Fedorov took the power to pick winners away from the General Staff, which had named the exact companies and models the state would buy, and made the ministry buy instead on open competition and combat performance.

That widened the field of who could win a contract. It also cut the guaranteed business of the suppliers who had thrived on the old list—among them Fire Point, whose drones account for roughly 60 percent of Ukrainian long-range strikes inside Russia.

This is not a tale of one honest reformer against thieves. Fedorov’s overhaul was unfinished: only about a fifth of drone purchases were conducted through open competition when he left. And he had staffed the ministry with his own people.

Fedorov was not the spotless auditor the street protests made him out to be. But an unfinished reform can still be worth keeping, and the people fighting it are not fighting to finish it.

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What survives, and what leaves with him

What survives comes down to a plain distinction: what Fedorov wrote into Ukraine’s rules, and what was only his practice. The register of approved arms suppliers exists because of a government decree, and a decree does not walk out when a minister does. That part will most likely hold.

The part that made the reform actually bite was never set down that hard. The open competitions, the public figure showing how much buying was contested rather than quietly handed out, the team that enforced both—those were Fedorov’s way of running the ministry, not Ukraine’s law, and they are exactly what Nikolaienko says is now under pressure.

So Ukraine is about to discover that it built less of an institution than it thought. The paperwork stays, but the part that really worked walks out with one man, when Ukraine can least afford the loss.

The authors of a new Ukrainian war-crimes framework say the line between a Russian targeting error and a deliberate method may not matter in law: a repeated failure to spare civilians can itself be a violation, whoever the missile was meant for. That goes further than their own report, published last week.

“An isolated targeting error and a method of conducting attacks are not mutually exclusive alternatives, nor is an error necessarily exculpatory,” Volodymyr Hryshko, deputy head of the legal department at Truth Hounds, told Euromaidan Press.

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International law obliges an attacker to verify a target and to break off if it changes or the civilian cost turns excessive. Skip that, over and over, and “a recurring failure to take such feasible precautions may itself constitute a violation, regardless of whether civilian harm was specifically intended.”

The report calls this a “moving target attack”: the weapon cannot be recalled, and the target can move, disperse, or be warned before it lands. Russia’s standard defense—that a precise hit proves a lawful target—does not, the authors argue, survive that gap.

“A recurring failure to take such feasible precautions may itself constitute a violation, regardless of whether civilian harm was specifically intended.”

Volodymyr Hryshko

Error and method are not the only options

The report found a war crime in only one of its four cases—Kramatorsk, 27 June 2023, a Russian cruise missile into a pizzeria that killed 13 people, among them the novelist Victoria Amelina, who had left fiction to document Russian war crimes for Truth Hounds itself. The other three it left unresolved, and those are the ones Euromaidan Press asked about.

The four strikes are hard to read as simple accidents, said Maria Burnett, senior legal coordinator at Project Expedite Justice. Soldiers were present in each case—off duty, or at a scheduled meeting, or at an exhibition—but a temporary presence, the report argues, did not strip these places of protection.

Russian forces used precision weapons despite long gaps between the last intelligence and impact, she said, so “the risk that the target would move or disperse, while civilians remained exposed, was entirely foreseeable.” Doing it repeatedly “suggests a willingness to proceed without reliable control over whether the military objective would still be present when the missile arrived.”

The evidence that would settle it

Nothing in the open yet proves “an officially directed policy or deliberate method across the Russian armed forces,” Burnett said.

What would prove it is inside the targeting chain—the intelligence before each strike and when it was last checked, the choice of warhead, the launch order, the legal advice, the after-action report—and none of that is public. Orders or testimony from the people involved, she said, would show whether the strikes were “individual failures, a tolerated operational practice, or a formally approved policy.”

What the framework asks

The recommendations run to the International Criminal Court, the ICRC, the UN human rights office, and courts acting under universal jurisdiction: treat the interval between launch and impact as evidence, and stop reading precision as proof that a strike was lawful.

