When I made the decision to study MBBS in Russia, I was relieved to know the medium of instruction would be English. Like many Indian students, I imagined that this meant language wouldn’t be a big hurdle. But after a few weeks in the country, I realized that English-speaking classes don’t necessarily mean an English-speaking environment—and that made all the difference.
Understanding how language plays a role in everyday life, academics, and clinical training in Russia has been one of the most eye-opening parts of my journey. I stepped into this country thinking I was prepared, but the reality of navigating a non-English-speaking world was very different. Here’s how the language barrier shaped my experience—and why learning Russian turned out to be much more important than I initially thought.
Life Outside the Classroom
During the first few weeks, I tried managing everything using translation apps. Ordering food, buying groceries, asking for directions—it all took extra time, and not every interaction could be fixed with Google Translate. Most locals in smaller towns and cities, even in student areas, don’t speak fluent English. Even reading store signs or understanding labels on products was a challenge.
It felt frustrating at times. There were moments when I avoided asking questions just because I didn’t know how to frame them. I missed the comfort of walking into a place and understanding what was going on. Simple things like talking to hostel guards, booking appointments, or catching the right bus became daily struggles. Slowly, I began to realize that learning Russian wasn’t optional if I wanted to truly function here—it was essential.
In the Classroom and Beyond
In the first year of MBBS, classes are mostly theoretical. Professors speak in English, but accents vary, and sometimes, complex terms are better understood when supported by Russian explanations. While teachers try their best to accommodate international students, Russian slips into lectures more often than expected—especially when they’re explaining concepts to mixed groups.
By the second year, the lack of Russian becomes more visible. Clinical terms, patient records, hospital signs, and even instructions during practicals are often in Russian. Understanding these without fluency means constantly asking someone else to translate. That doesn’t just affect learning—it affects confidence.
Even though we technically study MBBS in Russia in English, the deeper you go into the course, the more Russian surrounds you. Without it, you’re always a step behind—relying on others, feeling lost during rotations, or worse, being unable to speak to the very patients you are supposed to examine.
Clinical Exposure and Realizations
The most important turning point came when we started visiting hospitals for clinical training. Standing in front of a patient who doesn’t understand English, trying to ask basic questions like "Where does it hurt?" or "How long have you had this problem?" becomes nearly impossible without knowing Russian.
Medical education isn’t just about theory. In real-life practice, communication is everything. You can’t diagnose a patient if you can’t understand their answers. No textbook can replace real interaction—and language is the bridge.
During these sessions, I noticed the difference between students who had picked up Russian and those who hadn’t. Those who practiced the language could engage confidently with patients, while the rest of us watched quietly, unable to contribute. That’s when it hit me: learning Russian wasn’t about passing exams—it was about becoming a doctor who could actually help people.
How I Began to Learn the Language
Most Russian universities offering MBBS programs include Russian language classes in the first few years. Initially, I took these lightly, thinking I’d “pick it up naturally” over time. But once I understood how deeply it impacted my experience, I started taking it seriously.
I began with simple steps—memorizing key phrases, using flashcards, watching Russian YouTube channels, and practicing with classmates who were fluent. I started speaking in broken Russian while shopping or interacting with staff, even if I made mistakes. Bit by bit, I began to understand the rhythm of the language, the common sentence structures, and medical terms used during classes.
There were embarrassing moments, sure. I once asked for a “heart” at a bakery when I meant to ask for “bread.” But these small interactions, awkward as they were, helped me improve.
The Emotional Side of Language
What many people don’t talk about is how isolating it can feel to be surrounded by a language you don’t understand. There were days when I felt completely disconnected—from the community, from daily life, and sometimes even from my own goals. When you can’t express yourself, it affects your confidence.
But learning Russian changed that. It helped me feel more in control, more involved, and more a part of this country that I now live in. I could joke with locals, ask for help without fear, and gradually begin forming relationships beyond my circle of Indian classmates.
Language became more than just a tool for survival—it became a way of belonging.