The moral economy of volunteering in Ukraine during times of war

Wednesday 8 April 2026

War rearranges not only borders and armies, but also the invisible architecture of obligation. In peacetime, economies are measured in currencies, contracts and regulated exchanges; in wartime, a parallel system emerges, less legible yet often more decisive. This is the moral economy of volunteering — a dense web of gifts, duties and expectations through which societies under existential threat sustain themselves when formal institutions strain or fail.

The term moral economy has a long intellectual lineage, associated with historians who sought to explain how communities define fairness beyond market logic. In a country at war this concept acquires a sharper, almost urgent meaning. Volunteering is no longer an act of leisure or altruistic surplus. It becomes a primary mechanism through which the state’s deficiencies are compensated and the nation’s survival is collectively enacted. The volunteer ceases to be peripheral to the war effort; she becomes one of its central pillars.

At the outset of conflict volunteering often appears spontaneous, even chaotic. Citizens gather funds, procure equipment, transport supplies or provide shelter, all with minimal coordination. Yet beneath this apparent disorder lies an emergent order — a system governed not by statute but by shared moral intuitions. Who deserves help? Which needs are most urgent? What constitutes a fair distribution of scarce resources? These questions are answered not by ministries but by networks of trust, reputation and perceived sacrifice.

This moral economy operates on reciprocity, although rarely in a direct or immediate form. A volunteer delivering medical kits to the front line may receive nothing tangible in return. Yet she accrues moral capital — a form of social credit grounded in recognition of her contribution to the collective good. This capital circulates within society, shaping influence, legitimacy and authority. Individuals and organisations that demonstrate consistent commitment to the war effort often acquire a voice that rivals, and sometimes surpasses, that of formal institutions.

Trust is the currency that underpins this system. In wartime, trust becomes both more fragile and more valuable. Donors must believe that their contributions will reach those in need; volunteers must trust that their efforts are meaningful; recipients must trust that assistance is given without hidden conditions. Where trust flourishes, the moral economy expands, enabling rapid mobilisation and innovation. Where it erodes — through corruption, inefficiency or perceived inequity — the entire structure risks collapse.

The relationship between the economy of volunteering and the formal wartime state is complex and often ambivalent. Volunteering compensates for institutional weakness. It fills gaps in logistics, procurement and welfare that bureaucratic systems, constrained by procedure and limited resources, cannot address swiftly. Yet this very effectiveness can create tensions. A state that relies too heavily on volunteers risks appearing incapable or even negligent. Conversely attempts by the state to regulate or absorb volunteer networks may undermine the flexibility and trust that make them effective.

This tension reflects a deeper question about sovereignty and legitimacy. In a country at war, who is responsible for the nation’s survival? The formal answer is the state — its armed forces, its government, its institutions. Yet the lived reality is often more diffuse. Volunteers, donors and informal networks become co-authors of national resilience. Their actions blur the boundary between citizen and state, suggesting a more participatory, albeit less structured, conception of sovereignty.

Inevitably inequalities emerge within this economy. Not all contributions are valued equally, nor are all needs addressed with the same urgency. High-visibility activities — such as delivering equipment to the front — often attract more recognition and support than less visible but equally vital forms of labour, such as caring for displaced persons or maintaining local infrastructure. This asymmetry can create hierarchies of moral worth, in which certain forms of volunteering are elevated while others remain undervalued.

Moreover the economy of volunteering is not immune to being used for private gain. Individuals and organisations may seek to convert moral capital into political influence, financial gain or social status. While such behaviour is often condemned, it is also an inherent risk in any system where recognition and trust function as currencies. The challenge lies in maintaining a balance — preserving the openness and dynamism of volunteering while mitigating opportunities for exploitation.

Another dimension of the volunteer economy concerns the psychological contract between society and its volunteers. In wartime, expectations intensify. Volunteers are not merely praised; they are relied upon. This reliance can become a burden. The implicit assumption that citizens will step forward to fill institutional gaps may lead to exhaustion, resentment or disillusionment, particularly as conflicts become protracted. The volunteer economy, initially a source of solidarity, can thus generate its own forms of strain.

Nevertheless it also produces remarkable resilience. By embedding the war effort within everyday life, volunteering transforms abstract notions of patriotism into tangible actions. It enables individuals to assert agency in circumstances otherwise defined by uncertainty and fear. Through countless acts of giving — time, resources, expertise — society reaffirms its cohesion and purpose. The moral economy becomes, in effect, a narrative of collective endurance.

As wars evolve, so too does this economy. Early spontaneity often gives way to greater organisation and specialisation. Informal groups may professionalise, adopting structures and practices that resemble those of formal institutions. This evolution can enhance efficiency, but it also raises questions about identity. At what point does a volunteer organisation cease to be part of the moral economy and become another institutional actor? And does such a transition diminish or strengthen its moral authority?

The end of war presents perhaps the most profound challenge. The moral economy, forged in conditions of necessity, does not simply dissolve with the cessation of hostilities. Expectations, networks and forms of trust persist. Volunteers who have assumed critical roles may find it difficult to relinquish them; societies accustomed to participatory mobilisation may resist a return to purely institutional governance. Integrating this moral economy into peacetime structures — without eroding its strengths or entrenching its distortions — is a delicate and often contested process.

In a country at war, volunteering is not an adjunct to the economy; it is one of its defining features. It reveals a conception of value that transcends price, a system in which fairness is negotiated through shared sacrifice and mutual recognition rather than contractual exchange. This moral economy is neither wholly virtuous nor entirely stable. It is marked by tensions, inequalities and risks of abuse. Yet it also embodies a profound truth about societies under pressure: when formal systems falter, it is the collective sense of obligation — the willingness of individuals to act for one another — that sustains the nation.

Understanding this is therefore essential not only for analysing wartime resilience but also for imagining post-war reconstruction. For within it lies both the promise of solidarity and the seeds of future contention — a reminder that the most powerful economies are often those that cannot be measured in money at all.