Russia will ease restrictions on employing minors in hazardous industries this summer, a policy shift that exposes the depth of the country's wartime labor crisis while raising uncomfortable historical parallels to total war mobilization.
The new regulations, set to take effect in June, will "significantly reduce restrictions" on hiring teenagers for work currently classified as dangerous, according to Novaya Gazeta Europe. State Duma Labor Committee chairman Yaroslav Nilov justified the changes by claiming that industries "once thought to be dangerous were safer to be in than on the street"—an assertion that would be darkly comic if the implications were not so serious.
To understand today's headlines, we must look at yesterday's decisions. Russia's full-scale invasion of Ukraine in February 2022 triggered workforce disruptions that have compounded into crisis. Military mobilization pulled hundreds of thousands of working-age men from civilian employment. Emigration removed another million Russians—disproportionately young, educated professionals fleeing conscription and political repression. Battlefield casualties claimed tens of thousands more. The result is an economy starved for workers as it simultaneously attempts total war production.
The labor shortage manifests across critical sectors. Defense factories operate triple shifts producing artillery shells and armored vehicles but struggle to recruit workers. Logistics companies offer wage premiums exceeding 50 percent to attract truck drivers. Construction projects halt as workers deploy to military production or the front lines. Agricultural harvests face shortages of seasonal laborers. Russia's official unemployment rate has fallen to historic lows—not because of economic vitality but because there are simply not enough workers for available jobs.
The proposed child labor changes address this crisis through the most desperate measure: expanding the pool of exploitable workers by lowering age restrictions. Current Russian law permits teenagers to pursue vocational training and apprenticeships in hazardous industries but prohibits formal employment. The new rules would allow minors to work in sectors previously deemed too dangerous for anyone under 18.
Officials have not specified which industries the changes will affect, though Nilov referenced "working conditions that were considered dangerous 20 years ago." This vague formulation likely encompasses mining, chemical production, heavy manufacturing, and construction—precisely the sectors experiencing acute labor shortages and feeding Russia's military-industrial complex.
The official justification—that modern safety standards make these jobs safe enough for minors—collapses under minimal scrutiny. If working conditions have improved sufficiently to employ teenagers, why not simply reclassify the jobs as non-hazardous? The answer is that the work remains dangerous; the difference is that Russia's wartime economy now requires bodies for these positions regardless of risk.
The policy echoes historical precedents that Russian officials would prefer to ignore. During World War II, the Soviet Union mobilized teenagers for war production as adult men deployed to the front. Children as young as 14 worked in munitions factories, mines, and steel mills under brutal conditions. The necessity was undeniable given Nazi Germany's existential threat, but the human cost was immense. Current policies evoke those measures without comparable justification—Russia is not defending itself from invasion but prosecuting a war of choice in Ukraine.
The demographic implications are particularly concerning. Russia's population was declining before the war due to low birth rates and emigration. The conflict has accelerated this crisis dramatically. Independent analysts estimate Russian military deaths between 100,000 and 200,000, with several hundred thousand wounded. An additional million working-age Russians emigrated to avoid mobilization. The loss of young people—whether to casualties, emigration, or dangerous industrial work—will reverberate for generations.
Western analysts see the child labor changes as evidence that Russia's economy is entering what economist Alexandra Prokopenko terms the "death zone"—a state where the country metabolizes productive capacity to sustain immediate wartime needs at the cost of long-term viability. Employing teenagers in hazardous industries generates short-term labor but risks casualties and developmental harm that will burden society for decades.
The policy also intersects with Russia's broader militarization of society. State media increasingly glorifies military service while schools emphasize patriotic education. Youth organizations modeled on Soviet-era programs teach military skills to teenagers. The combination of militarized education and relaxed child labor laws creates a generation whose formative experiences involve either preparation for war or work sustaining the war economy.
For Russian families, the changes present impossible choices. Economic necessity may force parents to send teenagers into dangerous work simply to sustain household income. Russia's social safety net has frayed under wartime pressures, leaving families dependent on wages from any available source. The government's message is clear: family welfare takes second priority to war production.
International observers note the policy violates international labor standards, though Russia withdrew from many international labor organizations following Western sanctions. The International Labour Organization maintains conventions prohibiting child labor in hazardous conditions, but enforcement mechanisms depend on voluntary compliance. Russia under President Putin has repeatedly demonstrated willingness to violate international norms when domestic priorities demand it.
The timing of the announcement—alongside other indicators of economic strain including inflation exceeding 8 percent, interest rates at 23 percent, and continued budget deficits—suggests Russia's leadership recognizes the economy cannot sustain current mobilization indefinitely. The question is whether Moscow adjusts its war objectives to match available resources, or instead intensifies exploitation of remaining resources including teenagers.
RAND Corporation analysis projects Russia will face a shortage of 2.4 million workers by 2030 even if the war ended today. Continued conflict exacerbates this trajectory while the country simultaneously burns through human capital to prosecute military operations. Employing minors in dangerous industries extends the timeline before labor shortages force policy changes, but at the cost of exposing another generation to wartime exploitation.
As I've reported on Russia for over a decade, the current measures represent a threshold crossed. Every state at war mobilizes resources and accepts sacrifices. But relaxing child labor protections signals that Russia's leadership has exhausted conventional mobilization options and now reaches for measures that even Soviet planners avoided except during existential crisis. The tragedy is that Russia faces no existential threat—the war in Ukraine is entirely optional, launched to pursue geopolitical ambitions rather than defend Russian territory.
The regulations will take effect this summer, beginning another chapter in Russia's wartime transformation. Teenagers will enter factories and mines under newly relaxed rules, producing materiel that feeds a war machine that has already consumed much of the country's future. Whether this sacrifice achieves President Putin's objectives in Ukraine, or merely delays inevitable reckoning with the costs of war, remains to be seen. What is certain is that a generation of Russian youth will bear scars—physical, economic, psychological—from policies designed to sustain military operations that show no signs of ending.
