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Pavel Durov, the 41-year-old founder of Telegram and a billionaire worth an estimated $17 billion, has thrust himself into the spotlight once again not for his messaging app's privacy battles, but for his unconventional approach to reproduction.
In recent reports, Durov has offered to fully fund in vitro fertilization (IVF) treatments for unmarried women under 37 who choose to use his donated sperm at Moscow's AltraVita clinic.
He has also pledged that all his biological children, proven through DNA testing, will receive an equal share of his vast fortune, potentially after a 30-year waiting period following his death.
Durov's journey into mass sperm donation began around 2010, initially to help a friend struggling with fertility issues.
What started as a personal favor evolved into anonymous donations, which he later described as a "civic duty."
He cites a global shortage of "high-quality donor material," attributing declining sperm counts to factors like plastic pollution and modern lifestyles.
By 2024, Durov publicly revealed on Telegram that his donations had resulted in over 100 biological children across 12 countries, in addition to six children he fathered naturally with three partners. He even announced plans to "open-source" his DNA to help these offspring connect with one another.
The AltraVita clinic, which stores his frozen samples (as Durov no longer donates fresh ones), markets this opportunity aggressively, featuring his photo and the Telegram logo.
The offer is restricted to unmarried women under 37 to avoid paternity disputes, with Durov personally covering all costs. Former clinic staff have noted an influx of well-educated, attractive applicants seeking a child from a "successful" donor.
This program, ongoing into 2025, has drawn dozens of women, framing Durov's involvement as a "generous contribution to society."
Proponents might view Durov's actions as progressive philanthropy. In a world where infertility affects millions and IVF can cost tens of thousands of dollars per cycle, subsidizing treatments removes financial barriers.
Durov argues for destigmatizing sperm donation, encouraging healthy men to contribute amid falling global fertility rates.
His inheritance promise treats all children equally, regardless of conception method, and could provide life-changing wealth potentially millions each if his offspring number in the hundreds.
Yet, the initiative raises profound ethical concerns. Critics point to risks of genetic concentration: one donor fathering scores of children increases the chance of unintentional incest among half-siblings. Cases like Dutch donor Jonathan Meijer, banned after fathering over 550 children, highlight regulatory gaps.
In 2025, EU health ministers even discussed international limits on "super donors," citing Durov's case. Questions of eugenics linger does promoting one's own "superior" genes (as implied by clinic marketing) veer into selective breeding? Psychological impacts on children discovering dozens of half-siblings, or on mothers raising alone, are underexplored.
Durov's nomadic, minimalist lifestyle he avoids marriage and lives alone adds irony. His recent playful post sketching a "PD" logo for the program (mockingly interpreted in French slang) underscores his trollish persona.
While he frames this as altruism against demographic decline, skeptics see ego: a billionaire engineering a vast genetic legacy funded by his tech empire.
Ultimately, Durov's program blurs lines between charity, reproduction, and power. It spotlights broader issues—access to fertility treatments, donor regulations, and wealth's influence on family creation.
As more children potentially join his lineage, society must grapple with whether this is innovative solutions to infertility or an unchecked experiment in human legacy.
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