From Child Labour in the Mines – To Your Electric Car

The original publication of the project is embedded below. Underneath, find the full text.

Gothenburg, Sweden

The hum of voices is rising at the eCar expo in Gothenburg. The future is on full display, radiating an almost magnetic glow.

Smart utility vehicles jostle for space alongside visionary concept vehicles. Established brands undergoing transformation stand next to new ones whose names people have barely learned.

Buzzwords are thrown at visitors:

Innovation

Technology

Sustainability

POLAROID BOX

eCar Expo
Gothenburg, Sweden

People queue to get their hands on the wheel and breathe in the new car scent. Sales reps answer questions about electric performance and acceleration.

But no one talks about the minerals.

END POLAROID BOX

POLAROID BOX

Mica Mines

Bevia, Madagascar

We travel to Madagascar, where 13-year-old Laha and other children mine the mica essential to the electric vehicle industry.

END POLAROID BOX

There is a zero point where the story begins—beyond the winding road through the thickets of cacti.

Across the sandbanks to an almost dried-up river, at the foot of a low mountain rising like a shadow over a scorched plain.

6,054 miles from Gothenburg. 24º56’ south on the map, 46º24’ east. This is where our investigation begins.

The mine shaft glistens below, as if it were a wishing well.

Tiny shimmering particles are stirred up in the wind. They cling like fairy dust to the children.

The mineral they extract is part of the green transition meant to make the world sustainable, yet none of them will have enough to eat tonight.

His voice is high-pitched, his collarbones protrude under his skin. Laha Varivahtse is thirteen years old but looks more like eight.

Now he pulls on the orange headlamp he shares with his siblings – the only equipment they have besides a hammer and a chisel.

Without gloves or a helmet, wearing only a tattered shirt torn by the jagged rock walls, he climbs down into the narrow mine shaft.

“I have to work. Otherwise, we starve to death,” he says.

His bare feet brace against the walls of the hole. He lowers himself down, crawls into the passage, and lets the darkness swallow him.

In recent years, the global hunt for raw materials has intensified. Country after country is being scoured for cobalt, lithium, nickel, manganese, and other minerals necessary for the green transition.

From countries like the Democratic Republic of Congo, come urgent warnings about how the extraction of battery minerals leads to forced labour and people displacement. Meanwhile, back home, the EU drafts laws and compiles lists to secure our supply.

But beyond these critical lists is a mineral of the future that few know about.

A shiny rock, with an almost magical ability to insulate electricity.

Mica, as the mineral is known, is made up of thin aluminium silicates that can be split into sheets. It has long been used in everything from car paint to glossy makeup. It is also found in many everyday items like toasters, coffee makers, and microwaves. 

But it’s the electric car boom that has seen demand for mica insulation explode, driving billions in sales every year.

Each vehicle uses about 10 kilograms. The mica surrounds the battery and prevents it from catching fire.

It is there as a protective shield.

We follow Laha down. The temperature rises while the oxygen level drops. 

After just a few metres, it becomes harder to breathe.

“Sometimes we faint at the bottom,” says Laha.

The rock scrapes against our arms. The dust is everywhere.

As an adult, it is impossible to go deeper. But Laha’s small body can continue. He follows the bluish glow of his headlamp toward the extraction point: about ten metres down into the bedrock and twenty metres sideways.

He has been working here for three years. But Laha remembers another life. How it was before the disaster. 

We count about fifty workers, of which about thirty are children. 

That’s not counting the youngest, the four- and five-year-olds who walk around on the ground looking for pebbles. They all come from the neighbouring village of Bevia.

Strangers are rarely allowed into the mines. But we’ve made contact with a man with family ties here who has organised a special invitation.

The grown men of the village held a ceremony under the big tamarind tree and emptied a small bottle of liquor over the trunk.

They have offered a few welcoming words and expressed hope that our visit might help break the hard times.

Now, we are accepted and free to move around.

The older children chip away at the mica, embedded in the bedrock by the harder stone, calcite.

Malala Vahos, 11, and her older sister Zotontsoaés, 14, have an equally gruelling task. They must descend to the mine’s deepest point, gather the stones, and haul them back up to the surface.

Malala presses a hand to her neck.

“You have to crawl in such an awkward position. Your whole body tenses up, and your back hurts so much,” she says. 

Maybe this is a lucky day after all.

On the way here this morning, she shot a small kibo bird with her slingshot. She holds her fingers tightly around its beak.

The bird rests in her hand without trying to fly away. In a few hours, it will be the family’s lunch.

But for now, Malala must go back down into the mine. She hands the kibo to Sahiratsoaré, 7, who, along with Lydiane, 6, is busy sorting mica stones on the ground, and gives her bravest smile:

“Keep an eye on it now!”

Laha Varivahtse emerges again. Out of breath, with a layer of dust covering his sweaty skin.

He takes a few sips of water and looks out over the mining area, a collection of pits along the slope without any form of fencing.

His eyes are dull and vacant. His empty stomach is taking its toll. All he has eaten in the past day is boiled cassava leaves and cactus fruit.

Laha sinks to the ground, points to his mouth, and says kere.

Hunger. Starvation.

It is the most common word here.

We ask the village elder, Friagna Maka, 60, when they last had enough to eat.

“Six years ago, before kere.” 

Laha and the other children do not know that the mineral they mine is used in electric cars. They have barely seen a fossil-fuel-powered vehicle, apart from the buyer’s truck and the occasional UN jeep.

Laha’s thoughts go to the change that caused the famine.

His fingers snap a small piece of mica.

“If only we had enough food like before, we would have the strength to dig more…”

Six years ago, the rains stopped falling in southern Madagascar. It became dry. Completely dry.

The baobab trees withered. The fields turned into unusable sand. The zebu cattle died of thirst.

The people in Laha’s village survived on cactus fruit. In the end, when things were at their worst, they ate the thorny leaves too.

By the summer of 2021, more than a million people were without food.

Other famines in modern times have been triggered by wars and conflicts. This was the first one where global warming was the main cause, according to the UN.

The tourists we met on the domestic flight from the capital were, like most other visitors, unaware of what had happened, that the green island had turned yellow and brown.

That the holiday paradise had, from one high season to the next, become something else.

The site of the world’s first climate-induced famine.

Laha’s father hands over a cactus fruit. It is bright red like a pomegranate but sour and full of seeds.

The juice stains their mouths, making the children laugh for a moment, but soon the excitement fades.

