On September 1, 2026, right after the summer vacation season, Federal Law No. 43-FZ and Government Decree No. 750 take effect, regulating the transfer of human genetic data outside Russia. Authorities describe the new rules as a measure to protect national security and “genetic sovereignty.” Many scientists, however, see them as a serious blow to international scientific cooperation — fearing new bureaucratic barriers, difficulties publishing in leading scientific journals, and even the risk of criminal prosecution.
Genetics Under Control
One of the law’s chief proponents, State Duma Deputy Speaker Irina Yarovaya, justifies it on national security grounds. “Strict control is necessary, since there have been documented cases of research on biological samples from Russian citizens in foreign ‘secret laboratories,’” she explains. State Duma Speaker Vyacheslav Volodin also argues that such a law is needed to “provide additional protection for citizens’ genetic biomaterial.” According to him, this information is of enormous interest to both commercial companies and fraudsters, and the state is obligated to act preemptively by erecting barriers to the uncontrolled transfer of data abroad.
In effect, the new law places genetic information about Russian citizens on par with information of special state significance and imposes strict restrictions on transferring it to foreign citizens, organizations, and states. To be precise, transferring individual genetic data abroad is still allowed, but only for narrowly defined purposes: providing medical care to a specific patient, developing or manufacturing medication for that patient, or international scientific cooperation.
Where the transfer of biomaterials and genetic data was previously governed in many cases by institutions’ internal protocols, confidentiality agreements, or standard export licenses, it now falls under direct state control. Any transfer of human genetic data outside Russia now requires state review and approval from authorized government bodies.
The decree pays particular attention to data obtained through population genetics and immunological studies. The law frames this as safeguarding “genetic sovereignty” — the state’s control over information on genetic traits considered distinctive of large population groups living in Russia. Transferring such datasets to foreign laboratories or international databases will now become significantly harder.
The document specifies that data transfers are strictly prohibited if they pose a threat to Russia’s national security (a clause that, as the hypersonic scientists’ case demonstrated, can be stretched to cover even textbook-level data) or if the declared purpose of the transfer doesn’t match the aims stated in the research or medical program (again, largely a matter of the reviewer’s interpretation). The restrictions apply both to organizations — research institutes, universities, and commercial laboratories — and to individuals: scientists and researchers.
The decree also sets out specific rules for transfers that aren’t outright prohibited. Researchers or institutions must now file a detailed notification and application explaining the purpose of the data transfer abroad, who the final recipient is, how the data will be protected on the receiving end, and — if the transfer is meant to support a journal publication — what value it holds for the academic community.
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For Russian geneticists and anthropologists who had managed to preserve a few channels of scientific cooperation with foreign colleagues — sending samples or sequencing data for joint publications, for instance — this document erects a new “iron curtain”: conducting international genetics research without approval from the relevant ministries and security services is now effectively impossible.
The law also references the National Genetic Information Database. Starting from the date it takes effect — September 1 — state corporations, companies with government ownership stakes, and budget-funded and other public institutions are required to submit their existing genetic data to the National Genetic Information Database by the end of 2027.
Science Without Publications
It turned out that as soon as the law was adopted, many research institutions urged their staff to submit papers on their latest findings to journals as quickly as possible and do everything they could to get them published before the law took effect. It’s easy to understand why.
All the leading international journals (Nature, Science, Cell, PLOS, The Lancet) follow FAIR data principles (Findable, Accessible, Interoperable, Reusable), which requires authors to deposit raw whole-genome data (FASTQ/FASTA files) in open international repositories (GenBank, SRA, GISAID, ENA) before publication and to cite a unique accession number. Without this, reviewers will not accept the manuscript. Once the law takes effect, Russian researchers will be barred from transferring such data abroad.
But even if authors manage to find a journal that doesn’t require depositing raw data in international repositories, they’ll still have to go through an approval process with a government commission. For aggregated, anonymized data, the commission only needs to be notified — if there’s no response within 15 business days, publication can proceed. Publishing individual genetic data, however, requires the commission’s explicit permission. The law also allots 15 business days for that approval, though the deadline extends by another ten days if the commission requests additional materials.
