No-one is forcing us. This is my body, my decision.
In the shadow of war, Ukraine has become one of the world's foremost commercial surrogacy destinations — a distinction shaped less by design than by displacement, economic collapse, and the quiet desperation of women counting coins for bread. Now, as parliament weighs a ban on foreign access to the practice, the country is forced to ask an ancient question in urgent new terms: where does choice end and exploitation begin, and who bears responsibility when the answer is unclear?
- Ukraine's surrogacy industry has swelled during wartime, with clinics actively recruiting economically devastated women through targeted advertising — including AI-generated imagery and promotional sales — raising alarms about systemic commodification of reproduction.
- Abandoned children like five-year-old Wei, left in state care after intended parents vanished upon learning of his disability, expose the catastrophic human cost of an industry operating without enforceable cross-border accountability.
- Parliament's proposed ban — which would cut off the ninety-five percent of intended parents who are foreign nationals — has broad political support but divides women's rights advocates, surrogates, and international families who argue the practice, when conducted ethically, creates genuine benefit.
- Surrogates like Karina, displaced from bombed cities and unable to find ordinary work, reject the language of exploitation while simultaneously accepting contract terms — such as reduced pay when a twin died — that leave them with little legal recourse.
- The proposed legislation is moving toward passage, but its outcome would ripple far beyond Ukraine, reshaping the global surrogacy landscape and forcing intended parents in countries like the UK to confront far costlier or legally uncertain alternatives.
Karina is six months pregnant with a child she will not keep. At twenty-two, she is carrying a baby for a Chinese couple, earning roughly £12,500 — money she never imagined needing until Russia's invasion reduced her hometown of Bakhmut to rubble. Displaced to Kyiv with her partner and toddler, unable to find work, she made a decision one day while counting coins for bread: she would become a surrogate. She rejects the word exploitation. "No-one is forcing us," she says. "This is my body, my decision." Yet her contract stipulated that when one of the twins she carried died, her compensation would be cut — a clause she accepted without recourse.
Ukraine has become the world's second-largest commercial surrogacy hub, a status born largely from wartime desperation. Clinics have capitalized on mass unemployment and economic collapse, with some running "Black Friday" promotions on surrogate babies and deploying AI-generated advertisements targeting women in financial crisis. BioTexCom Centre for Human Reproduction, one of the country's largest clinics, has faced a suspended pre-trial investigation into its chief executive on suspicion of human trafficking — allegations both he and the clinic deny.
The human cost extends to the children themselves. Wei is five years old and lives in a state-run home for disabled children in Kyiv. Born prematurely through a BioTexCom arrangement in 2021, he suffered severe brain damage. His intended parents, upon learning of his condition, disappeared. His surrogate had no legal obligation to raise him. He cannot sit unaided, cannot hold his head, cannot see properly. Fifteen families have reviewed his file; none has moved to adopt him. BioTexCom has made no financial contribution to his care.
Ukraine's parliament is now considering legislation that would ban foreigners — who account for ninety-five percent of intended parents — from accessing surrogacy in the country. Women's rights activists argue the bill does not go far enough and want the practice abolished entirely, pointing to clinics that deliberately target poor women through social media. "Because of the war the number of women who are desperate is growing," says activist Maria Dmytrieva, "and clinics offer them this opportunity because Western couples want to buy babies cheaply."
Not everyone agrees. Himatraj and Rajvir Bajwa, a London couple who spent five years trying to conceive, chose Ukraine after Rajvir's endometriosis and multiple sclerosis made pregnancy extremely difficult. They paid around £65,000 — far less than surrogacy costs in the United States — and spent their son's first three months in Kyiv, sheltering from Russian strikes while waiting for paperwork. They oppose the ban and do not believe their surrogate was exploited. "They've made us a family," Himatraj says.
Karina, too, opposes the proposed law. It would, she says, collapse her plans to one day own a home — a goal the war made unreachable by ordinary means. She speaks softly to the child in her womb, telling her that her parents are waiting, that she loves her, that she hopes she will have a good life. Ukraine's parliament must now decide whether that tenderness can coexist with protection — and whether regulation is possible in a country where vulnerability has become the very engine of an industry.
Karina is six months pregnant, but the child she carries belongs to someone else. At twenty-two, she is a surrogate for a Chinese couple, and the money she will earn—roughly £12,500—represents a lifeline she never expected to need. Her city, Bakhmut, was reduced to rubble in the early months of Russia's invasion. She and her partner fled to Kyiv with their toddler, searching for work that didn't exist. One day in a shop, counting coins for bread and nappies, she made a decision that still troubles her: she would rent her womb to survive.
Ukraine has become the world's second-largest commercial surrogacy hub, a distinction born partly from desperation. The war has hollowed out the economy—millions jobless, inflation soaring, GDP collapsing. Surrogacy clinics have capitalized on this vulnerability. One advertisement, generated by artificial intelligence, showed a woman forced to choose between heating fuel and children's clothes. Another clinic, BioTexCom Centre for Human Reproduction, once ran a "Black Friday sale" on surrogate babies. When challenged about the tone of such marketing, the clinic defended it as effective outreach. The clinic's chief executive, Albert Tochilovsky, has faced investigation on suspicion of human trafficking, allegations both he and the clinic deny. A pre-trial investigation was suspended pending international cooperation.
