Ukraine’s Anti-Corruption Architecture at a Crossroads: What Street Protests Are Really Saying

Ukraine has entered one of the most delicate moments in its post-Maidan reform era. On July 22, 2025, Parliament passed — and the President signed the very same day — a law expanding the powers of the Prosecutor General’s Office over the country’s key anti-corruption bodies: the National Anti-Corruption Bureau of Ukraine (NABU) and the Specialized Anti-Corruption Prosecutor’s Office (SAPO).

Within hours, Kyiv and other cities saw the largest demonstrations since Russia’s full-scale invasion: protesters argued that the new law undermines the independence of institutions that are critical to Ukraine’s European course. Under intense domestic and international pressure, the President promised a “corrective” bill. A vote on it was held on July 31 — and it passed.

For observers well-versed in the Ukrainian context, the debate around NABU and SAPO is not about whether anti-corruption should exist, but about how to balance independence with results. The protests against subordinating NABU/SAPO to the Prosecutor General reflect the public’s demand for an ideal vertical structure, while real-world metrics and case outcomes paint a more ambiguous picture.

The streets are defending the idea of an independent anti-corruption system. But NABU and SAPO themselves face criticism over effectiveness and practices — from “leaked” cases to questionable prosecutions and possible entanglement in business conflicts. A reform that satisfies both society and Ukraine’s international partners must combine strong guarantees of independence with strict managerial KPIs and transparent procedural discipline. Otherwise, we risk merely reshuffling structures without changing substance.

Once again, Ukraine is not debating the need to fight corruption, but the architecture through which this fight is conducted. This summer, protests took place in Kyiv and other cities against the idea of placing NABU and SAPO under a unified prosecutorial hierarchy.

To street activists, this looked like an attempt to dismantle the independence of the anti-corruption system — a symbol of the post-Maidan era and a key marker for European partners. But beyond the slogans, one sees that what’s really being defended is an ideal — “independent bodies beyond politics” — while the actual record of NABU and SAPO remains mixed and fails to convince all skeptics.

Over the years, this anti-corruption “vertical” has built an ambitious reputation: high-profile arrests, public briefings, and a strong media presence. Yet the key question — tangible outcomes — often goes unanswered. Critics point out that in terms of cases brought to trial, convictions secured, actual funds returned to the state, and the speed of proceedings from suspicion to verdict over the span of years, the results fall short of expectations.

In this light, the State Bureau of Investigation looks more effective: operating in a different jurisdiction, handling a higher volume of cases, and delivering more verdicts as a result. Yes, directly comparing “apples and oranges” is problematic: NABU and SAPO work at the uppermost echelon — top officials, judges, state enterprise managers — where each move is met with legions of lawyers and procedural labyrinths. But in the end, society and investors judge not by press releases, but by court rulings and funds returned to the budget.

Reputation-related issues add to the problem. Stories of leaks and stalled cases surface regularly in the public sphere. There was the episode involving procurement for the “Army of Drones,” along with accusations of unprofessionalism and information leaks. Old cases — like the “Avakov backpacks” scandal or the Odessa Airport story — are still cited as examples of weak procedural discipline.

The case of Mykola Zlochevsky became symbolic of the debate around proportional punishment and transparency of plea deals: a record-breaking bribe by national standards, a lenient legal outcome, and major payouts to the state — some see this as suspicious, others as a sign that wartime courts are seeking hybrid solutions.

The same goes for the case involving former State Property Fund head Dmytro Sennychenko: one key figure escaped responsibility, the main suspects remain in limbo, and the alleged damage to the state has yet to be compensated. Each of these is a separate saga full of nuance, but together they form a clear impression in the public mind: Ukraine’s anti-corruption flagships know how to make a loud start — but not always how to end convincingly.

One particularly contentious line of criticism concerns politically sensitive prosecutions. The case of former Infrastructure Minister Volodymyr Omelyan — accused of… reducing port fees — ended in acquittal.

A similar line of prosecution has emerged in the case of another former minister, Andriy Pyvovarsky; the process drags on with no conclusion in sight. Supporters of the anti-corruption“vertical” argue that this is exactly how an independent judiciary should function — distinguishing controversial policy from criminal wrongdoing. Skeptics, however, see excessive zeal on the part of investigators and prosecutors.