T-invariant‘s sources believe these changes will seriously complicate publishing Russian research in leading international journals. Andrei (the names of our sources have been changed throughout for their safety), who spent many years at the Institute of Cytology and Genetics and now works at a university in Central Europe, points out that the research itself can still be done without foreign collaborators — but the inability to publish results would be devastating for the field.
“If you look at the key papers in human genetics published in high-impact journals, you’ll see that Russia’s contribution was most often limited to providing samples,” says Andrei. “For example, in Svante Pääbo‘s projects [Pääbo won the Nobel Prize in part for discoveries made in Siberia, referring to the Denisovan hominin found in Denisova Cave in the Altai Mountains — T-invariant], the DNA extraction and analysis weren’t done in Russia at all: all the samples were analyzed in Germany by a large team of highly skilled specialists. Russian participants undoubtedly made a real contribution, but it was limited to finding the material and handing it over.”
According to Andrei, preparing a DNA library isn’t a problem today. Sequencing is easier and cheaper abroad — at BGI in Beijing, for example, or other foreign facilities. It’s possible in Russia too, but significantly more expensive and slower. The real bottleneck is high-quality bioinformatics analysis: there are teams around the world that have been doing this at a high level for decades — the bioinformatics group at the Max Planck Institute in Leipzig, for instance, for whom it’s routine work. Such analysis can be done in Russia as well — at greater cost and lower efficiency, but it’s possible.
But then another question arises: suppose scientists obtain a significant result — how and where can they publish it? Under the new law, that result won’t be able to reach the global scientific community, because it will end up “closed.”
Andrei’s grim conclusion follows from this: the law will set back the development of Russian human genetics for years to come.
“Partly because the international scientific community won’t be able to assess the quality of Russian geneticists’ work, and studies will end up published in some closed-off journals,” he says. “That will turn the field into something provincial and isolated. Nothing good comes of that.”
Another of our genetics experts offers a concrete example of how the added layers of approval have already affected research.
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“When the COVID-19 pandemic started, right in that first summer, colleagues from several institutes got together and put out a really elegant piece of work on the phylogeny of coronavirus strains and their spread across Russia,” Alexander recalls. “At the time, it was one of the first studies of its kind in the world. But we couldn’t publish it for a long time, purely because of data issues. We weren’t allowed to upload the genomes to the international GISAID database, where the world’s COVID statistics were being collected. The negotiations dragged on for a painfully long time. In the end, we managed to arrange publication of the data on an alternative platform, where it was technically accessible but not in the main database. The whole approval process took a year and a half. As a result, a paper that would once have been snapped up by Nature, or at least Nature Communications, ended up published in the far more modest PLoS ONE. Because by then, the moment had passed. If it had come out on time, it would have been a landmark publication. But a year and a half later, dozens of other groups around the world had already done similar research. That’s a perfect example of us cutting off our nose to spite our face.”
Another source draws our attention to a different aspect of the law — the workings of the interagency commission responsible for approving or blocking data transfers for publication.
“Both the law and the decree look very strange. According to them, even anonymized information has to be submitted to the interagency commission,” explains Vitaly. “If the study is a population or immunological one — meaning it contains anonymized, aggregated data on allele frequencies — the process is just a notification. But ever since the decree was published, I’ve been trying to put myself in the commission members’ shoes. Say I’m a population geneticist. The document says one ground for rejection is ‘submission of incomplete information or inaccurate information.’ How would you even verify the completeness or accuracy of that data? Who’s going to do that, and how? I honestly can’t picture it.”
Vitaly also points to another ground for rejection — “the presence of risks to the rights and lawful interests of Russian citizens” or “the presence of risks to Russia’s biological security”:
“We already have a law on biological security. I studied it closely, and it’s entirely about infections. How that connects to population or medical genetics, I don’t understand. The law takes effect in a month, and the interagency commission still hasn’t been formed. When it will be formed is unknown, and who’ll be on it is just as unclear. If it ends up with even a few real professionals, I already feel sorry for them. There’s a huge number of papers on human population genetics, plus dissertations on top of that. Are they seriously going to review all of it? I don’t believe it.”
