Since the collapse of communism and the turbulent transition of the 1990s, the former socialist states of Eastern Europe have experienced an unprecedented demographic implosion. Fertility rates plummeted, in some cases to the lowest levels in the world (at the time), while millions left for Western Europe in one of the largest peacetime migrations in modern history. The long-term consequences of this demographic shock are only now becoming fully visible.
As these societies slowly converged economically with Western Europe, they also began to adopt Western patterns of labour migration (at least in recent years). Ironically, even political leaders who cast themselves as staunch opponents of immigration have quietly embraced large inflows of foreign workers. Viktor Orbán, often portrayed as Europe’s most hardline anti-migration figure, facilitated in the final years of his premiership a steep rise in legal labour migration into Hungary. Careful observers will note that his rhetoric rarely fails to specify its target as ‘mass illegal migration.’ The scale of this shift is staggering. Tiny Croatia, a nation of fewer than four million people, issued 85,574 first work permits in 2024 — more than Germany. Poland, now the EU’s premier destination for non-EU workers, granted 337,874 first permits, primarily to Ukrainians and Belarusians. For societies that only three decades ago were suppliers of migrant labour to the West, the inversion is astonishing.
Yet the roots of this demographic reversal lie deeper than post-Cold War economics. The very conditions that now allow employers to justify large-scale recruitment of foreign labour were created decades earlier. They lie in the institutions, social engineering, and ideological assumptions of the communist period. Policymakers and historians have paid surprisingly little attention to this, despite the fact that it reveals much about both the destructive impact of communism on family structures and the unique difficulties faced by countries that fall below replacement fertility before they become wealthy. Few things are more dangerous for long-term national vitality than collapsing fertility in the absence of economic affluence.
Communism, with its ideological hostility toward traditional institutions, its aggressive industrialisation and urbanisation, and its abrupt liberalisation of social mores, created demographic conditions that were historically aberrant. Long before Western Europe entered the era of low fertility, many socialist countries were already exhibiting birth rates comparable to advanced capitalist societies, a contradiction that Marxist theorists could neither explain nor openly acknowledge.
Marxist Theory vs. Demographic Reality
In theory, Marxism predicted that socialism would usher in prosperity and steady population growth. Malthusian anxieties about ‘overpopulation’ were dismissed as bourgeois pessimism. Lenin’s polemic The Working Class and Neo-Malthusianism captured this outlook vividly. As John F. Besemeres summarised, Lenin scorned arguments for abortion as an attempt to spare children future suffering, precisely the kind of ‘petit-bourgeois pessimism’ that revolutionary consciousness was meant to overcome. Children, Lenin insisted, would fight against the oppressive conditions of the present.
This doctrinal confidence persisted well into the post-war period. Nikita Khrushchev spoke of ‘overpopulation’ as one of the West’s ‘cannibalistic theories’. In principle, socialist societies expected steady demographic expansion. High fertility was treated as both natural and ideologically desirable.
In practice, the opposite occurred. Communist modernisers engineered a radical break with pre-war social structures. Except in Albania, in the early stages of the communist regimes, they liberalised divorce, legalised abortion earlier and more extensively than almost any country in capitalist Europe, and sought to detach the family from its traditional economic and moral functions. Far from stimulating population growth, these measures helped accelerate fertility decline precisely at the moment when socialist doctrine insisted it should rise. The Soviet Union and Yugoslavia became global leaders in abortion prevalence. As David Heer noted in his 1965 paper, the widespread availability of abortion effectively served as the primary method of fertility regulation, almost certainly contributing to the sharp decline in total fertility rates.
The gap between ideology and policy was especially stark in Poland. As Sylwia Kuźma-Markowska shows, Polish party officials in the 1950s and 1960s pursued a quietly anti-natalist orientation, despite public rhetoric to the contrary. Party-state journalists depicted the Catholic Church as demanding ‘unfettered fertility,’ while presenting the socialist state as the sole rational moderniser advocating smaller, higher-quality families achievable through contraception. A striking policy choice in a country traumatised by the wartime death of millions, yet it reflected the regime’s fear of rapid urbanisation and its inability to provide infrastructure for a growing population. A similar pattern emerged in Czechoslovakia, where post-war population policy blended socialist social engineering with pre-war eugenic ideas.