The case of former National Bank Governor Kyrylo Shevchenko has only added to political tensions: his supporters claim it’s a vendetta dressed in legalese — “labels instead of evidence.” The authorities respond that only the courts can rule on the merits. For external observers, this is above all an indicator of turbulence: wherever elite politics and criminal jurisdiction intersect, every case inevitably accrues layers of interpretation.

Another especially sensitive dimension is the intersection with corporate conflicts. Legal teams representing a number of businessmen — notably Alekszej Feroricsev, owner of the TIS terminal group — have openly spoken of blackmail attempts preceding case openings, arguing that the “anti-corruption agenda” is being weaponized in commercial disputes. These are, of course, defense claims, not court verdicts. But for investors, perception risk matters just as much as final rulings: when law is seen as a potential bludgeon, capital keeps its distance.

And in fact, court rulings in foreign jurisdictions haven’t favored NABU either. A French court, for instance, refused to extradite businessman Kostyantyn Zhevago. Interpol and the Austrian prosecutor’s office confirmed they had no claims against Kyrylo Shevchenko, the former central bank head, in connection with NABU’s accusations. And the NABU-initiated freezing of Fedoricsev’s Italian assets is highly likely to be overturned by the local judiciary.

The political context makes the picture even more complex. At first, the authorities and NABU did not appear to be adversaries. Quite the opposite — some claimed the agency was playing along with the President’s Office by focusing on its opponents. One often-cited example is NABU’s pursuit of figures within the orbit of Kyiv’s city hall — Vitali Klitschko being traditionally viewed from the Presidential Administration as a potential rival.

But over time, the tide shifted. High-profile cases have begun targeting figures much closer to the President himself — including names like Deputy Prime Minister Oleksandr Chernyshov and businessman Tymur Mindich. This has prompted critics to ask the uncomfortable question: if the agency once coexisted symbiotically with power, what caused it to go against the political current now — is this the triumph of law or a political game of its own? A direct answer turns the debate from legal to philosophical.

So why, with all this ambiguity, did people take to the streets to defend NABU and SAPO’s independence? The answer lies in two factors. The first is the “vertical’s” own information dominance — which critics deride as a PR agency with law enforcement powers.

Over the years, NABU and SAPO have mastered the art of preemption: media leaks long before official suspicion or indictment, savvy social media strategy, enduring support from influential civil society groups — and, more broadly, from the Western political establishment, where Ukraine’s anti-corruption efforts have become a moral benchmark.

The second is Ukrainian political culture itself — a deeply ingrained reflex to mobilize instantly against any attempt at top-down control. Any move toward centralized authority, especially in the security or law enforcement sphere, is instinctively viewed as a threat to freedoms that society has paid far too high a price to protect.

For a European reader, the key takeaway is this: independence is a necessary condition — but not a sufficient one. Symbolic victories and the formal restoration of powers mean little without clear answers to three practical questions. First: How should success be measured if traditional metrics don’t apply? We need standardized KPIs — such as the percentage of cases resulting in verdicts within NABU’s jurisdiction, the median investigation duration, the share of charges upheld by the courts, and the actual amount of damages recovered.

Second: How to stop leaks and preemptive “media trials” that undermine both the presumption of innocence and procedural integrity? This calls for strict internal protocols and clear accountability for violations. Third: How to minimize the temptation to weaponize anti-corruption tools in political and corporate battles? This is not just a question for NABU and SAPO, but one for the legal enforcement ecosystem as a whole — including the judiciary.

Until these answers are institutionalized, the debate over subordination versus independence is bound to repeat itself. The streets will continue defending the ideal, the government will seek manageability, and business will demand predictability.

In this configuration, restoring NABU and SAPO’s powers alone will not trigger a breakthrough — neither in Ukraine’s broader fight against corruption nor in fixing the structural issues within its anti-corruption bodies. The real turning point will come only when independence is reinforced by effective management — with clear metrics, procedural discipline, and equidistance from all centers of power, whether in city hall, government ministries, or the boardrooms of major state-owned companies.