Vitaly admits the new law brings back unpleasant associations with the “hypersonics case.” “Even back when the hypersonics case was unfolding, I suspected geneticists would be next. There was too much talk about biological weapons being developed against Russia. I can easily picture how, after a paper clears every approval and every commission, someone will suddenly ‘discover’ that it damages Russia’s biological security or reveals a state secret. There will always be a way to claim the authors disclosed classified information that the West is now using to develop biological weapons,” he says.
Bioweapons as a Political Argument
The most common explanation for the new law is a desire to prevent leaks of biomaterial and genetic data that could allegedly be used to create a new kind of genetic weapon. The idea of a bioweapon that selectively targets specific ethnic groups is far from new.
As far back as May 2007, then-FSB Director Nikolai Patrushev presented Vladimir Putin with a classified report claiming that Western research centers were developing “genetic and biological weapons aimed at the population of Russia.” Shortly afterward, the Federal Customs Service imposed a strict ban on exporting any biomaterials belonging to Russian citizens.
In September 2015, Mikhail Kovalchuk, head of the Kurchatov Institute, attempted to provide a scientific basis for this dubious idea. In a lecture at the Federation Council, he claimed that the West was creating “a fundamentally new subspecies of human — the service human,” and was collecting biological material to develop “a genetic weapon that selectively targets a specific ethnic group.”
Starting in 2017, Russia’s president began publicly promoting this idea as well. In October of that year, at a meeting of the Human Rights Council, Vladimir Putin uttered what became a famous line: “Did you know that biological material is being collected across the entire country? And by ethnicity, from people living in different geographic parts of the Russian Federation. So the question is: why is this being done so professionally and systematically?” The remark was prompted by a U.S. Air Force research program collecting synovial fluid and RNA samples for musculoskeletal studies.
“This is a continuation of an old story that started with claims that numerous biological laboratories developing weapons against Russian citizens had supposedly been found along Russia’s borders,” says Vitaly. “For the most part, these were former Soviet anti-plague stations [Soviet-era public health facilities established to monitor and contain plague and other highly dangerous infections — T-invariant]. After the collapse of the USSR, they were left without funding, and the U.S. provided money to keep them running, understanding what could happen without epidemiological monitoring. When Russian troops occupied these stations in Ukraine, they naturally found protocols for destroying bacterial cultures. And they concluded that the cultures themselves had been destroyed while the paperwork was simply forgotten in the rush. But these were just ordinary logbooks: the alphanumeric codes in them let you trace the origin of every culture. Funnily enough, those documents showed that most of the samples had actually come from Russia.”
Victor, however, believes there’s at least a minimal scientific basis for such fears.
“These kinds of examples have long been standard textbook material. Take the ability to digest milk in adulthood. It’s determined by two different mutations — one common in Europe, the other in Africa. From there, lactose intolerance rises as you move east. Among Central Asian populations, the frequency of the relevant allele is 87%; in southern Siberia, 90.6%; and in northeastern Siberia, 92.9%. So when Soviet schoolchildren in Yakutia started getting two free glasses of milk a day, most of the kids ended up in the bathroom. It’s a good example of how ignorance of a population’s genetic characteristics can produce exactly the opposite of the intended result,” he says.
Andrei believes there has always been far more talk on this subject than actual scientific grounding:
“There’s always been more speculation than substance here — from Lev Gumilev [a Soviet historian known for his controversial theories of ethnic origin and “passionarity” — T-invariant] onward, through endless arguments about who’s ethnically related to whom. Those arguments continue today because we still lack good reference databases. In Siberia and European Russia, the population has been in constant flux: there were never populations that stayed fully isolated long enough to show up as “pure” on genetic tests. Hence the endless debates: who the Bulgars really were, what trace the Vikings left in Russians, whether the people around Moscow are assimilated Finno-Ugric populations or predominantly Slavic. But the main takeaway — beautifully laid out in David Reich’s book Who We Are and How We Got Here — is that our ancestors have been constantly moving and mixing with one another throughout history. The defining trait of humanity is genetic fluidity. Fully isolated communities were extremely rare.”
