The clash with Zelensky is the first visible skirmish in the current transition. It won’t be the last.
Is something going wrong?
On July 15, 2026, Volodymyr Zelensky dismissed his defense minister. Although such changes are common during wartime and the Ukrainian Defense Ministry has seen several leadership turnovers since Valeriy Zaluzhnyi’s departure in February 2024, this particular firing sparked unprecedented public protests. Thousands gathered in Kiev throughout several weeks—even under martial law, where mass demonstrations are infrequent and politically risky.
The focal point for these rallies is Mykhailo Fedorov.
A month later, on August 18, Fedorov released a nine-minute video on YouTube urging wartime elections and condemning corruption and a “system that too often operates by its own rules, that protects itself, that fears change,” without explicitly naming anyone. The following day, Parliament approved Zelensky’s chosen successor while Ukrainian anti-corruption bodies announced probes into senior officials in the President’s Office. In just over a month, what began as a cabinet reshuffle evolved into a tense regime challenge.
This article does not aim to retell the Zelensky–Fedorov dispute in detail, as it has already been covered extensively. Instead, it poses a tougher question: is this merely an internal government spat over military procurement and command, or is it the initial indication of a broader contest among political, economic, and institutional factions shaping Ukraine’s postwar state model and its European and transatlantic ties? The proposition explored here is that Fedorov, through digital innovation, defense tech development, relationships with Western governments, and European funding streams, has cultivated an autonomous power base outside the presidential circle. This remains a hypothesis—not a proven fact—with clear distinctions made between documented evidence and conjecture.
The rift
The timeline is clear. Fedorov took office as Minister of Defense on January 14, 2026, transitioning from his position as Deputy Prime Minister and Minister of Digital Transformation. He served six months before being removed during a cabinet shuffle that created the “Koretskyj government.” His dismissal was officially attributed to poor collaboration with Commander-in-Chief Oleksandr Syrskyi. Yet, after protests, Zelensky replaced Syrskyi with Mychajlo Drapatyi on July 21 but did not reinstate Fedorov. If personal friction was truly the issue, removing one of the two men should have sufficed—it did not.
On July 20, Syrskyi issued an apology in Militarnyi stating he was surprised to hear about any conflict with Fedorov: “It came as a surprise to me to discover that the minister and I were in conflict.” This contradicts the official rationale. After this, Ukrainian media shifted focus, blaming Fedorov’s role in defense procurement reform as the true cause. Fedorov himself later pointed to reforms in procurement—which involve billions of dollars—as a reason behind his ousting.
Thus, a critical fact emerges: the official story does not fully explain events. Syrskyi’s departure without Fedorov’s return, Fedorov’s public rejection of the dismissal cause, and narrative shifts about procurement reform suggest deeper stakes beyond personal discord. Still, the absence of “personal” conflict does not automatically mean this was a battle between transnational political networks. The gap between these interpretations remains the crux of the analysis.
But who is this Mr. Fedorov?
Understanding the magnitude of the clash demands examining who Fedorov is. Born in 1991, he became Ukraine’s youngest-ever minister at 28, tasked with digital transformation in 2019. He orchestrated the digital campaign that propelled Zelensky to presidency and remained the last original minister from Zelensky’s first cabinet by 2026. With seven years at the government’s core, he has no geographical base, traditional party backing, or ties to the old nomenklatura or military elite. His political capital is unlike that of prior Ukrainian ruling circles.
This forms the foundation of the central hypothesis. Elite theory distinguishes between power rooted in conventional resources—votes, patronage networks, bureaucracy, oligarchic wealth—and power deriving from technical expertise, international connections, and functional legitimacy. Fedorov clearly belongs to the latter group. His influence emerged from building infrastructure—first digital state services, then defense tech—not from territorial or clientelist bases. In this framework, power is engineered and managed, naturally creating a constituency of users, developers, entrepreneurs, investors, and officials that diverges from typical electoral alliances.
A methodological caution is essential: Fedorov has “never publicly expressed presidential ambitions,” according to Chatham House, even while recognizing his growing influence. Polling reflects he trails Zelensky but outpaces many others; the Kiev International Institute of Sociology notes trust in Fedorov rose from 38% to 50% in six months while Zelensky’s support stayed around 61–62%. Another poll suggests he might win in a hypothetical runoff against his former boss. These figures map potential rather than an established political machine—an important distinction to keep in mind.