By the mid-1960s, European communist countries had become global outliers, not for high birth rates, but for exceptionally low ones. Hungary, Czechoslovakia, East Germany, and Romania recorded some of the steepest fertility declines in the world. The Soviet Union’s overall fertility remained higher only because of its Muslim-majority republics. Among Baltic and East Slavic populations, fertility fell to Western European levels. Besemeres noted in Socialist Population Politics that by the late 1960s the socialist world was undergoing ‘agonising reappraisals’ of population doctrines — the high fertility once thought intrinsic to socialism had become ‘little more than a nostalgic memory’.
During the early Cold War, American strategists briefly feared that Marxist anti-Malthusianism, combined with support for anti-colonial movements, might yield a demographic advantage for the socialist camp. Yet by the early 1960s, some scientists realised the opposite was occurring. Brackett and Huyck in 1962 observed that every socialist country except Albania already had birth rates within the range of Western Europe, and below the United States. Czechoslovakia, East Germany, and Hungary had birth rates approaching that of Sweden, a historically low-fertility outlier and one of the most economically developed countries in the world. Economically, these communist countries belonged to Europe’s periphery, yet demographically they resembled its wealthy core.
This shift would later shape Europe’s demographic landscape in unexpected ways. Southern European countries like Spain, Portugal, and even Greece eventually surpassed Central Europe in population growth, despite having been poorer for most of the nineteenth and twentieth century (before communism) and having avoided the same degree of wartime devastation.
In 1970, Jerzy Berent concluded that crude birth rates across Eastern Europe were ‘somewhat below those in most of the industrially advanced West European populations’, accompanied by dramatic declines in annual births. Hungary recorded one of the lowest natural increase rates in the world. Russia’s total fertility rate fell to 2.1 by the 1960s, a sub-replacement level at that time, years before similar trends appeared in the West. These patterns were confirmed by Timothy Heleniak’s later synthesis of Soviet and East European demographic decline.
Western intelligence agencies took notice. A CIA report from 1968 warned that Soviet birth rates had fallen below the US level and were only marginally above the European average. The agency noted that declining birth rates would create ‘long-run difficulties’, including military manpower shortages. Far from being a sign of socialist success, the demographic situation in the USSR was becoming strategically alarming. CIA concluded: ‘The downward trend in the birth rate provides the Soviet Union with some short-term economic gains but portends long-run difficulties if it continues.’
Toward the end of the communist period, some regimes attempted to reverse the collapse through aggressive pronatalist measures. Romania banned abortion and contraceptives with totalitarian-level control, leading to a significant increase in birth rates. East Germany instead developed strong cult of motherhood. Yet across the region, these measures rarely produced lasting effects.
For instance, Romanian fertility rates immediately spiked upon the issuing of Decree 770 in 1966, which banned abortion in most circumstances and restricted access to contraception, with TFR increasing from around replacement levels in 1966 to a peak of 3.7 in 1967. The children born in the late 1960s and early 1970s became known as decreţeii (‘decretists’) — people born by government decree. The fact that this generation, by far the largest in Romanian history, is about to enter retirement is now a serious concern to the Romanian Government. The effects of the decree proved to be temporary: fertility rates rapidly declined in the years following, and were once again hovering around replacement level in 1989.
In contrast, the USSR, Poland, and especially Yugoslavia (on which more shortly) were more accepting of fertility decline. The divergence between nominal Marxist pronatalism, both in theory and, later, to some extent in practice, and the lived reproductive reality of socialism thus illustrates the central paradox of the communist demographic experience.
A Peculiar Case
Yugoslavia deserves special attention, not only because its demographic trajectory differed from that of the rest of the Eastern Bloc, but because its internal diversity makes it an instructive microcosm of how communist rapid modernisation efforts reshaped family life. Only three years after the Second World War, Yugoslavia was expelled from the Cominform. The split had little to do with ideological moderation — dictator Josip Broz Tito’s regime was, if anything, more radical than Stalin’s at that time. Belgrade supported the Greek Communists against Stalin’s agreement with Churchill, clashed with the West over Trieste, and in general insisted on exporting revolution in ways Moscow found destabilising.
