Lost in Translation: How a Foreign Language Steals Our Individuality

When we arrive in a foreign country and start speaking a foreign language, we inevitably lose a huge part of ourselves. This isn’t just a communication barrier—it’s a loss of identity, erudition, and that spark that makes us unique. In our native language, we reveal ourselves in all our glory: we demonstrate our breadth of reading, sharp wit, quick thinking, and sense of humor. And here, in a foreign environment, we become pale shadows of our former selves. These people have no idea how many treasures are hidden behind our clumsy phrases.

Imagine: you are a person with a rich inner world. You have read Leo Tolstoy with his epic canvases "War and Peace", where the fates of hundreds of characters are intertwined against the backdrop of historical storms. Dostoevsky has revealed to you the abysses of the human soul in "Crime and Punishment" and "The Brothers Karamazov" – those moral dilemmas that make you think about good and evil. Chekhov taught you the subtle art of noticing the absurdity of everyday life in stories like "The Lady with the Dog", and Pushkin gave you poetry, where every word is like a sword blow: "Eugene Onegin", "The Bronze Horseman", the eternal beauty of the Russian syllable.

But that’s not all. Your knowledge extends far beyond literature. You have a thorough command of Russian history—from the founding of the House of Romanov in 1613, when Mikhail Fedorovich ascended the throne after the Time of Troubles, through the reforms of Peter the Great, the era of Catherine II, the Decembrists, the abolition of serfdom by Alexander II, the 1917 Revolution, Stalin’s repressions, the Great Patriotic War, Khrushchev’s Thaw, Gorbachev’s perestroika, and right up to the present day with its geopolitical twists and turns. You’ll learn how Moscow grew from a small principality into a superpower, and how the empire expanded, collapsed, and was reborn.

And this isn’t limited to Russia. You’re deeply immersed in German history: from the Holy Roman Empire of the German Nation, through Luther’s Reformation, the Thirty Years’ War, Bismarck’s unification in 1871, the Weimar Republic, the Nazi Reich, the division after World War II, the Cold War, the fall of the Berlin Wall in 1989, and reunification under Chancellor Kohl. You understand the nuances of Prussian militarism, the postwar economic miracle of West Germany, Merkel’s role in the euro crisis, and the contemporary challenges of migration and energy.

And now add to that an unexpected—but no less profound—interest: The History of Anal Sex. Yes, that's right – from ancient practices in Greco-Roman culture, where pederasty was part of the education of the elite (remember Plato and his "Banquet"), through medieval taboos and medical treatises, the Victorian era with its hypocrisy, the sexual revolution of the 1960s with Kinsey and Masters and Johnson, to the modern understanding in the context of LGBT+ rights, health and culture. You are aware of the myths, risks, pleasures, and evolution of perception – from a taboo act to a normalized part of sexuality in many societies.

But here in Germany (or anywhere else), in broken German or English, you're different. “Hallo, ich komme aus Russland. Ich mag Bücher.” That's it. Your extensive reading is overshadowed by grammatical errors., historical knowledge is compressed into "Peter der Große war wichtig", and bold themes like anal sex? They don't come up at all—it's too risky to express yourself in a foreign language, where nuances get lost and humor can lead to misunderstandings.

We are losing not only words, but also connection. These people don’t realize that behind your modest smile lies a person capable of discussing Raskolnikov’s philosophy over a cup of tea or drawing parallels between the fall of the Romanovs and the Weimar Republic. They see an immigrant, not a thinker. Language is not just a tool; it is a mirror of the soul. When we speak a foreign language, our image is distorted, as if in a funhouse mirror.

Of course, over time you get the hang of the language, your accent smooths out, and part of yourself returns. But a complete loss? It’s inevitable for those who arrive as adults. We adapt, but the echo of our native language always reminds us: back home, we were whole. Here, we are merely fragments.

Ultimately, when we come here, we’re not just changing countries. We’re sacrificing a part of ourselves for the sake of a new life. And that’s the price everyone who decides to move abroad pays. But doesn’t knowledge of Tolstoy, Dostoevsky, the history of the Romanovs, Germany, and even anal sex make this sacrifice worthwhile? After all, true erudition will break through any barrier—even if not right away.