The link between Fedorov’s digital and defense roles is key. Diya, launched in 2020, now serves about 21 million users with over 100 public services like digital ID, business registration, social benefits, and wartime tools such as documenting property damage. Diya is more than an app; it forms an identity and data infrastructure reshaping state-citizen relations and serves as a platform enabling other state functions, military ones included.
For Fedorov, moving from digital governance to military tech is not a stark career shift but the same principle applied elsewhere. His promise to the Defense Ministry is implementing a data-driven, transparent approach to military operations and procurement, confronting resistance from entrenched bureaucracies and traditional military procurement processes. The procurement reforms he championed—especially given their multibillion-dollar scope—are at the heart of the power struggle. Whoever controls procurement and data flows wields significant influence amid wartime economics, making this clash foreseeable.
The New Ukrainian Defense Economy
The core of Fedorov’s influence lies in Brave1, a state-backed cluster launched in April 2023 under his guidance. This platform funds and supports defense startups by integrating grants, testing, certification, and linking firms with military buyers. Rather than a company, Brave1 acts as a coordinator between the Ministry of Digital Transformation, the armed forces, General Staff, and private sector. Over two years, it granted more than 2 billion hryvnias to over 540 projects and gathered an ecosystem exceeding 1,500 innovative companies. The 2025 budget earmarked nearly 3 billion hryvnia for defense-tech grants.
What matters analytically isn’t Fedorov as a figure but the hybrid funding model. Ukrainian startups on Brave1 attract private investment and international venture capital via “invest demo days,” where matches lead to multimillion-dollar deals: Swarmer, for example, secured $15 million in Series A funding led by U.S. investors. In March 2026, Brave1 toured sixteen Ukrainian startups across six U.S. cities to meet venture capitalists, defense firms, and officials; it also launched a 10-million-euro NATO-backed anti-drone system call for proposals through the NCIA. Viewed through network theory, Fedorov functions as a bridge connecting the Ukrainian government, Western private investors, NATO defense industry, and international capital—a position granting him legitimacy and resources independent from the presidency.
It must be stated honestly: no evidence exists that Fedorov “controls” the companies linked to Brave1 or that the cluster is his personal financial clientele. Brave1 operates as a public grant program, and startups are private with undisclosed valuations. Instead, the evidence points to a constituency of entrepreneurs, engineers, and investors coalescing around Brave1, whose economic viability depends on maintaining a disintermediated, tech-driven defense model that Fedorov embodies politically. This constitutes an organized interest group seeing Fedorov as its natural representative. The distinction between this and a personal power machine separates scholarly analysis from conspiracy theories.
Following the clues
Here, the discussion enters sensitive ground, where sound analysis and conspiracy rhetoric may superficially resemble but must be strictly distinguished. The key question is not whether Fedorov “controls EU-funded NGOs”—no source supports this—but rather what happens to internal power dynamics when unprecedented external funding flows into certain state sectors, programs, and networks.
Consider the scale: The Ukraine Facility, an EU fund totaling about 50 billion euros for 2024–2027, had disbursed over 29.5 billion euros by June 2026—roughly 77% of available funds. Nearly 38.5 billion euros is conditional on reforms under a “reforms in exchange for funds” scheme, meaning payments can be suspended if reforms stall. On July 30, 2026, the Council approved an extra 8.3 billion euros for 2026, with added reforms on rule of law and anti-corruption.
The political point is critical: financial conditionality is, as Ukrinform puts it, “one of the tools for moving Ukraine toward EU membership.” Thus, Ukrainians capable of delivering Brussels-mandated reforms—digitalization, transparent procurement, anticorruption actions, e-government—gain structural value to funders. This aligns perfectly with Fedorov’s profile. Diya exemplifies the kind of platform the European Commission lauds; defense procurement reform fits the anti-corruption measures rewarded by the Ukraine Plan. No conspiracy is required to explain why European institutions favor someone like him: it follows logically from conditionality.
However, it is crucial to distinguish institutional favor from political alliance. Convergence between a reform-oriented leader and conditionality-driven agendas does not equal dependence or manipulation. Available sources reveal a structural alignment of interests and policies but no clientelist tie between Brussels and Fedorov. The temptation to conflate these is precisely the error this analysis avoids. What is evident is that European funding, channeled through reform programs in Ukraine, objectively incentivizes a technocratic reformist elite. Fedorov perfectly exemplifies this, providing him with a functional—rather than electoral—legitimacy source outside presidential control.