Paradoxically, this rift drew Yugoslavia closer to the West. The regime remained firmly communist, but now built alliances within the Non-Aligned Movement rather than the Soviet Bloc. In this respect Yugoslavia resembled neutral Austria and Finland, except that it was neither democratic nor market-based.
Demographically, Yugoslavia was a federation of extremes. Slovenia was, alongside East Germany, arguably the richest area in Europe under communist rule. Kosovo, by contrast, was one of the poorest in on the continent, comparable only to Albania. These disparities were reflected in fertility. Kosovo maintained one of the highest total fertility rates in Europe, while Slovenia, Croatia, and much of Serbia (especially Vojvodina) had fertility levels resembling Western Europe. For Serbia, such low fertility was particularly striking given that its level of development mirrored neighbouring Bulgaria and Romania, where fertility remained higher well into the post-war decades.
Crucially, surveys from the period show that the desired number of children was not dramatically larger than the number actually born. Depending on the sample and age structure, desired family size averaged roughly 2.5 children in some republics and around 2.0 in others — figures broadly comparable to contemporaneous France or Italy, despite Yugoslavia’s much lower average income. In other words, the fertility collapse cannot be reduced to a simple mismatch between private preferences and reproductive outcomes, it was embedded in structural change.
Even Bosnia and Herzegovina had fallen below replacement fertility by 1981. This pattern cannot be dismissed as a continuation of pre-war trends. As historian Ivana Dobrivojević notes, interwar Yugoslavia had one of the fastest-growing populations in Europe — four times the growth rate of Belgium and England in 1937, and twice that of Germany. Unlike several Eastern Bloc states, Yugoslavia never pursued pronatalist policy. Population policy was a political taboo and the question of demographic decline was barely discussed in official circles, and any consideration of economic incentives to influence fertility was avoided.
The regime’s modernisation strategy relied on rapid de-agrarianisation and urbanisation, processes that destroyed the social structures traditionally associated with higher fertility. Croatian geographer Ivan Friganović acknowledged in 1965 that fertility decline was linked to rising living standards, urbanisation, and the collapse of the agrarian way of life. But what could not be openly stated was the core problem: Yugoslavia’s fertility had fallen below that of many far wealthier Western societies, even though its level of economic development was nowhere near theirs. Countries such as Spain, Portugal, or Ireland, wealthier than even the most advanced republics of Yugoslavia, maintained significantly healthier demographic profiles.
Yugoslavia’s demographic crisis was intensified by two additional factors: high abortion rates and state-sanctioned mass emigration. In Serbia and especially in Vojvodina, the number of abortions had exceeded the number of live births annually since the 1970s, one of the most extreme ratios in Europe at the time.
Even more consequential was Yugoslavia’s unique policy of permitting large-scale emigration from the 1960s onwards. Other socialist states sharply restricted external migration; Yugoslavia encouraged it. The motivations were dual: to acquire foreign currency and to relieve domestic social pressure, but also, to put it bluntly, to give potential political troublemakers a chance to leave. Unsurprisingly, Croats, who had the strongest aspirations for independence from a Serbian-dominated federation, emigrated in disproportionate numbers. Although Croats made up just over 20 percent of Yugoslavia’s population, they constituted nearly half of all emigrants.
By 1971, nearly five percent of Croatia’s population was living ‘temporarily’ abroad, according to official terminology. This emigration coincided with Western-level fertility in Croatia despite its much lower income, inflicting a double demographic hit. Party-controlled media occasionally acknowledged the problem. In 1981, Croatian daily Večernji list noted that Croatia needed a fertility rate of 2.15 to maintain population stability, but the actual rate was 1.80. Yet public debate remained minimal.
Yugoslavia thus illustrates in compressed form the broader pattern of socialist demographic decline. Rapid industrialisation, collectivisation, and the destruction of the traditional village undermined the economic rationale for larger families. What united the Yugoslav case with the rest of socialist Europe was not policy uniformity but the underlying mechanism. The state imposed modernisation faster and more disruptively than societies could absorb, producing a demographic transition that arrived too early, too abruptly, and without the economic prosperity that typically accompanies it.