Tear-filled eyes lock onto us.

Why have we really come here, to their remote village?

Before kere, the villagers lived off the land. They grew beans and corn, sweet potatoes and watermelon. They harvested enough to feed everyone and still had leftovers to take cartloads with their zebu cattle to the market in Amboasary, seventeen kilometres away.

In the second year without rain, a man came to the village and said:

“There is money in the mountain.”

The elders in the village knew that there had once been a mine here during French rule in the 1950s.

On-site, they found abandoned tools, hammers, and chisels. With empty stomachs, they started mining.

Dull hammering sounds rise from the mines.

The sun burns, the mica glistens like shattered glass.

The capital is a three-day bumpy bus ride away. Laha’s village may seem isolated, but nothing happens in a vacuum.

The rich world bears the main responsibility for the drought here, through its emissions. And the same rich world now drives people underground, in the hunt for minerals.

Over the past ten years, mica sales from Madagascar have increased fivefold.

Low prices have meant that for certain types, Madagascar has even surpassed the former largest exporter, India. Almost all of it ends up in China.

In 2023, for the first time, an electric car—Tesla Model Y—was the best-selling car model in the world. Yet this is only the beginning; in the coming years, sales will multiply.

We look into the policy documents of electric car manufacturers. Some list mica as a risk mineral, alongside other critical raw materials. None mention a word about where it comes from.

Small lizards scurry by. Laha swats away a fly. The wounds on his hands sting, but there is no soothing ointment.

He dreams of owning a house and many zebu cattle when he grows up. Malala wants to become a nurse.

They say it as if they were wishing for a charter trip to the moon. Neither of them goes to school.

We bend down, pick up a piece.

Feel the layers. The greasy, shiny surface acts as a mirror.

We are thrown back to the luxurious car showrooms, where the new models cost hundreds of thousands of kronor.

Could the mica piece in our hand end up in one of them?

The villagers get about one krona per kilo. For that price, the stone must be broken from the bedrock with sheer muscle power, hauled up from the hole, sorted, and carried to the collection point more than a kilometre away.

After a day’s labour, a team of four or five children and adults has earned about twenty kronor together. It is not enough for anyone to have a full stomach. 

The village elder, Friagna, lights a hand-rolled cigarette and coughs out some dust.

“The buyer comes here once a month, loads up the stone, and pays. He never asks any questions.”

We note the name of the local company the buyer works for. We suspect that this detail will be important for the tracking that lies ahead.

Radoran.

There are no reliable figures on how many minors die or get injured in Madagascar’s mica mines.

The operations are unregulated. No one has employed the children. No one covers hospital or funeral bills if the mountain collapses.

We ask Laha if he is afraid. He laughs dismissively, just as he has seen his older brother Mosa, 19, do.

“No… But sometimes we get falling stones in our faces and eyes. That’s scary.”

The land belongs to the state. Like many others in the country, the mine has no permit.

That might seem irrelevant—neither the police nor other authorities are anywhere to be seen here. For a starving person, hunger is all that matters.

But it means that prices are kept low and the region misses out on tax revenues that could have been used to build schools and hospitals. Illegally mined mica leaves Madagascar to end up in new, expensive electric cars.

The road to the West goes through China. And the next link in our chain is Radoran’s customers there.

We search through a dozen different online databases that provide customs data and shipping records, using the trade code for mica, 2525.

But we find nothing. China keeps the information secret, and only occasional shipments to other countries are visible.

It is just past eleven in the morning. Laha and the other children have been working for four hours. The silence between the hammer blows grows longer. They are exhausted.

They need to find something to eat.

They set out to look for cactus fruit.

A UNICEF report from last year estimated that at least 11,000 children between the ages of 5 and 17 are exploited in mica mining in southern Madagascar. Many more are at risk of being exploited.

There are no more organised, industrial facilities.

Small village mines are not the exception. They are not even the rule.

They are all that exists. An archipelago of points of no return.

Cyclones rarely used to pass through this part of Madagascar. But climate change has disrupted the patterns, and this past spring, there were two.

The rain poured down. The people in the villages tried to dig trenches, but most of the water rushed away and evaporated.

The famine is less acute now. But still, two million people are in need of emergency aid.

The sun beats down from the sky. The rain clouds, which should be gathering at this time of year, are nowhere to be seen.

We continue searching for Radoran’s customers. We contact exporters, aid organisations, and industry experts. We enlist the help of the Dutch organisation Somo, which gives researchers and journalists access to typically closed records.

But the links in the mica supply chain remain out of reach.

We travel under vast skies. Across expanses of cactus thickets, through forests with peculiar trees found only here.

At times, it feels like traveling into a painting.

Over the years, cobalt and other minerals needed for the green transition have been linked to exploitation, as Aftonbladet has previously reported.

But in many cases, efforts to prevent the worst abuses have made progress. For mica, however, there is still no certification or effective traceability.

“No company that buys mica from Madagascar can guarantee that it wasn’t mined by children. They don’t even know which mine it comes from. Traceability is zero,” says Valéry Ramaherison, a mining expert at Transparency International.

Our thoughts return to the electric car manufacturers. In their policy documents, each of them claims to have zero tolerance for child labour.

How does it all add up?

A sharp crack echoes as the side mirror smacks into a cactus. Our guide signals to slow down. The next mine awaits.

A short climb takes us to the next site. The smell of smoke is in the air—cactus is being burned to feed the zebu cattle.

The stone crumbles, flaking like delicate croissants. The ground shimmers like foil.

About forty workers are busy mining, nearly half of them children.

There is the same lack of tools and protective equipment here. The same desperate hunger.

A boy, around eight years old, with stick-thin arms and a swollen belly, strikes two stones together, trying to release the mica.

He keeps hitting and hitting, but his strength is not enough to break the rock.

Nomea Maro, 16, sits on the ground sorting stones. Her right hand shakes a cut-up plastic bucket, used as a sieve. Her left hand holds her eight-month-old daughter, Francine.

After giving birth, Nomea kept going down into the mine, with her daughter strapped to her back. But Francine cried inconsolably, and eventually, she gave up. Now, she is forced to collect small stones above ground.

Nomea’s lips are cracked, her hands peeling from the labour.

“The worst part is the sand that gets stirred up. Francine gets it in her eyes.”

In recent weeks, she has tried feeding her daughter boiled cassava leaves and cactus fruit because she herself has eaten too little to breastfeed. Now, the baby has developed diarrhoea and started vomiting.

