KYIV — The drone struck just after sunrise. Oleksandr Hordiienko, a 58-year-old farmer from Ukraine’s southern Kherson region, was driving across his war-scarred fields when the Russian munition slammed into his car.

At his funeral in Odesa in early September, mourners called him “the farmer with a shotgun,” a defiant hero who resisted occupation for three years.

He cleared thousands of mines from the 1,000 hectares his cooperative shared with a dozen other farmers and patrolled the skies with a Turkish shotgun and jerry-rigged electronics to protect his workers from drones.

For Ukraine’s farmers, his death symbolized the resilience of the men and women who continue to produce grain, milk and potatoes under fire. For Europe it was a reminder that the “Ukrainian farmer” is not just an agribusiness boss controlling vast swathes of land, but also includes men like Hordiienko, fighting to protect their land with a shotgun.

Across the EU, such nuance is often lost. Hostility to Ukraine’s mega farms and their ability to drown Europe in highly competitive exports has often shifted the bloc’s politics against Kyiv, despite the war. Ukraine’s vast expanses of highly fertile “black earth” have long made it the “breadbasket of Europe” — something many in the EU see as a threat.

In Poland, farmers’ border blockades over Ukrainian grain imports have soured public opinion on Kyiv’s war efforts. In Hungary, ministers have cast Ukraine’s accession to the bloc as a threat to EU farm subsidies, warning that money meant for European farmers risks being siphoned away. And in France, President Emmanuel Macron moved last year to join Poland in pushing for tighter quotas on Ukrainian cereals to appease his own restive farmers.

Behind all of this looms the image of Ukrainian farm giants and oligarch-owned holdings — MHP, Kernel, UkrLandFarming — that are big enough to rival the agri powerhouses of Brazil or Argentina. ​​These few dozen companies dominate Ukraine’s exports and have become the face of the country’s agriculture in Europe, looming as an existential threat at the border.

The reality on the ground in Ukraine is more complex, and includes tens of thousands of smaller commercial farms and millions of households who have kept the country fed throughout the war.

Leaving was not an option

Akhmil Alkhadzhi, whose father came from Syria, runs a family company that cultivates 3,500 hectares. In Europe that would be a mega-farm; in Ukraine, it’s considered middling.

He built it from scratch, starting with just 20 hectares in the 1990s and expanding steadily with his wife. When Russia invaded, wheat prices collapsed to $70 a ton from $250 to $300 before the war, and sunflower seeds plunged to barely $110 per ton from about $600 to $650.

To keep the business alive, Alkhadzhi sold his apartment abroad.

“We stayed without an apartment, but with a business,” he said. He employs 60 workers — “that’s 300 or 400 lives depending on us.”

The war was only part of the challenge. Droughts have cut his wheat yields from 6 or 7 tons to just 2 tons per hectare, and with banks demanding interest rates of over 20 percent he has had to improvise, renting low-till machinery to conserve water before scraping together enough to upgrade. Climate change is pushing him toward sustainability choices even without EU rules. 

Yet leaving was never an option. “Three days before the war, my family said if Russians come close, we will go. But when it started, no one left. We stayed. We were more needed here.”

Champagne and combine harvesters

A day before Hordiienko’s death, Alkhadzhi found himself among the guests at a very different kind of gathering.

At an elite yacht club on the southern edge of Kyiv, prosecco sprayed from a fountain as a live band played pop classics. European diplomats mingled with Ukrainian ministry officials and the owners of some of the country’s largest farms. This was a reception hosted by UCAB, Ukraine’s biggest agribusiness lobby, providing a gilded day of meaty dishes, strong spirits and relentless networking.

The spectacle was as much about politics as farming, a show of survival, clout and ambition after three years of war. Even Ukraine’s agri barons have been battered, losing swathes of leased land and infrastructure to occupation and bombardment. Yet they remain global players, with balance sheets and export volumes big enough to compete on world markets. What many farmers in Poland or France fear is the scale of these companies and the possibility that Ukrainian grain or poultry could undercut them.

Anton Zhemerdeev, a brisk, fresh-faced manager at TAS Agro, shrugged when asked about those fears. His company controls 80,000 hectares across five Ukrainian regions — a number so outlandish in EU terms that it borders on science fiction. The average European farm is just 17 hectares.