That’s precisely why, in Andrei’s view, creating a genetic weapon that would affect only members of a specific ethnic group is practically impossible:
“Looking for unique genetic traits rigidly tied to modern ethnic groups — Russians, Ukrainians, and so on — is usually just pointless. Genetic markers do exist, but we’re talking about statistical differences, not sharp boundaries. For example, a study of the Czech population found that only about 35–40% of men carry haplogroup R1a, which is commonly labeled ‘Slavic.’ Another 30–35% belong to R1b, loosely ‘Western European,’ and the rest fall into other major groups. The same goes for the Balkans: there’s no isolated genetic component unique to Serbs, Bosnians, or Macedonians — it’s all one blend with minor regional variation, and genetically these populations turn out to be fairly close to, say, Austrians.”
In other words, modern ethnic groups have no single genetic “key” that would set them apart from their neighbors — which means there’s no target a selective weapon could theoretically be aimed at.
What’s more, everyone we spoke with points out that even if you assume that creating a genetic weapon were possible in principle, you wouldn’t necessarily need to obtain material directly from Russia to do it.
“Every serious scientist has long treated this idea with irony,” says Andrei. “If you think about it logically, there are millions of ethnic Russians living outside Russia today — that’s already a huge, perfectly representative sample. If it were hypothetically possible to create a ‘genetic weapon’ — and it really isn’t — no special data from Russia would even be needed. Among these people you’ll find recent émigrés, descendants of several generations of emigration, and their relatives — study them all you want. The argument that centuries of population mixing make it biologically impossible to build a weapon against a specific ethnicity is convincing to scientists and to anyone who thinks critically. But the people making the decisions seem to be working from a different logic: ‘Better to ban everything and play it safe, even if it hurts science.’”
That said, our sources acknowledge that genetic data privacy concerns are real.
“There are serious debates in the West too about the privacy of genetic information,” Alexander notes. “But there, they’re purely about protecting personal privacy. If I publish my genome, I automatically reveal roughly half of my brother’s genome — and he might not want that at all. So the concern is real. Eight years ago now, there was a good study showing how much you can learn about a person who has never published their own genome, just from the public data of their relatives.”
We couldn’t find a single geneticist or physician who believed the new law would improve their working conditions, or that restrictions like these were overdue. Asked who actually needed this law and why, most of our sources suggested we direct that question to the lawmakers who passed it. Many of our experts believe it emerged from years of talk about “genetic weapons,” political ambition, and a desire to align with the current state agenda.
Valery Panyushkin, a journalist with the investigative outlet Sistema, believes the law’s real purpose lies elsewhere — funneling genetic data from civilian healthcare to the military through the National Genetic Database.
“First, the board overseeing this database includes President Putin’s daughter, Maria Vorontsova,” Panyushkin writes in an article for RFE/RL’s Radio Svoboda. “Second, the genetic database is needed mainly by the military, at minimum to identify the dead and wounded. Third, if labs are required to submit client information to the National Genetic Database — which isn’t currently the case — that would open the door to a new level of surveillance over citizens. Fourth, closing off genetic information rules out the possibility of identifying, inside Russia, war criminals who committed sexual violence in Ukraine, Africa, and other conflict zones where Russian troops have served or will serve. Fifth, the law rules out cooperation between Russian healthcare institutions and foreign ones — at minimum, it rules out international clinical trials of new drugs. And finally, all of this has been made possible by the paranoid, anti-scientific, but unshakable belief among Russian authorities in the possibility of creating a ‘genetic weapon.’”
Commenting on the reasons behind the new law, Alexander offers a few more possible explanations.