Nomea’s face tightens, the wrinkle between her eyes deepens.

“She needs to go to the hospital. But how?”

The sun rises higher in the sky. It was thirty-two degrees in the car. Now maybe thirty-five, far hotter than usual for this time of year.

The starving boy keeps striking and striking, but the stone remains unbroken.

We step into the shade. The adults talk about the zebu gangs that roam the area. About the increasing plundering in the wake of climate stress.

Francine grabs her mother’s cheek and babbles, momentarily easing the worry.

Madagascar should be a rich country. It has sought-after raw materials and a biodiversity unmatched anywhere else on Earth.

But a small elite rules from the capital, with neither the will nor the ability to break the spiral of poverty. Erosion and overpopulation exacerbate the problems.

There is no refining or processing in the country. The mica disappears—along with the profits.

We look out over the landscape, toward the jagged silhouette of the mountains.

The canvas is torn apart.

This is no idyll but its opposite—the site of abuse.

Article 32 of the UN Convention on the Rights of the Child states that children must be protected from exploitation and from work that is harmful, dangerous, or prevents them from going to school.

The words are written in black and white. Almost every country has signed. Car companies refer to the convention in their sustainability efforts.

Yet, the demand remains. The world keeps buying.

The children follow us in clusters back toward the village, their eyes fixed on us—foreigners—as if there is something we must grasp, something we have yet to understand.

The inbox chimes. What we have been searching for has arrived: an Excel sheet detailing mica exports from Madagascar to China.

In total, there are 576 documented shipments between 1 November 2022 and 30 April 2023 to scroll through.

Radoran, which buys from the child labour mine we visited, accounts for more shipments than any other exporter.

We list the exporter’s biggest customers:

Based on previous reports, we suspect that at least the first company sells directly to end customers in the West. The other two seem to have their own production but also act as middlemen for other Chinese factories.

The walls of the restaurant in Amboassary are covered with posters of overweight white children and an abundance of fruit and food.

Happy childhood, it says.

Aid workers take a break from the nightmare with grilled zebu meat and beer.

The music plays until the power goes out and the full moon becomes the only light.

The only vehicle we encounter on the way to the epicentre of the climate famine is a water tanker. It’s stuck.

People are crowding to drink directly from the leaking stream.

The protective trees have been cut down. The wind sweeps in, carrying sand that blankets the fields, making human life impossible.

There are plans to build a huge water pipeline from a river further north, where the water still flows. Madagascar contributes no more than 0.01% of global carbon dioxide emissions. At several climate summits, rich polluting nations have pledged to fund emergency measures like this.

But the money for the hardest-hit countries is withheld. And the fields of Madagascar remain dry.

The jeep struggles forward, kilometre after kilometre, past barren fields.

The sand gets in through the windows. It sticks in your mouth, grinding between your teeth.

On a patch of gravel no bigger than a football pitch in the community of Ambovombe, we find the people who have lost everything.

When the drought struck, they were forced to sell their animals to buy food. Then the land.

Now they live in tents made of rice sacks and cactus trees, ten in each.

The children gather in clusters. Their noses are running. Everyone has diarrhoea. There is no school for the climate refugees. No medicines. No emergency aid. It is as if we have stepped into a different era.

Sometimes children collapse in an instant, in the middle of play. Or waste away and disappear, quietly, in their sleep.

Her face is covered with the ground bark of the tamarind tree. One morning two weeks ago, Soavinale Same’s six-month-old son lay motionless inside the tent. She shook the little body, but the boy couldn’t wake up.

“God called him back,” says the mother.

She scratches herself, so that some of the mourning mask flakes off.

There is nothing left of the boy. No clothes, no toys. Not even a picture in someone’s phone.

But he was there. The boy who was born, lived, and died as a result of other people’s emissions had a name. Mahatante.

A small shop sells water for 18 kronor a bottle, the price of ultimate luxury, money no one here has.

The dust is swirling.

The red wind is whipping up, already tearing at the tents.

The Mandrare River used to be several hundred metres wide in its last few miles towards the sea.

Now the bridge has lost its purpose.

Over the growing sandbanks, wells are being dug. People walk two, three miles to fetch drinking water.

Children fill yellow twenty-litre jugs and wobble away on bicycles—two in the back, one in front. High above them, birds of prey circle. 

The cycle has been broken. The fields dry up again without water, and the land can no longer feed its people.

Is this an anomaly—or the beginning of something greater, more irreversible?

The sun sinks, vast and orange, more beautiful than anywhere else.

We can’t linger. The trail lies right before us. 

Radoran’s procurement centre is located on the outskirts of Amboassary.

In front of a hangar-like warehouse, three trucks are parked, each with 15 tonnes of hand-mined mica.

A fourth truck rolls in shortly after we arrive. It comes from the famine-stricken villages north of Ambovombe.

A few guys shovel the mica off the truck bed. It rattles, like the sound of falling shells.

The site manager, Maurice Alexandre, 29, is the first person we meet in the mica supply chain who isn’t malnourished.

Unlike the miners, he has a fixed monthly salary of two thousand kronor, a dream here.

“Last year, we were still affected by the pandemic. The Chinese ordered less. But now it’s picking up again quickly,” he says.

The site manager explains that he is aware of child labour.

“What can we do? We don’t have our own mines and can’t control those of others. The important thing is that the stone is thin and hard, like the Chinese want it.”

The buyer, Jean Marie Brindavoine, 35, complains that the villagers are lazy.

“As soon as the UN comes and hands out food, they stop working. Everything halts.”

The site manager nods.

“But now there’s a drought, and they can’t farm. And that’s good for production,” he says.

Flies crawl on the concrete walls.

We think of Laha and the other children. The hunger and the toil, the exploitation that looks a lot like slavery. 

No data on trade between Chinese companies is available, so we decide to contact the companies directly. Instead of identifying ourselves as journalists, we pretend to represent a newly established Swedish battery company looking for mica insulation.

Soon, we get confirmation that both Ningbo Ram and Pinjiang VPI sell unprocessed mica to one of China’s largest manufacturers of battery insulation. This adds a fourth name to our list.

Glory Mica.

Another flatbed rattles.

The next shipment is being prepared. 348 tonnes are already waiting in 964 white sacks in the warehouse. The ship to China will depart soon.

On the last day, the clouds actually start to gather. Rain falls like a mirage.