My approach, “follow the money, follow the people, follow the institutions,” demands examining funding sources, beneficiaries, programs, and personnel overlaps among government, business, and civil society. For Fedorov, this method reveals clear institutional overlaps, while current public data does not sufficiently clarify personnel intersections. Fedorov transferred his team and methods from Digital Transformation to Defense, and Brave1 integrates public officials and private investors. The “revolving door” of officials moving between government and private sectors and EU programs providing consultancy is structurally possible in Ukraine’s defense-tech environment—not an accusation. Yet naming individuals requires corporate documents and verified biographies beyond journalistic and institutional reports cited here. Highlighting this gap is the difference between careful network analysis and unfounded speculation.
One well-documented connection stands out for illustrating Fedorov’s transnational reach: his direct ties to Elon Musk. Fedorov facilitated Starlink’s activation in February 2022 via a public request and later convinced SpaceX in February 2026 to block Russia’s access to the system—a move a Foreign Policy Research Institute scholar called “truly decisive” for Russian command and control disruption. In the post announcing his dismissal, Fedorov cited Starlink blocking as his tenure’s first major achievement.
A minister with direct access to the individual controlling wartime satellite infrastructure clearly commands a network extending beyond national borders. This fact illustrates Fedorov’s international relational capital outside presidential mediation.
The Zelensky Problem
Assuming Zelensky perceives Fedorov as a political threat, why might that be? Five competing hypotheses warrant examination, not to pick a favorite but to see which fits the evidence best.
First, a bureaucratic clash. It involved procurement, military policy, command issues, and personalities—the official explanation. However, Syrskyi’s denial of conflict and Fedorov’s exclusion post-Syrskyi’s removal weaken this narrative, leaving it as only part of the story.
Second, an institutional conflict: Fedorov as a force for technological modernization versus the entrenched military bureaucracy. This is strongly evidenced by procurement disputes, clashes with the General Staff, and resistance to his data-driven methods. It explains much but not why the dispute escalated into a broader crisis.
Third, political succession. Fedorov’s growing profile suggested potential leadership in a post-war Ukraine. His August 18 call for elections supports this, recasting his July dismissal from a managerial fallout into a political sidelining of a rival.
Fourth, involvement of international networks. Fedorov’s deepening ties to European and Western institutions supplied independent legitimacy and resources. The structural alignment with EU conditionality, leadership in Brave1, and connection to Musk support this. Still, alignment isn’t dependence, so this theory is a factor, not the full explanation.
Fifth, a combination of all the above: institutional tensions triggered the initial conflict; political ambitions raised stakes; international networks emboldened Fedorov to resist dismissals; and the bureaucracy shaped public narratives. Alone, none explains the escalation; together, they do.
The military issue, Brussels, and the hypothetical postwar period
Syrskyi’s July 21, 2026 replacement by Drapatyi fits this framework. Syrskyi represented the old guard, blamed for battlefield losses. His dispute with Fedorov reflected divergent war strategies: traditional mass mobilization and hierarchical command versus technological warfare employing drones, electronic warfare, and data. Zelensky’s sacrifice of Syrskyi amidst protests yet appointment of Yevhen Khmara—a veteran leading long-range drone strikes and exponent of Fedorov’s technological approach—as defense minister signals his adoption of the tech agenda while ousting its architect. This move suggests the conflict was less about defense policy and more about control over its political embodiment.
The concept of outsourced state-building helps explain this. When external financiers cover two-thirds of wartime finances and tie payments to reform packages, they don’t directly meddle in domestic politics but reshape incentives. The European Commission reports total European aid surpassing 193 billion euros; the 2026–2027 package alone meets two-thirds of IMF’s biennial needs with strict rule-of-law and anti-corruption conditions.
These financial flows impact Ukraine’s power structure. While bolstering the state overall, they particularly empower ministries able to implement reforms, technocratic entities aligned with Brussels, civil society groups focused on anti-corruption, and defense-tech entrepreneurs benefiting from European investments and partnerships. This dynamic creates alternative legitimacy centers rooted in external recognition, not votes—precisely where Fedorov thrives. Not as Brussels’ appointee, but because funding structures favor voices like his.