“Eighty thousand hectares is big, yes,” he said with a grin, “but we don’t sell everything to Europe.”

Much of TAS Agro’s grain heads to Asia and the Middle East. The EU, he argued, is just one market among many. But unlike Asia, it is also a political one, with borders that can slam shut overnight and quotas that shift with the political winds. 

When Poland closed its border in 2023, Ukraine’s harvest was redirected to the Romanian port of Constanța instead. “Poland missed the chance to modernize. Romania took it,” he said, referring to investments in ports and railways that captured the trade.

Another producer at the yacht club, Ihor Shyliuk, whose Cygnet Agrocompany runs 30,000 hectares and a sugar factory in western Ukraine, fumed at the European Commission’s tight quotas. Serbia, he noted, enjoys bigger export allowances to the EU than does Ukraine, even though it’s a fraction of its size. “Why is our sugar quota smaller than Moldova’s?” he also asked. “Politics, not economics.”

Those quotas are due to improve under a deal struck between the Commission and Kyiv over the summer, though Shyliuk remained skeptical, arguing that politics will continue to outweigh economics in the EU’s farm trade.

The presence of these giants and medium-sized players is exactly what makes Ukraine’s EU bid so sensitive.

Kyiv formally applied for EU membership days after Russia launched its full-scale invasion in 2022, and has since begun accession talks that promise to be lengthy and fraught. Agriculture looms especially large because farm products are one of Ukraine’s biggest exports and trade in them is already a contentious issue, pitting Kyiv against the EU’s powerful farm lobbies and the national governments that back them.

Overlooked millions

Step away from the yacht club and the massive combine harvesters, however, and yet another Ukraine comes into view.

Alongside Ukraine’s farm giants are tens of thousands of registered family farms, typically 50–100 hectares in size, selling into domestic markets and anchoring local rural economies.

Nearly 4 million households also work the land, cultivating over 6 million hectares. Many tend only a hectare or two, but together they produce 95 percent of the country’s potatoes, 85 percent of its vegetables, 80 percent of its fruit and berries and three-quarters of its milk.

Together, these farms and plots are the backbone of Ukraine’s food security, yet they are often invisible in the debate. During the war, many families have relied almost entirely on their own milk, potatoes and chickens. For some, farming is not just a business, but a lifeline.

That lopsided map of Ukraine’s agriculture — comprising towering agriholdings at one end and millions of smaller farms and household plots at the other— was drawn long before the war. It’s the legacy of Soviet collectivization and the land reforms that followed, a process that left families with small parcels and allowed companies to lease and consolidate those remnants into today’s sprawling estates.

The top 10 holdings each control hundreds of thousands of hectares. But without the smallholders, Ukraine’s villages would have starved long ago.

The debate in Brussels often overlooks this complexity, even if the fears of European farmers about the overall size of Ukraine are not unfounded. Ukraine’s largest farms operate on a scale incomprehensible in Europe, with vertical integration and global reach. Their land runs into the hundreds of thousands of hectares. They can produce wheat cheaper than anyone in the EU. Corruption scandals have fed suspicions, from ministers accused of seizing state land to regional officials caught taking bribes for quarantine certificates.

But the fixation on oligarchs obscures a more complicated reality. The debate in Brussels reduces Ukraine to a threat — vast, deregulated, and impossible to absorb without crushing EU farmers.

Yet for every holding with a yacht club cocktail reception, there are thousands of family farms adapting to EU rules, millions of households growing potatoes in backyards, and many farmers like Hordiienko, fighting and dying in the fields.

The war has also nudged Ukraine’s farm economy to adapt. With ports under attack and borders often restricted, producers are putting more focus on processed goods such as sunflower oil, poultry and sugar, which already make up nearly half of agri-food exports.

For Zhemerdeev of TAS Agro, even 80,000 hectares is just one part of a bigger picture. What matters, he insisted, is that Ukraine’s fields are not just symbols of geopolitical competition. They are home to people — some rich, some struggling, some heroic — all bound by the same stubborn conviction:

“The land is worth fighting for.”