Our thoughts turn to the resilience of the people. Their pride, their strength, their laughter.

They plant, watch it wither. They plant again.

The container terminal outside the old slave port Tolagnaro is the final stop; a hypermodern facility, built, owned, and operated by the British-Australian mining company Rio Tinto.

Ships unload food aid and load minerals.

Port manager Mary Toerasoa takes us on a bus tour, while guards from the security company G4S check that we don’t take any photos. The truth is, there’s nothing to photograph; the port is an island of modernity and could be anywhere on Earth.

Our gaze turns to the sea. The waves crash in.

Nothing happens in a vacuum, everything is connected.

We examine the list of Chinese companies, cross out the intermediaries, and focus the spotlight on the big companies that buy mica mined by children—Pamica and Glory Mica. The chain does not end here. Two emails are sent. 

Who do you sell to?

We head home, but the answers won’t take long. There’s a sequel—a link to some of the best-known electric car brands in the world.

How the mica is traced to electric car giants

https://www.aftonbladet.se/nyheter/a/jlWAOA/sa-kopplas-tesla-till-barngruvorna-vi-foljer-sparet

51 documented deliveries.

Now, Aftonbladet can reveal the connection between electric car giant Tesla and two major Chinese suppliers who purchase child-mined mica.

Volvo Cars and BMW also do business with one of the companies.

In an investigative report, Aftonbladet has detailed how children mine mica in southern Madagascar.

“I have to work. Otherwise, we starve to death,” says Laha Varivahtse, 13.  

The mineral has long been used in everything from makeup to car paint. However, it’s the ability to insulate electric car batteries that has caused demand to rise rapidly worldwide. From Madagascar, the export of mica has quintupled in the last decade. Today, 11,000 children are estimated to be exploited in the mines, making up half the workforce.

On site, Aftonbladet has been able to document how child-mined mica is sold to the local exporter Radoran. Using export data, we have traced the mineral to two major Chinese mica product manufacturers: Pamica and Glory Mica.

Both companies list several well-known car manufacturers as “partners” on their websites. But these business relationships need to be verified.

For several weeks, we investigated the flows of mica from the companies.

***

China keeps virtually all export and customs data secret. Even within the EU, it is not usually available. But by taking advantage of the transparency of the US, we can map trade to the US market.

With the help of the Dutch organisation Somo, which gives journalists and researchers access to export data, and databases such as Panjiva, we track shipments of mica products from Pamica to the US from 1 October 2022, onward.

Several smaller US electronics companies turn out to be on the customer list. And so is the world’s leading and most famous electric car manufacturer—Tesla.

The company, led by Elon Musk, currently produces over a million cars per year.

In total, we have identified at least eight shipments of mica trays from Pamica to Tesla’s US factories, with a total weight of 68 tonnes.

***

The other Chinese company buying child-mined mica—Glory Mica—is one of the world’s largest manufacturers of battery insulation. And once again, Tesla is a major customer. 

Since 1 October 2022, we can identify 43 deliveries of different types of mica insulation from Glory Mica to Tesla, with a total weight of several hundred tonnes.

***

But Elon Musk’s pioneering company is not the only electric car brand on the customer list.

Swedish Volvo Cars also appears in the data.

During the same period, Aftonbladet can map 11 deliveries of mica sheets from Glory Mica to Volvo Cars’ American factory in Charleston, South Carolina.

Later, it will also be confirmed that a third well-known car brand, which is currently switching to electric power, is buying from the Chinese company – German BMW.

***

We contact Pamica and Glory Mica. Instead of stating that we are journalists, we pretend to represent a newly started Swedish battery company looking for mica insulation.

Pamica does not respond, and shortly after our first email is sent, the English-language website is taken down.

The response from Glory Mica’s programme manager arrives a couple of days later. With some pride, he explains that the company is a major supplier to Volvo Cars’ factories worldwide, and that two years ago, Volvo gave Glory Mica the “Best Supplier” award and last year a “Quality Excellence Award.”

He admits that Glory Mica sources a significant portion of its mica from Madagascar.

“But that doesn’t mean we have ignored possible challenges there,” he writes.

The website links to three different policy documents aimed at ensuring that the company purchases minerals responsibly. How these policies are enforced or what the checks are is not specified.

In a later email, the programme manager admits that child-mined mica cannot currently be separated out:

“There is no established traceability.” 

Both Tesla and BMW state in clear policy documents that they have zero tolerance for child labour. Minerals mined by minors should simply not exist in their cars.

Volvo Cars also rules out business relationships with companies linked to child labour.

“We are not involved in child labour or forced labour, and we do not knowingly cooperate with anyone involved in child labour, forced labour or other unfair and illegal practices,” writes Volvo in its Code of Conduct.

***

Kristina Ullrich works in corporate responsibility at the children’s rights organisation TDH, which seeks to end abuse in the mica mines of Madagascar and India. She urges electric car brands to speak out, rather than hiding behind policy texts.

“Considering how much mica comes from Madagascar and how many car parts it is used in, I can’t imagine any manufacturer claiming to be free of child labour.”

A typical electric car contains about ten kilograms of mica, according to Ullrich. Companies like Tesla need to realise that they are dependent on a mineral that is often mined by children in hazardous conditions. And that the situation is dire.

“No one can do it all. But if every carmaker committed to ten villages, ensuring that adults earned a living wage and children went to school, the difference would be huge. Every day that a child is forced into a mine causes harm.”  

***

Aftonbladet pressured Tesla’s press contacts in the US, Europe and Sweden for several days. The electric car giant returned an email with links to three different policy documents.

Not a single word about mica. And Aftonbladet’s questions are left without answers.

***

In a statement to Aftonbladet, BMW writes:

“We can confirm that Glory Mica is part of our supplier network. According to our purchasing terms, they are required to comply with legal requirements and extensive environmental and social standards, and they must also pass these on to their subcontractors. This also includes a clear ban on child labour.”

***

Despite repeated requests, Volvo Cars declined to give an interview. In a written response, press officer Magnus Holst states that information about potential violations is taken very seriously.

The car manufacturer states that the mica sold by Glory Mica to Volvo does not come from Madagascar, but will not say where it is sourced from instead. 

“For competition reasons, we do not share an exact list of countries of origin. However, we can say that the mica components supplied by Glory Mica are part of our traceability programme, which uses blockchain technology (a digital method of storing and sharing information about the origin of minerals, for example) to track the material throughout the supply chain. This solution helps us ensure the origin of the material, which in this case is not Madagascar.”