But the orders and targeting files that would prove method over error sit inside the Russian military, within reach only of investigators who can compel them. Truth Hounds is trying to build those cases on a shrinking budget—it lost the American money that had covered a third of it, and has laid off staff and shelved an archiving project.

Russia has lowered its benchmark for technological independence. A revised government target now requires domestic hardware to make up 58.7% of state technology projects by 2030—down from the 80% Moscow had long promised—a reduction proposed by Russia’s own Ministry of Industry and Trade and set by a decree signed in July 2026 by Prime Minister Mikhail Mishustin.

Funding collapsed as deadlines slipped

The scale of the retreat was laid out by Ukraine’s Foreign Intelligence Service, which called the downgrade a capitulation to reality. Funding for the flagship state program collapsed roughly fivefold, from $338.4 million in 2024 to $62.6 million in 2026, and the broader electronics-engineering development program faces a $422.7 million shortfall for 2026–2028, the service said.

Several microelectronics-equipment projects were canceled outright, and deadlines for domestic processors and modems have slipped to 2032. The “Irtysh” processor Moscow presented as a homegrown design for critical infrastructure is, by the service’s account, effectively a copy of China’s Loongson chip, and the Kurchatov Institute missed its deadline to build replacements for Intel, Marvell, Broadcom, and Integrated Device Technology parts.

Russian specialists themselves say localizing more than 60% is impossible without domestic production of chips at 28 nanometers and below, which sanctions and the loss of Western tooling put out of reach.

The GRU buys abroad what Russia cannot make

What Russia cannot build, it increasingly smuggles. Estonia’s Foreign Intelligence Service reported in February 2026 that Russian military intelligence—the GRU—takes an active role in acquiring sanctioned dual-use goods, running import-export front companies to route Western and Asian components home.

One such firm, Moscow-registered Neptun Ko, is directed by an identified GRU officer, Aleksandr Matrossov, and moved more than €500,000 ($540,000) worth of critical semiconductors to Russia’s defense industry through a Chinese intermediary in the first year of the full-scale war, the Estonian service found.

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Every chip Russia’s factories cannot make is one it must source abroad, through the third-country sanctions loopholes that still route Western components into Russian missiles and drones—which is where the practical fight over Russia’s electronics now lies, whatever share Moscow prints as its goal for 2030.

Nearly half of the bankruptcy cases now moving through Ukraine’s commercial courts—45% of over 6,107—involve individuals and sole proprietors rather than companies, the Ministry of Justice reported on 30 July. Individuals could not legally file for bankruptcy in Ukraine until 2019.

Ukraine’s bankruptcy law is being rebuilt around the European Union’s “second chance” principle: that an honest debtor, company or individual, should get a supervised route back to solvency. Kyiv is introducing that framework—out-of-court settlement, preventive restructuring—as an EU accession commitment, even as the war continues.

Moscow is moving the other way. In July, the Russian State Duma rushed through its largest bankruptcy overhaul in decades, handing the Kremlin power to decide which firms survive as corporate debt there swells past the country’s entire annual output.

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A system built from nothing

Personal insolvency is new to Ukraine. Parliament first allowed individuals to declare bankruptcy under the 2019 Bankruptcy Code, and in that first year, court records show, just 22 people used it.

Filings rose sharply afterward, reaching several hundred annually by 2023, as consumer borrowing spread and the war strained household finances. Most who file are between 25 and 45, and close to half are women.

The rescue culture the law promises is still mostly on paper. Of debtors currently in proceedings, 76% are already at the liquidation stage, and only 5% are in financial recovery.

Nearly half of the bankruptcy cases now moving through Ukraine’s commercial courts involve individuals and sole proprietors rather than companies.

The new preventive-restructuring procedure, meant to save viable businesses before they fold, has drawn just nine enterprises so far, with six more plans approved. In the first half of 2026, courts opened 1,250 new cases and closed 767—the backlog fills faster than it drains.