Karina's experience illustrates the complexity. She initially approached BioTexCom but found the staff cold and distant, so she chose another clinic. She now lives in an apartment provided by her surrogacy agency and plans to become a surrogate multiple times to save for a home—a goal the war made impossible through ordinary means. She rejects the language of exploitation. "No-one is forcing us," she says. "This is my body, my decision." Yet her contract stipulated that when one of the twins she carried died, her compensation would be cut. She accepted this without recourse.
Ukraine's parliament is now weighing legislation that would effectively ban foreigners from accessing surrogacy in the country. Foreigners account for ninety-five percent of intended parents. The bill has broad parliamentary support and aims to address both the commodification of reproduction and Ukraine's plummeting birthrate. Women's rights activists argue it doesn't go far enough—they want surrogacy banned entirely. Maria Dmytrieva, one such activist, points to the targeting of poor women through social media advertising as evidence of systemic exploitation. "Because of the war the number of women who are desperate is growing," she says, "and clinics offer them this opportunity because Western couples want to buy babies cheaply."
But the human cost extends beyond the surrogates themselves. Wei is now five years old and lives in a state-run home for disabled children in Kyiv. He was born prematurely in 2021 through a surrogacy arranged by BioTexCom and suffered severe brain damage. His intended parents, from Southeast Asia, learned of his condition and chose not to collect him. They disappeared. His surrogate mother also declined to raise him. Under Ukrainian law, she had no legal obligation to do so. Wei cannot sit unaided, cannot hold his head, cannot see properly. He will require round-the-clock care for the rest of his life. Fifteen families have viewed his file. None has expressed interest in adopting him. The state bears the cost of his care; BioTexCom has made no financial contribution.
Valeria Soruchan from Ukraine's Health Ministry says "a lot" of children born through surrogacy are abandoned, though the government keeps no exact figures. Tochilovsky called Wei's case a "tragedy" and suggested the clinic bears partial responsibility when parents abandon a child, yet there is no legal mechanism requiring clinics to contribute to the costs of state care. The absence of enforcement across borders means that when intended parents simply vanish, there is often no recourse.
Yet others argue that commercial surrogacy, properly conducted, benefits everyone involved. Himatraj and Rajvir Bajwa from London spent five years trying to start a family. Rajvir has severe endometriosis and multiple sclerosis, making conception extremely difficult. They rejected the UK model of altruistic surrogacy—where surrogates receive no payment—partly because it left them without immediate legal rights to the child. They chose Ukraine and BioTexCom, paying around £65,000, far less than the £110,000 or more surrogacy costs in the United States. They created an embryo in London, had it shipped to Kyiv, and waited for their son's birth. Because of delays in UK paperwork, they spent his first three months in Kyiv, moving in and out of bomb shelters as Russia attacked the city. "It was scary and surreal," Rajvir recalls. They returned to England in late August and now oppose the proposed ban. They brought their surrogate chocolates and flowers, and they do not believe she was exploited. "They gave us something we never thought possible," Himatraj says. "They've made us a family."
Karina, too, opposes the law change. It would "completely collapse" her plans to buy a home. Looking down at her stomach, she speaks to the child she carries as if the girl can hear her. She tells her that her parents are waiting. She says she loves her, though she knows the child is not hers. She hopes the girl will have a good life. The question before Ukraine's parliament is whether that hope can coexist with protection—whether a nation can regulate surrogacy in a way that honors both the autonomy of women like Karina and the vulnerability that war has created.
Notable Quotes
Because of the war the number of women who are desperate is growing, and clinics offer them this opportunity because Western couples want to buy babies cheaply.— Maria Dmytrieva, women's rights activist
They gave us something we never thought possible—they've made us a family.— Himatraj Bajwa, intended parent from London
The Hearth Conversation Another angle on the story
Why did Ukraine become such a major surrogacy hub in the first place?
Economics and law. Ukraine had permissive legislation and lower costs than Western countries, which made it attractive to intended parents. But the war accelerated everything—it created a population of economically desperate women at the exact moment when demand from abroad remained high.
When Karina says no one is forcing her, is she right?
Technically, yes. But context matters. She's not being held at gunpoint. She's making a choice within a set of options the war has constrained. Before the invasion, she might have found steady work. Now surrogacy pays double the average salary. That's not coercion in the legal sense, but it's not quite free choice either.
What about the children who are abandoned? Is that a surrogacy problem or a parenting problem?
Both. The surrogacy system creates the conditions where abandonment becomes possible—it separates biological parenthood from legal responsibility in ways that can leave children stateless and unwanted. Wei's case shows what happens when that system has no enforcement mechanism across borders.
The Bajwas seem genuinely happy. Does their experience invalidate the concerns about exploitation?
No. One good experience doesn't prove the system is safe. It proves that surrogacy can work well when all parties are treated with respect and have resources. But the system also enables the opposite—clinics targeting desperate women with "Black Friday sales" on babies. Both things are true.
If Ukraine bans foreign surrogacy, what happens to women like Karina?
She loses access to the income she's counting on. The clinics lose their primary market. Some women might see it as protection; others, like Karina, see it as the state taking away her choice. The parliament has to decide which matters more.