The question of how the partnership with Glory Mica aligns with the commitment in Volvo’s Code of Conduct—not to cooperate with companies linked to child labour—is left unanswered.

Shortly after we started contacting the car companies, Glory Mica’s website also went down. However, we will soon have reasons to return to both the Chinese company and Volvo Cars.

Footnote: Aftonbladet has reached out to Pamica and Glory Mica for a comment. The export data is incomplete and may contain inaccuracies.

Serving Moscow

The presidential elections and the national referendum on European integration held in the Republic of Moldova in October-November 2024 were heavily influenced by the Russian Federation. The country that attacked and is waging war against Ukraine acted in the Republic of Moldova through a network of tens of thousands of people, coordinated from Moscow by oligarch Ilan Shor, a former member of the Moldovan Parliament who fled the country after being sentenced to 15 years in prison for involvement in the largest banking fraud, which led to the disappearance of one billion US dollars from the Moldovan banking system. 

Ziarul de Gardă (ZdG) managed to prove this significant interference in Moldova’s elections by infiltrating this network and publishing a two-part investigation, chronologically detailing the events. For four months, reporters Măriuța Nistor and Natalia Zaharescu documented the activities of the Shor network from the inside, using hidden cameras and false identities. The journalists revealed how propaganda messages spread, particularly targeting the European integration referendum, how money circulated within the network, and how people were recruited and lured to work for Ilan Shor, in the service of Moscow, using Telegram and funds from a Russian bank. 

Both reporters had accounts opened for them at the state-owned Russian bank Promsvyazbank, which is under international sanctions, for the purpose of being paid to vote NO in the referendum and vote for a presidential candidate dictated by the network from Moscow. Măriuța Nistor received 30,000 rubles in two installments. Natalia Zaharescu was instructed whom to vote for a day before the election and was pressured to vote NO in the referendum on the day of the election, 20 October. 

The first to infiltrate the Shor network was journalist Măriuța Nistor. She started documenting from so-called “protests” held by supporters of the Shor group, who faithfully accompanied the group’s leaders to court hearings. The group faced trial for the illegal financing of the former Shor Party, declared unconstitutional in June 2023.

“People come because (Shor’s team, editor’s note) still pays. If they weren’t paying, you wouldn’t see anyone here.”

26 June. Outside the Chișinău courthouse, where the trial regarding the illegal financing of the former “Shor” party was taking place, a protest was set to occur in support of Ilan Shor’s allies. Reporter Măriuța Nistor made up a story, chose a new name—Ana Nastas—and began her infiltration among people working in the service of Moscow.

Under the pretext of having been invited to a protest for the first time, reporter Măriuța Nistor, aka Ana Nastas, tried to learn about the organization and payment arrangements from the people already at the protest site.

One of the protesters told the ZdG reporter: “Even if someone asks you for an interview, don’t talk!”

A man nearby joined the conversation and revealed the real reason he was at the protest: “People come because (Shor’s team, editor’s note) still pays. If they weren’t paying, you wouldn’t see anyone here.”

The same argument came from the woman.

Protester: “There used to be more people; now, there are very few, I don’t know.”
ZdG: “Maybe they’re not paying?”
Protester: “Well, if they don’t pay, I won’t come anymore. I left work…”
Protester: “A thousand (lei, n.r.). That’s the fee. Later, it will be three thousand.”

8 July. Another court session in the case of the illegal financing of the “Shor” party. Măriuța Nistor began talking again with people at the demonstration. One of them assured her that the monthly payment would increase starting 1 August, from one thousand to three thousand lei.

Protester: “In short, 1000 lei, whether you come or not, they’ll give it to you.”
ZdG: “But if I come to the protests, how much will they give me?”
Protester: “Still 1000. That’s the fee for them. Then, starting 1 August, they’ll give three thousand. Some get six, some three… something comes out…” 

Residency permit

After a few minutes of discussion, the protester introduced the ZdG reporter to Raisa—his “boss” from Dobrogea, a village near Chișinău.

Protester: “Aunt Raisa, can we have her join our group? We know each other.”
Raisa: “Where is she from? If not from Dobrogea, we can’t. We need a ‘propiskă’ (residency permit).”
ZdG: “What if I change it?”
Raisa: “If you change it, welcome.”

In order to join the group coordinated by Raisa, Măriuța Nistor had to move her residency to an address in the village of Dobrogea.

Raisa: “You know, we’re all about residency. You need to find someone to make you a temporary resident. I’m from Dobrogea. I’m the president. I’ll take you and others, but you must have residency here, at least temporary. Anyway, you won’t vote for Maia Sandu.”

With the help of ZdG’s technical team and image editing software, we created a fake ID card. Ana Nastas was now a “legally recognized” character. Once the fake ID was perfected, the ZdG reporter sent a copy to Raisa to be registered in their database. 

“You’re not from PAS, right? I know they’re spies. You’d better not be with the police”

24 July. Raisa called the ZdG reporter to Dobrogea, where a meeting of her group with one of Raisa’s superiors was to take place. Măriuța Nistor was greeted with doubts and many questions.

Raisa: “Ana, I am surprised. But do you know why? There were so many people there, and you approached us. I don’t want problems with my group. You’re not from PAS (note: Party of Action and Solidarity, the ruling party), right? No, I’m asking you. If you are, then say so.” 

ZdG: “No, no, no, aunt Raisa. I want to thank you. But do you know why? Because you’re the one who told me to do this. I’m telling you, everyone else was saying I needed a permit, but no one told me, ‘Go, girl, and get yourself registered.’ No one told me that. But you told me that I need a permit, and you said, ‘Go get it.'”
Raisa: “Everything is normal here, the whole group is friendly. And if you’re an honest girl, we’ll take you into the group. You’d just better not be with the police.”

Later, Raisa introduced her to the group and informed Măriuța Nistor that “I don’t know when money will come, but it will… eventually. Because we don’t get it every month, we get it like this, when it’s been a month…, but we get it.”

Monthly salary

An hour later, which seemed to be normal, the man for whom Raisa had gathered the activists in Dobrogea—Alexandru—finally arrived. Unhappy that people were afraid to give their ID details, Alexandru offered a few explanations: “We need your passport to write a contract. Now, it’s not Raisa who’ll be giving out the money,’ but every month, from the 1st to the 10th, starting from August, you will receive 3000, as activists. If you meet the activist plan—3+3, meaning 6 for the month. We don’t know the plan yet, but you’ll get a call about it.”

