The Story of How I Overcame the Language Barrier

My name is Nelli Meshcheriakova. I was born and raised in Russia. And while I have no issues with Russian, I have a complicated relationship with foreign languages. I deeply respect polyglots and want to become one myself, but all my life I unsuccessfully tried to learn English, and only recently began studying Armenian and Italian.

When I came to Armenia through the Birthright program, I was surprised to discover that most people speak English. It’s difficult for me — both because my level isn’t very high, because I’m afraid of making mistakes, and because I have many negative associations with the language. It frustrates me that I can’t say what I think. I get lost and physically feel resistance when I need to speak to someone. And when a new machine-gun burst of words flies at me from some foreigner, sometimes I just want to turn around and walk away. I may be wrong, but at times it feels like I’m the only one who struggles, while everyone else speaks English like a second native language.

That was my mindset during the first few weeks of volunteering — until something happened that changed everything.

I woke up at 6 a.m. on Saturday to go on my first excursion around Armenia.

The sky was just beginning to brighten. The coordinator was calling out names, and sleepy people were boarding the bus one by one. Surnames ending in “-yan” echoed everywhere: Sargsyan, Harutyunyan, Grigoryan. Then she stumbled over mine: “Metc… Mestch-che…” — “That’s me, that’s me!” I said impatiently, but she stubbornly finished: “ri-a-kova. Mestcheriakova.” By then I was already sitting next to the only person I knew.

— So beautiful! Which one of these mountains do you think is Ararat?

— I don’t think it’s any of these — it’s somewhere over there.

When we arrived at the Birthright office in Vanadzor, the coordinator made an announcement in Armenian and then in English — so first I understood nothing, and then only half. We got off the bus, formed a circle, and the newcomers were asked to introduce themselves. While everyone else presented in English, I was desperately searching my mind for suitable phrases and wanted to sink into the ground.

“I'm here until the end of winter,” I read in the translator. “Okay, don’t forget that.” “I’m here…”

— It’s your turn, I heard from somewhere.

— Huh? All eyes turned toward me. I pointed at myself questioningly.

— Yes, yes — someone shook their head — You can speak in Russian.

I exhaled in relief, told my story honestly and quickly, and then heard an even shorter translation of my already brief introduction.

Everyone scattered to socialize, and I felt sharply alone. I understood almost nothing and knew almost no one. We had 45 minutes to stay there, and I had no idea what to do with myself.

Thoughtfully biting into a slice of pear from the buffet, I saw David — the same David from America who had lived with my host family before me, who was the first person from the program I had been able to talk to naturally without technical or language barriers, even when I was still in Russia.

— Nice to finally meet you in person, David!

— I’m glad too. How’s living with the host family? he asked. He spoke good Russian, but with a funny American accent.

— Well… it’s okay.

— Your face doesn’t look happy. It looks sad.

— Everything still feels unfamiliar.

We talked about everything, and then it was time for a walk. Suddenly a cute guy with glasses approached me:

— Do you speak Russian?

— What? You know Russian?

— Yes, I studied… I study, not for long.

— Wow, I… can help you.

— Yes?

— Yes.

That’s how I met Robin from Paris — a cheerful 25-year-old with long eyelashes.

I became so absorbed in our conversation and our clumsy explanations in a mix of Russian and English that I stopped thinking about whether I was speaking well or badly.

My travel companion tactfully withdrew, and Robin sat next to me. I asked him how he was doing with the Russian letter “ы,” and he tried to teach me his French sounds. In the end, we were laughing loudly on the bus because it was simply impossible to pronounce them.

When we arrived at the “Lavash and Cheese” festival, tasted everything, and learned to dance traditional dances, things became a bit slow. So a group of us slipped away to see a canyon and the museum of the Armenian Pushkin.

While everyone was climbing over rocks, I slowly began getting to know each person and talking with them. That’s how I met Ani from Los Angeles, Rubina from Beirut, Mikael from Moscow. The Russian language kept appearing in the most unexpected ways — like a Christmas gift. Some had parents who grew up in the Soviet Union; some were born in Russia and later moved away.

There were also those who only spoke English or Armenian. And while I was sadly explaining how shy I felt about my English — gathering all my language knowledge and pantomime skills — I suddenly realized that I was speaking. Kind girls praised and encouraged me, and I truly began to believe in myself.

I realized that foreigners will never shame you for your English. The judging voice in your head is usually your own — or that of a fellow countryman.

Of course, I still recognized my mistakes and will continue working on them.

I noticed that I build sentences intuitively and that I lack vocabulary for my favorite existential conversations. But that can be improved — and, most wonderfully, immediately applied.

So when I returned home, I practiced with renewed enthusiasm on Duolingo, which had slightly annoyed me over the past year. I remembered 25-year-old Mathias, whom I met at lunch. He knows ten — ten! — languages. And that’s incredibly inspiring.

I still envy all those people who fluently speak two, three, four languages. I don’t know why I need so many — let alone ten — but that Saturday, in the multilingual chorus of voices, I felt something truly miraculous: to speak and to understand.

Of course, I’m still far from full self-expression in another language. But a fresh wind of freedom and diversity has already touched my soul. How could I possibly refuse that?