Corruption in the Ukrainian hospitality sector

Sunday 25 January 2026

The quiet coercion exercised by certain police and military officials against hospitality establishments in Ukrainian cities is one of the least discussed but most corrosive legacies of the country’s post-Soviet inheritance. It does not announce itself with dramatic raids or overt violence. Instead, it operates through insinuation, procedural threat and the use of bureaucracy. The café, the restaurant, the small hotel or bar is reminded, sometimes politely and sometimes not, that compliance with the law is an elastic concept, and that inconvenience can be manufactured at will.

The pattern is by now familiar to many proprietors. An inspection is hinted at rather than announced. A fire safety certificate is said to be incomplete. A noise complaint is mysteriously lodged. Paperwork is found wanting, often by reference to obscure regulations that even diligent operators struggle to interpret. The resolution is rarely stated outright. Instead a suggestion is made that matters can be ‘simplified’, that attention might be redirected elsewhere, or that an informal contribution would ensure that nothing further comes of the issue.

This practice sits at the intersection of two institutions that retain considerable authority in wartime Ukraine: the police and the armed forces. Both are essential to the survival of the state. Both command public respect, particularly since the full-scale Russian invasion. Yet both also inherit structures and habits formed during decades in which state power was personalised and monetised. The danger lies precisely in this moral asymmetry. To challenge a corrupt traffic officer is one thing; to challenge a uniformed man invoking national security or mobilisation priorities is quite another.

Hospitality businesses are especially vulnerable. They are visible, cash-flow dependent and tightly regulated. Alcohol licensing, food hygiene rules, labour documentation and security requirements provide a dense thicket of compliance obligations. Any one of them can be invoked selectively. Unlike large industrial enterprises, cafés and restaurants lack in-house legal teams or political cover. Many are family businesses, run by people whose principal ambition is to survive another month.

Wartime conditions have sharpened the imbalance. Military officials may claim authority under emergency powers. Police may argue that inspections are necessary to prevent sabotage or disorder. In some cases, these claims are legitimate. In others, they are pretexts. The implicit message remains constant: cooperation buys peace, resistance buys scrutiny.

The social damage caused by this behaviour extends beyond the immediate victims. It entrenches cynicism amongst entrepreneurs who are otherwise inclined to see themselves as contributors to the national effort. It diverts resources from wages, taxes and charitable support for the armed forces into private pockets. Most dangerously, it corrodes the moral distinction between a state fighting for survival and the predatory practices associated with the system it claims to have left behind.

There is also a strategic cost. Ukraine’s urban hospitality sector has played a vital role during the war, providing employment for displaced persons, sustaining civic life and offering visible proof of resilience. When such businesses are treated as sources of rent rather than partners in recovery, the state undermines its own social foundations. Foreign investors and aid organisations take note of these everyday interactions. Corruption experienced at the level of a restaurant kitchen does not remain invisible at the level of international reputation.

Addressing the problem requires more than exhortation. Internal accountability mechanisms within the police and armed forces must be real rather than formal. Inspectors should rotate jurisdictions frequently, inspections should be logged and auditable, and anonymous reporting channels must be trusted by those who use them. Most importantly, senior leadership must make clear that wartime service is not a licence for extortion, and that patriotic rhetoric will not shield those who abuse authority.

Cultural change, however, is slower than institutional reform. Many officials who engage in such practices do not perceive themselves as corrupt in the grand sense. They see their demands as supplements to inadequate salaries, as informal taxation, or as compensation for risk. This rationalisation must be confronted directly. A state cannot demand sacrifice from its citizens while tolerating petty predation by its agents.

Ukraine’s struggle is often framed in terms of territory and sovereignty. Yet sovereignty is also exercised in the mundane encounters between the state and its citizens. When a restaurant owner is forced to pay for peace from those meant to uphold the law, sovereignty is weakened from within. Ending these practices is not a secondary matter to be addressed after victory. It is part of the same struggle to build a state worthy of survival.