The Long Demographic Shadow of Communism
If communism had never taken root in Eastern Europe, the region would today be far more populous (perhaps dramatically so). Before communism, all mentioned countries were poorer than Western Europe but consistently more fertile, a pattern typical of pre-industrial or semi-industrial nations. Had that trajectory continued, Poland would not be comparable in population to Spain but closer to countries like Egypt. Bulgaria and Sudan had similar populations in the early twentieth century. Hungary was significantly more populous than Sweden, Bulgaria at one point exceeded it. Romania in 1939 was more populous than Mexico, but not enormously richer.
These comparisons underscore a simple counterfactual: without communism, Eastern Europe would almost certainly contain many tens of millions more people than it does today. And with population comes (geo)political power. Communism did not merely distort economic development, halting Central Europe’s historical trajectory toward the living standards of Germany, Austria or Italy. It also engineered one of the steepest demographic contractions in modern history.
Whilst fertility decline is a secular trend intrinsic to economic modernity, the path a country takes along its transition matters greatly in determining its future prospects. Capitalist economies experienced rising wealth in the aftermath of the war, before they underwent the radical disruption of social structures which underpinned high fertility. This enabled the Baby Boom, which provided the demographic basis for the greatest expansion in economic development in human history, powered by the combination of growing productivity and a growing labour force.
Anvar Sarygulov and Phoebe Arslanagic-Little note the rapid adoption of labour-saving household goods in the West, such as vacuum cleaners and washing machines, which reduced the time costs of maintaining a home and having children. There was also a sharp increase in housebuilding and, relatedly, home ownership. As people became more prosperous, with their well-paying and secure jobs, bigger houses, and shiny new consumer durables, and felt themselves ‘established’ at an earlier age, marriage rates increased significantly and the average age of first marriage dropped. It is obvious that none of this would have been possible without the general economic prosperity and rapid economic growth of Les Trente Glorieuses. This period of population expansion paved the way for a more comfortable experience of demographic decline, the problems caused thereby being easier to resolve from a position of relative economic strength.
Socialist economies, on the other hand, delivered social disruption without economic prosperity. The destruction of the traditional village, the abrupt uprooting of rural life, and accelerating industrialisation would always have come about eventually — but the pursuit of these goals before the delivery of higher standards of living has left a demographic crater which continues to shape the economic topography of post-socialist societies. Wherever socialism drove rapid industrialisation in the 1950s and 1960s, fertility fell, whether in Eastern Europe, the USSR, or China. Socialist modernisation proved uniquely ‘efficient’ at suppressing fertility because it combined material deprivation with ideological hostility towards the traditional social structures which supported high birth rates.
Rising population can be politically disruptive, causing unemployment, unrest, or potential rebellion, but these problems are temporary. Artificially suppressing fertility is permanent. It leaves nations ageing, shrinking, and geopolitically weakened. Encouraging emigration, where it cannot be avoided, is always less destructive than encouraging people to have fewer children. Policymakers should remember that what feels ‘rational’ in the short term can be catastrophic in the long term.
Too often, Western European right-wingers cite Eastern Europe’s relatively anti-immigration and socially conservative attitudes as evidence that communism had some sort of upside compared to western liberalism. Yet the tragedy of Eastern Europe is not only that communist regimes impoverished their societies, but that they severed their demographic future. By the time fertility collapsed, the ideological rigidity of Marxism prevented honest assessment. The regime(s) insisted on its own superiority even as trends contradicted it. Ideology became a barrier to self-correction. In time, economic policy changed. But nobody can bring back those who were never born.
This article was written by Tomislav Kardum, PhD, a Croatian historian and writer. Have a pitch? Send it to submissions@pimlicojournal.co.uk.
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Interesting piece. It makes sense that economic optimism, the belief that the future is brighter for us and our children should make us more fecund. We are more likely to invest in the future. Conversely, in a flat or stagnating economy, we are less likely to bother. More effort goes into squeezing out resources for our own advantage, thinking of a future beyond our horizon is too much effort.
Of the world’s demographic crisis