Surrounded by activists, whose role is to recruit sympathizers—the lowest level of the political pyramid, with Ilan Shor at the top, Alexandru went over the latest indications from Moscow.

Raisa: “The question everyone has is, when will the payment be?”
Alexandru: “Raisa brought it. She went to Moscow and brought you the money. You should have received payment for January and February, but we gave you a bonus for February because we didn’t work. I decided with the leadership to give you that bonus. And for March too. You should have received three. Now I’m telling you, it’s for July. In April, we didn’t work, we were all in Moscow. In June and May, no one worked, no newspapers, we were in Moscow. You’re all listed in contracts, anyone who submitted their passport on time. But in July, no one worked either. The protests are included in the payment you received—1000 lei.” 

Account with the Russian bank “Promsvyazbank”

6 August 2024. Ana Nastas, i.e. the false identity of the ZdG reporter, was registered in the database of the Russian bank “Promsvyazbank.” This Russian bank, under sanctions, opened an account for the undercover reporter based solely on a fake identity card and without her submitting any request. 

7 August 2024. Măriuța Nistor was invited back to Dobrogea for another gathering. Most of the activists were elderly, and they arrived reluctantly with their phones and IDs in hand, as instructed, to register in a Telegram chatbot.

Raisa tried to explain: “Everyone must have a phone. If you want to get the money, you need to have a phone.” 

After Alexandru arrived, they began registering the activists in the Telegram chatbot. Right after accessing the chatbot, they were asked to send a photo of their ID.

Raisa: “Why do we need to give our IDs?”
Alexandru: “So each of you can have a card. I’m not going to fly to Moscow 20 times. It costs 1000 euros each time for both you and me, plus hotel and living expenses. That’s a problem for everyone.”

Alexandru: “What, are you all just here for the money?” Raisa: “Of course, they’re here for the money.” 

Another discussion followed about money vs. loyalty to the party. People were honest with their leaders and told them that what mattered was the money.

Alexandru: “Why are you asking me for money for the rally? You want money?”
Activist: “What do you mean? I just walked and ran for nothing?”
Alexandru: “What about you, are you here just for the money?”
Raisa: “Of course, we’re here for the money, Sasha. They won’t tell you that, but yes, we’re here for the money.”
Alexandru: “Is it hard to come for the cause?”
Activist: “Of course, it’s complicated.”
Alexandru: “Then why do we need you in the team if you’re here just for the money?”
Activist: “Well, just like everyone else comes for the money, so do we.”

First “salary”—15,000 Russian rubles in a “Promsvyazbank” account

26 August 2024. After registering in the chatbot, 15,000 rubles (equivalent to 2,700 Moldovan lei) were transferred from the Russian bank “Promsvyazbank” to the ZdG reporter’s account, under the activist name Ana Nastas. This was the promised payment for activist work. The only problem was that the Promsvyazbank app couldn’t be accessed because Moldova’s Information and Security Service (SIS) had instructed mobile operators to block it.

In one of many conversations with contacts in Moscow, the ZdG reporter was given a solution to bypass the SIS blockade and access the Promsvyazbank app in Moldova—a Romanian VPN. 

Raisa: “You must come because you work with us.”

Each following day involved calls from “commander” Raisa, who persistently urged the ZdG reporter to complete various tasks.

Raisa: “Listen, there’s a reason for this—you received money in your account, so you must work. There’s a reason—you need to come and distribute papers to people, there’s a reason—you need to take photos. You need to come to me today.”
ZdG: “I understand. But if there are more people, I think I can manage.”
Raisa: “There are more, but even if there’s just one, you must be there. You must come because you work with us. And I don’t understand why you didn’t answer—you were online at 5:00 AM. I called you, and you didn’t pick up; Nadia called you, and you didn’t pick up. What does that mean, Ana? You must always keep your phone near you. When I call, you must answer.”
ZdG: “Okay, okay, Auntie Raisa.
Raisa: “Okay, okay… this is not how work is done. You came for two days, got 3,000 lei, and didn’t work at all. I’m expecting you at 5:00 PM.” 

ZdG reporter forced to hand out anti-EU leaflets

After being scolded in the morning, on the evening of 2 September, the ZdG reporter went to Dobrogea, where she helped two activists register in the Telegram chatbot. Later, she was instructed to distribute leaflets containing falsehoods about the European Union and praise for the Eurasian Economic Union. Since journalist Măriuța Nistor decided it was wrong to spread disinformation, she went home without distributing the leaflets. Because she didn’t send photos proving she had handed them out, Raisa scolded her again. She was then forced to return to Dobrogea to distribute the leaflets. 

“Here’s 1,000. And here’s another 300. 1,000 stays with me.”

21 September 2024. The ZdG reporter was called back to Dobrogea. Upon arriving at the meeting, she learned that she would be participating in a cash conversion operation through an intermediary named Oleg. 

Oleg, addressing the ZdG reporter: “You have 15,000 rubles. When we transfer it to my account, I receive 14,700 rubles—the bank takes 300. Then, I transfer it through two more banks, each taking 2.5%, so we lose another 5%. That leaves 13,965 rubles. Multiply by the exchange rate—0.665. That gives us 2,300 lei. Understood?” 

Monday, 23 September. Reporter Măriuța Nistor was called to Dobrogea to collect the money. However, of the promised 2300 lei, she only received 1300. In addition to the commission charged on bank transfers, Raisa charged her own “commission” of 1,000 lei. 

Raisa: “You barely did anything, did you? Absolutely nothing for our work.”
ZdG: “What do you mean nothing? I did what you told me.”
Raisa: “Come on! We’ve been running around… Long story short, I’m giving you 1,000 lei now…”
ZdG: “But I received it on my card…”
Raisa: “So what if you did? Did you deserve this money? Tell me! Did you deserve this money?”
ZdG: “Well, I did what you told me.”
Raisa: “What did you do? You handed out two or three papers, you went to the demonstration once and that was it.”
ZdG: “And every time you called me… every time you called me, I went to see Auntie Nadia.”
Raisa: So what? That just showed that you were part of the group.”
ZdG: “Well yes, but you told me I would get…”
Raisa: “1,2,3,4,5. Here’s 1,000. And here’s another 300.”
ZdG: “But you told me I would get 2,300…”
Raisa: “No… 2,300 was transferred to your card. 1,000 stays with me.” 