Lawyers who work the procedure caution that the climbing numbers reflect financial distress rather than easier access—the procedure stays costly and complex, and reaches only a fraction of those in serious debt.

The confidence that never reaches the courtroom

None of this shows in how Ukrainian businesses feel. In June, firms rated their own prospects positively for the fourth month running, with the National Bank’s expectations index at 50.4, above the neutral 50 line. The survey polled 587 companies that were still trading.

The people turning up in bankruptcy court are the ones the survey does not count—and more and more, they are individuals, not firms.

Western sanctions and Ukrainian drones are squeezing Russia’s Black Sea trade in looted goods, but they are not stopping it. The networks are finding new routes—and one of them now runs through Georgia, a country that one day hopes to join the European Union.

A new study finds that ships arriving from Russian-occupied Ukrainian ports are turning up at Georgia’s port of Poti far more often than they used to.

The same links that allow Russia to profit give Europe leverage to disrupt those networks.

The numbers climb steeply: 22 visits in the second half of 2023, 68 in 2024, and 145 in the first half of 2025 alone—on course, the study estimates, to nearly five times the 2024 total. Türkiye’s ports still take most of this traffic, but Poti is rising fastest.

The increase has tracked the Georgian Dream government’s drift toward Moscow since a disputed October 2024 election, a slide the European Parliament condemned as evidence of state capture. The authors caution that they cannot yet prove the shift is the result of deliberate policy.

A $120 billion pipeline that reaches into Europe

The study, which maps how Russia sustains and profits from its war on Ukraine, was produced by the Serious Organised Crime and Anti-Corruption Evidence Programme at the University of Birmingham and funded by the British government.

It follows goods moving through Black Sea shipping—worth about $120 billion a year—with military supplies flowing in and grain, coal, metal, and kaolin clay stripped from occupied territory flowing out, alongside oil sold above the price cap set by the Group of Seven in 2022. The study’s authors, Olivia Allison and Joshua Coyle, argue this trade is not a by-product of the war but an essential part of it, and one that reaches deep into European business.

The rerouting is happening under mounting pressure. Ukraine has spent 2026 hunting Russia’s Black Sea tankers and cargo ships, hitting 201 vessels in three weeks this July, according to the commander of its drone forces, Robert Brovdi, while the European Union and others tighten sanctions on the ports and ships involved.

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Grain is at the center of the trade. Investigators have documented Russia plundering the harvest in occupied Kherson and Zaporizhzhia, relabeling it as Russian, and selling it on to buyers in the Middle East and Africa. Ukrainian authorities have been tracking multiple ships carrying that grain to Israel, Egypt, and Algeria.

The upheaval reaches the top of Russia’s own grain business. In January 2025, a Russian court handed Rodnye Polya—for years the country’s largest grain exporter—to the state, ruling that its owner, Petr Khodykin, could not legally hold a strategic asset because he was a citizen of both Saint Kitts and Nevis and Russia.

The seizure did not prove a windfall. After an earlier auction drew no bids, the state sold the company in July 2026 for 11.7 billion roubles (about $150 million)—a small fraction of its former annual revenue—to a little-known firm that, as Kommersant reported, was acting for a grain holding part-owned by the sovereign wealth fund of Oman.

A vulnerability that runs both ways

On both ends of the trade, the study argues, are European companies. One Turkish port that receives ships arriving straight from occupied Crimea is run by a firm with a Dutch parent and a Taiwanese ultimate owner. Vessels in the trade, meanwhile, have been repaired in European Union shipyards and fitted with European-made cranes.

That overlap, the authors write, cuts both ways: the same links that allow Russia to profit give Europe leverage to disrupt those networks. The bloc’s newest sanctions package has begun to use it, targeting the shadow fleet, banks, and firms selling stolen Ukrainian grain.

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Whether Georgia’s opening ports reflect a deliberate choice or simply the path of least resistance, the researchers do not say. Their data show only that the traffic keeps growing.