This raises the key question: which elite will dominate Ukraine in reconstruction? The postwar state will be shaped by elections, constitutional legitimacy, massive reconstruction contracts, EU accession, defense policy, privatization, foreign capital, and reforms. Control over these institutions equals power in 2030.
At least five forces compete: Zelensky’s presidential faction, whose wartime mandate is waning as peace nears (with 67% in May 2026 expecting his postwar replacement); the military leadership centered around Zaluzhnyi, a top-trusted figure now ambassador to London; Fedorov’s technology-driven network built on digitalization, defense innovation, and transnational ties; civil society and reform-oriented groups supported by donors; and legacy plus emerging industrial and regional interests. Seen in this light, the July–August 2026 episode is merely the opening skirmish of a broader positioning battle for Ukraine’s postwar political architecture.
Fedorov’s August 18 call for elections made explicit what was previously implied: “We must not let Putin decide when Ukrainians can choose their own government,” he declared, connecting voting rights to accountability: “If you’ve been given authority, you’re accountable for the result. If you’ve been given a budget, show what has been accomplished.” A Kiev analyst summed up that Fedorov had “crossed the Rubicon” with his former patron. Calling for elections under martial law—while Moscow challenges Zelensky’s legitimacy—opens a domestic front weakening the president amid concurrent anti-corruption investigations targeting his office. Although the timing does not prove collaboration, it clearly outlines the political battlefield.
A bit of Pop Psychology
For balanced analysis, at least six alternative explanations should be considered, each with criteria for validation or refutation.
First: Fedorov’s networks result naturally from international cooperation rather than political ambitions. This would be disproved if operational coordination with foreign funders emerged but is supported so far by lack of formal political organization around him.
Second: EU funds have transparency and oversight preventing clientelism. This is backed by audit systems; countered only by evidence of personal network funding, which is absent so far.
Third: The dispute is personal—a fallout between patron and protégé. While emotionally plausible, it insufficiently explains mass protests or election calls.
Fourth: The military dispute explains most issues; other interpretations are superstructure. This holds until July 21 but weakens afterward, given Fedorov’s non-reinstatement.
Fifth: Fedorov lacks a true political base, relying on media popularity and tech support without electoral strength. This is the strongest opposing view and deserves careful attention, as a startup constituency differs vastly from a political party.
Sixth: European institutions prefer stability, and the perceived “network” is actually overlapping small-world professional circles rather than a coordinated plan. This is likely the most methodologically sound counter-hypothesis and justifies treating all conclusions here as provisional.
So what is really happening?
Piecing together evidence reveals a scenario neither naive nor conspiratorial. The official reasons for Fedorov’s removal falter; the core issue was procurement reform challenging military entrenched interests; Fedorov represents a technocratic, digital, and international model of power distinct from Ukraine’s former elite; a real business and investor constituency rallies around Brave1; European funding structurally favors this elite type; and with the election call, Fedorov has transitioned from dismissed minister to overt political adversary.
It is a strong—though not definitive—inference that the July dismissal aimed to preempt a succession challenge. It is plausible—but unverified—that European and transnational networks have empowered Fedorov’s autonomy. Any assertions that Fedorov “controls” NGOs or funds, or that Brussels has chosen him personally, remain speculative given public data. This nuanced distinction between strong inference, plausible theory, and speculation separates this analysis from conspiracy-driven narratives.
What remains?
Is Fedorov merely another Ukrainian minister at odds with Zelensky, or does he symbolize a new political-economic formation rooted in digital governance, defense tech, European funding, transnational links, and postwar recovery, potentially capable of challenging the presidential system?
The honest response is uncertainty. It would be premature to claim Fedorov’s eventual victory. His support is not yet a fully structured party; his popularity has not matured into political machinery; his international networks grant functional legitimacy but not proven strategic alliances. The crucial question is not his probable success, but whether the conditions exist for an actor like him—or a similar political grouping—to emerge as a key player in postwar Ukraine. The evidence affirms this possibility.
All elements converge: a presidential administration whose war legitimacy fades with peace; a military command losing public trust; a major external funder reinforcing reformist technocrats; a vast reconstruction economy seeking competent Western-facing managers; and an individual positioned at the crossroads of all these forces. The case of Fedorov does not forecast Ukraine’s leadership in 2030 but signals a shift in power toward those controlling data, platforms, and financial flows that transform foreign aid into state capacity.
The clash with Zelensky is the first visible skirmish in the current transition. It won’t be the last.
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