Second salary, 15,000 roubles in the Promsvyazbank account

4 October 2024. The ZdG reporter receives her second salary: another 15,000 roubles, about 2,700 Moldovan lei.

5 October 2024. At the invitation of her bosses, the ZdG reporter attends a training session, where she participates in a propaganda lesson. A speaker addresses the audience, rattling off multiple falsehoods about the European Union: 

“We go abroad, but we don’t work in our fields. Excuse me, does anyone here have relatives working as teachers or… unfortunately, no. They give us the most miserable jobs. We can’t say that Europe cares about us and will offer us a bright future. If Europe wanted to help us, it wouldn’t cost them anything to turn our country into a ‘success story,’ but that’s not the EU’s goal. The EU’s objective is to give us loans and turn us into beggars.”

These claims, made by Svetlana Stanchevici, a former journalist, reflect another false narrative promoted by Shor and Russia. 

Second infiltration. Election campaign, elections and referendum

The second part of the investigation was carried out by ZdG journalist Natalia Zaharescu, who infiltrated the network under the code name “Irina Zahar.” The opportunity to infiltrate Shor’s network arose in September 2024, 10 days before the start of the election campaign.

10 September 2024. In the Botanica district of Moldova’s capital, a group of people was waiting for something—or someone. In the distance, former Shor Party MP Marina Tauber, one of the leading figures of the Victory Bloc, appeared. She approached the group and delivered a speech, thanking them for their participation “on behalf of Ilan Mironovich Shor and the entire team.”

At this gathering, the ZdG journalist met a Russian-speaking woman named Iustina, though everyone called her Iulia. The woman eagerly offered to register the journalist as a supporter, the first level within the network. 

Registering with the office and “bonuses” for recruiting supporters

16 September 2024. The ZdG reporter met with Iustina, who took her to a Victory Bloc office in Chișinău. On the way, Iustina explained to Natalia (operating under the code name Irina) that she would be registered not just as a supporter but as an activist, so that she, too, could recruit supporters.

Iustina immediately emphasized that the main target was the referendum on European integration and explained how information about the preferred presidential candidate would be relayed. 

ZdG: “When I talk to someone, should I tell them upfront…?”
Iustina: “That we are against the referendum.”
ZdG: “And against Maia Sandu?”
Iustina: “Not against her. For anyone—just not for her. The last day of elections is Sunday, and on Saturday, they will call us and say, ‘Vote for this person.’ Then you have to call your people and tell them.”

Iustina urged the ZdG journalist to recruit as many supporters as possible:

“First, you’ll get bonuses because you brought them in. You will receive more. Bonuses are money, you understand? But we don’t say money, we say bonuses. If you bring people in as an activist, you’ll get more bonuses.”

At the office where Natalia was registered as an activist, a young man entered her code name (Irina Zahar) and phone number into a computer. She became the 30th person on the list for what they called Sector 20. He also registered her in a Telegram chatbot named Botanica 4 35/2 (Botanica is a district in Chișinău, the capital of Moldova). To complete this step, the ZdG journalist provided a photo of a fake ID with modified personal data, stored on her phone. 

In the office, several people, most of them elderly, lined up to be registered, while the office staff collected their data and entered it into computers. The discussions revolved around lists and supporters, who were in high demand and critical to an activist’s career. Each activist was instructed to register at least ten people.

A woman named Irina, who had also attended the meeting with Marina Tauber a few days earlier, seemed to be the coordinator of that office. She showed the ZdG reporter how to register people using the Telegram chatbot and instructed her to ask them to take photos of their ID cards and upload them into the chatbot. The final registration step was for each person to take a selfie with their phone. 

“We are the Victory Bloc. We are against the European Union, against Maia Sandu, and in favour of uniting with the Russian Federation. The most important thing is for people to show up on election day and vote for unification with Russia. All registered supporters will receive bonuses. Right now, they should be getting 10,000 roubles,” Irina told the ZdG journalist. 

24 September 2024. Four days after the start of the election campaign, journalist Natalia, known in the network by her code name “Irina,” was invited to attend a meeting of activists, which was to take place at a different office. She went there with Iustina, the one who had recruited her, and met in person with the head of the activist group she had been registered in, a woman named Ana Ivanovna (following the Russian naming convention). When they were introduced, the woman, also a Russian speaker, summarised how the network’s hierarchy worked: “She is your boss,” she said, pointing at Iustina. “And I am her boss, and over there are my bosses,” she added, gesturing towards the office. 

At the new office, the activists were met by a new leader who introduced herself as Xenia. Speaking in Russian, she reprimanded those present for failing to bring enough supporters: “Each activist was supposed to bring two supporters to this meeting. Where are your supporters? Where are they?” Xenia also explained that the identity card data collected was being used to open bank accounts in Russia.

In the following days, the undercover ZdG reporter took part, alongside other network members, in a protest outside the Central Electoral Commission over the fact that too few polling stations were being opened in Russia. She was also handed propaganda leaflets with anti-EU messages and was encouraged to distribute them to people on the street. 

4 October 2024. ZdG reporter Natalia Zaharescu was asked by the head of the activist group, Ana Ivanovna, to attend an election meeting with a candidate for the presidency of Moldova, Victoria Furtună, who was officially running as an independent. That same day, Măriuța Nistor, also undercover, attended a meeting with the same candidate but in a different location. A few days later, on 7 October, the ZdG reporter Natalia Zaharescu was invited to yet another voter meeting with the same candidate, Victoria Furtună. 

PSB message: “You can only make transfers through Transnistrian banks”

During the first electoral meeting with Victoria Furtună, the ZdG reporter received an SMS titled “PSB” from the Russian state bank Promsvyazbank, which is under international sanctions. The message informed her that a bank account had been opened in her name. It also included a phone number, which, when called, was answered by a woman claiming to be a bank representative based in Moscow. When asked how the money could be withdrawn from the card, she explained: “You can transfer money via the mobile app, you can transfer to Visa and MasterCard from this card. And you can only make transfers through Transnistrian banks.” Transnistria is a separatist region in Moldova, supported by the Russian Federation. 

 

“Payment will be made the next day. You can invite friends and acquaintances”

16 October 2024. ZdG reporter Natalia Zaharescu was contacted by another woman from the network, whom she had previously met, named Iulia. Through a message on Telegram, she invited her to attend a “conference:” “Payment will be made the next day. You can invite friends and acquaintances,” Iulia wrote. Over the phone, Iulia explained that each person would receive 400 lei (approximately 20 euros). 