“It might really just be the product of stoked-up ignorance,” he says. “Or it could be political reasons, or economic ones. The simplest explanation: this is a great way to request substantial funding to build a database, start filling it in somehow, and then announce, ‘Look, now we have our own, domestic genomic database.’ And then everything traces back to the same Mikhail Valentinovich [Kovalchuk — T-invariant]. He’s like Rome for us — all roads lead to him. But most likely, it’s a combination of different factors.”
What Will Change for Russian Science?
Whatever the law’s real motivations, starting September 1 our sources, along with thousands of other specialists, will have to work under the new rules. Most scientists directly involved in human genome research, when first asked about the law, simply sighed heavily: “This is really bad.” Where they differed was only in how much damage they expected it to do to different areas of research.
Andrei suspects that once the law takes effect, some research will only continue, if at all, on a “commissioned” basis — behind closed doors, the way some virus-related work already operates. It’s even possible a dedicated classified structure will be set up for this purpose.
“But that’s a dangerous path, like any closed-off field,” he stresses. “Sure, you can keep getting interesting results. But where will these people publish? You’d have to build closed databases, stew in your own literature, cut off from the international community, with nobody assessing it, criticizing it, or peer-reviewing it. In isolation, pseudoscience, cronyism, and corruption start to flourish almost immediately. Once openness and international peer review disappear, all hell breaks loose.”
Liliya Gumerova, chair of the Federation Council Committee on Science, Education, and Culture — one of the principal authors of the law on the National Genetic Information Database — takes the opposite view. In her words, creating a closed national database is a mechanism for protecting intellectual property and a competitive advantage for Russian science:
According to the logic of the law’s authors and ideologues, making the database sovereign is supposed to give Russian scientists a one-sided advantage: they’ll supposedly be free to use open international repositories while also getting exclusive access to a closed domestic dataset. Our experts disagree with that assessment. Alexander pushes back:
“First, access to international databases from Russia is already severely restricted because of sanctions, and this could only make things worse. And in any case, the Russian database will only ever be a tiny fraction of what’s available worldwide. Second, in science, what matters isn’t just data — it’s the ability to actually discuss your results with people who genuinely understand the subject. Sure, you could lock yourself inside ‘Russian genetics’ and stew in your own juices with a pinch of unique closed-off data in your pocket. But you’ll only have two other people to discuss it with. It’ll turn into provincial science producing provincial research. And finally, people will treat our science accordingly: even if there are some interesting results, nobody will find out about them, because publishing in a real international journal requires the data to be accessible.”
The geneticists we spoke with have little hope the law will be substantially revised before it takes effect. They might have taken some comfort in the old saying that “the harshness of Russian laws is offset by how selectively they’re enforced” — if not for the recent hypersonics case.
“I know two people who wrote negative reviews of the law regulating genetic engineering activity. Their objections didn’t change anything,” says Vitaly. “Something similar happened in 2023, when they passed a law banning registration on Russian websites through Google and other foreign services. I run a journal myself, and we get submissions from abroad too. The law offered three ways to register: through a Russian phone number, through Gosuslugi [Russia’s state online services portal — T-invariant], or through your own site-owner identification system. Luckily, we already had such a system. But at first, no penalty was written into the law for non-compliance. Only recently did Article 13.55 appear in the Code of Administrative Offenses — “Failure to fulfill the obligation to authorize users of the ‘Internet’ network when providing access to information.” We’re in a similar situation now: who will oversee enforcement of the new law, what the penalty is, who’ll sit on the commission — none of that is clear yet. The worst part is that the situation could change at any moment, and it would be very hard to take down an article that’s already been published. You’d end up with an ongoing violation you could be prosecuted for at any time.”
Still, some more cautiously optimistic assessments can be heard as well.
“I was at a discussion attended by the people this law affects most directly,” Alexander admits. “A representative from one of the major genetics companies said they’re actively working to make sure the implementing regulations end up being reasonable. And anyway — as long as we’re alive, there’s always hope.”