The so-called “conference” was in fact an election meeting of another presidential candidate: Vasile Tarlev, running for the Future of Moldova Party. The speakers criticised Moldova’s socio-political situation, accusing the current government of worsening relations with Russia and other CIS states. Candidate Tarlev urged attendees to vote for him. 

400 lei, handed to the ZdG reporter right in the city centre. “To others I gave almost 4000”

18 October 2024. Around 5 pm, the ZdG reporter met again with Iulia, right in the centre of the capital. Iulia boasted about having a wallet stuffed with money, saying she had to distribute payments to several people right there, in the middle of the crowd and in full view of everyone. When the ZdG reporter arrived, Iulia was talking to a young man who had also come to collect his money—around 4000 lei—because, as Iulia later told the ZdG reporter, he had brought nine people to the electoral meeting with Vasile Tarlev. Iulia then handed “Irina Zahar” the promised 400 lei. The payment was made just two days before the elections.

Falsehoods about the European Union: “By the age of nine they already have to have sex in schools”

The ZdG reporter asked Iulia if Vasile Tarlev was the one to vote for. Instead of a direct answer, the woman launched into an astonishing series of myths about the European Union and the referendum: “Vote for whoever you want, just not for Sandu. Because we will have war, simple as that. And if the referendum passes, there will be changes to the Constitution, and then the lands that belong to us will have to be returned to the Romanians who lived here in the ’30s, ’20s, and ’10s. It will be terrible! God forbid! They will change the Constitution regarding sexuality. Homosexual propaganda will be allowed. There is a programme for children’s sexual development from the age of three. By the age of nine, they will already have to have sex at school,” Iulia passionately claimed. 

“That’s what they said from Moscow”

19 October 2024. One day before the elections, on the day of silence (under Moldovan law, election campaigning is prohibited on the day before the vote, known as the “day of silence”), Ana Ivanovna informed Natalia Zaharescu, alias “Irina,” that the decision had been made to support Victoria Furtună for the presidency of Moldova. 

She also mentioned that an observer would be monitoring the election process and would report to her every three hours on the number of people who had voted. “I already know how many supporters there are in my sector, and we need to reach that number. If we don’t hit the target, it means people are lying. Do you understand? Don’t call me again, because today is the day of silence—we don’t want anyone listening in on our conversation,” Ana Ivanovna warned. 

A couple of hours later, the ZdG reporter received a call from Iustina, the person who had recruited her into the network. The woman suggested a backup plan in case Victoria Furtună were out of the race: “In the worst-case scenario, Vasile Tarlev. But the most important thing—make sure to say NO in the referendum.” 

Election Day message: “what matters is that the referendum result is NO”

20 October 2024. The messages didn’t stop on election day either. In the morning, sector chief Ana Ivanovna sent a Telegram message to ZdG reporter Natalia Zaharescu: “The way we and our supporters, relatives, neighbours, and friends vote will determine how we live. Hurry your supporters to the polling stations.” 

By midday, Ana Ivanovna sent another message, this time in a commanding and authoritarian tone: “Every activist must report how many of their supporters will have voted by 3:45 PM. This is MANDATORY. Their turnout will be proof of how well you have worked. Should I call you, or will you message me? Is everything clear?” 

At around 3:00 PM, she followed up with a voice call on Telegram, asking the ZdG journalist how many people had voted “on her side.” She also reiterated that they needed to vote “against” in the referendum: “I need exact numbers because I’m required to provide exact data. Maybe you can convince someone else to go and vote. It doesn’t matter who they vote for—what matters is that the referendum result is NO. Do you understand?” This was Ana Ivanovna’s message on election day, 20 October. 

After the first round of voting, a call from headquarters: “Ilan Shor’s position hasn’t changed. Anyone but Sandu”

24 October 2024. After the first round of the presidential election resulted in a runoff between pro-European incumbent Maia Sandu and former Prosecutor General Alexandr Stoianoglo, the candidate backed by the Socialist Party of ex-pro-Russian president Igor Dodon, Natalia—alias “Irina Zahar”—received a call from a number linked to the central office of the “Victory” Bloc. A man who introduced himself as Gheorghi spoke to her in Russian, stating that he was calling “on Ilan Shor’s personal instruction:” “I congratulate you on the successful referendum result and on the fact that President Maia Sandu, who is against the people, failed to win outright in the first round. Soon, the leadership of the ‘Victory’ Bloc will devise a strategy for the second round to secure our victory.”

29 October 2024. A week before the second round of the presidential elections on 3 November, Natalia received another call from the same number, this time from a different man named Vladimir, who also spoke in Russian. He informed “Irina” of Ilan Shor’s stance regarding the candidate they should support in the second round.

Vladimir: Ilan Shor’s position hasn’t changed. Anyone but Sandu (Maia Sandu). That is the most appropriate position. Do you understand?
ZdG: What does that mean?
Vladimir: It means that we should not boycott the elections. We should not spoil the ballot. Try to pass this message on to whoever you can—supporters, friends, acquaintances—that they should not boycott. Instead, they must turn out on 3 November and vote against Sandu. For whoever the other candidate is, but not Sandu.
ZdG: But there is only one second candidate: Stoianoglo, right?
Vladimir: Yes, yes.
ZdG: Does that mean we have to vote for him?
Vladimir: Yes, yes. This is the most important position now.

Reaction from those involved

After completing both parts of the investigation, ZdG journalists confronted those involved in Shor’s network, informing them that their activities had been documented in an undercover journalistic investigation.

Alexandr Stoianoglo, the Socialist Party’s presidential candidate supported by Ilan Shor’s network, did not respond to ZdG’s calls and messages. However, his representative denied any connection between Stoianoglo and the Shor network. 

Marina Tauber, MP, secretary general of the “Victory” Bloc: “I don’t know what you’re trying to ‘discover.’ Your questions don’t affect me. If you think you’re going to rattle me, you should know that you’re only giving us free publicity—so thank you very much.” 

In October 2024, Moldovan police and prosecutors announced that they were investigating this network, leading to multiple arrests and detentions. Official data released by the authorities showed that approximately 140,000 people had been recruited into the Shor network. 

Maia Sandu won the presidential election. In the referendum on European integration, the YES option won. As a result, the Constitution of the Republic of Moldova was amended and European integration was declared a strategic objective.

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