Anonymous Indian Medical Student in Ukraine: Kharkiv Survival, Germany Detour, and Faith Under Fire

In this interview, Scott Douglas Jacobsen speaks with Anonymous Indian in Ukraine, an Indian medical student who moved within Madhya Pradesh before leaving for Ukraine in 2020 due to high costs and intense competition for Indian medical seats. He describes Kharkiv’s diverse prewar life, then the shock of the February 24, 2022 invasion, shortages, and evacuation to Lviv amid overcrowded trains and failing infrastructure. He recounts moving through Poland to Germany with volunteer help, navigating refugee registration, language barriers, and work requirements. He later returned to Kharkiv for document renewal, enduring months of sirens, drones, and outages, while sustaining hope and study through faith.

Scott Douglas Jacobsen: Let us start from the beginning. When were you born? In which city were you born? Did you move towns at any point during your youth in India?

Anonymous Indian in Ukraine: When I was in the eighth standard, I moved with my father to another city in central Madhya Pradesh. I lived there for a couple of years and then returned to the town where I was born. I completed high school, finished my examinations, and then left the country.

Jacobsen: What made Ukraine a desirable place for medical education?

Anonymous Indian in Ukraine: First, India has a vast population and intense competition. Many people want admission to government medical universities, but the number of seats is limited. Even if you pass the entrance exam with average marks, it is tough to secure a place in a government medical university. The alternative is private medical universities, which can cost around $60,000 to $70,000 for a six-year medical degree. For middle-class families, that amount is very high. As a result, students look to countries such as Russia, Ukraine, Kazakhstan, China, and Uzbekistan, where MBBS programs can cost around 29,000 dollars. That is why we chose Ukraine.

Jacobsen: Did you travel through Odesa or Lviv? What was your route from India to Kharkiv?

Anonymous Indian in Ukraine: I travelled from India to Kyiv, then to Kharkiv.

Jacobsen: What year was that?

Anonymous Indian in Ukraine: It was 2020, about two years before the full-scale invasion of Ukraine in February 2022.

Jacobsen: How were things before the full-scale invasion?

Anonymous Indian in Ukraine: Life was good. Kharkiv was a hub for students and business. You would see people from everywhere—Africans, Indians, Arabs, Egyptians, Koreans, and Chinese. The city was active and prosperous. There was significant economic activity at that time.

Jacobsen: What was your reaction when the full-scale invasion, what Russia called the “special military operation,” began?

Anonymous Indian in Ukraine: I was working part-time while continuing my studies. The night before the invasion, I remember seeing messaging suggesting there would be no war, and I believed it.

I was staying in a hostel. That night, a cleaning lady said that war would begin the next day. In the early hours of February 24, 2022, I heard the first explosion. People in the hostel began shouting that the war had started.

There were many Moroccan students in the hostel. My friends—Rahul and Amit—were shouting for everyone to wake up and leave, to escape toward Europe or anywhere safe. I did not expect it. I went to the window and saw smoke rising from the outskirts of Kharkiv.

At first, we thought it would be over within a couple of weeks. It was not. We waited. I stayed there from February 24 to March 9. Most of my friends left early. From February 25 onward, many international students and car owners left the city.

Everyone wanted to reach the train station, but it was nearly impossible because of the crowds. There were enormous numbers of people—thousands at once. You may have seen photos from Kharkiv showing this. It was tough. I stayed there overnight and waited.

Jacobsen: So you stayed there until March 9?

Anonymous Indian in Ukraine: Yes, until March 9. I stayed in a private hostel. There was no food. Markets were empty. Near my hostel, there was an ATB supermarket, one of the largest food chains in Ukraine, but even there, almost nothing was available. There were no basic supplies—only some soft drinks like Coca-Cola or Pepsi.

Jacobsen: When did you finally leave?

Anonymous Indian in Ukraine: On March 9, I left Kharkiv, but it was not easy. Even that day, many people were still trying to leave—mostly Ukrainians. By that point, most international students had already gone. I had stayed because I thought the war might stop. I hoped it would end soon, but it did not. There was no food, and the situation was getting worse, so I decided to leave for another city. I only had a few packets of Maggi noodles left. That was all.

On March 9, I left my hostel. Outside, there were almost no people. It felt like a movie—like a real war film. The streets were empty. From February 24 to March 9, I watched from my window as Ukrainian soldiers checked roads and people. Some of them were women. They were guarding the city and checking documents.

I went to the railway station. There were almost no people outside, which made it frightening. At the station, there were no seats. Trains were completely overcrowded.

I used the little Ukrainian I knew at the time. I spoke to a family and asked if I could stay with them, saying I would be like a family member so that I could get on the train. One man agreed. He had three children and spoke some English. He helped me.

We travelled for about eight to nine hours by train from Kharkiv to Lviv. There was no water. Everyone had to stand—children, women, everyone—near the toilets for the entire journey.

We arrived in Lviv around 3:00 a.m. The station was full of people. At that time, I did not know that free food was available for those arriving.

I stood in line at a small market, but nothing worked. There was no electricity. Visa cards were not working. Banks were closed. ATMs did not work. There was no way to withdraw money. Toilets were also overwhelmed. Many people were sleeping inside the Lviv station.

It felt unreal—like living inside a war movie.

Jacobsen: At what point did you go to Germany? Can you walk me through what happened after that?

Anonymous Indian in Ukraine: Yes, I went to Germany. After leaving Kharkiv and arriving in Lviv, I was looking for a way to leave Ukraine. No phone numbers were working, and no clear information. I approached an African man because I thought he might have contacts. He was standing with an Italian journalist, an editor.

I asked them where they were going. They said Poland. I decided to go with them. We stood in line for 4 to 5 hours, then paid for a taxi. It costs about €50 per person. There were four of us. The taxi took us from Lviv toward Poland, but not all the way to a significant city.

Once we arrived in Poland, the Italian journalist returned to Italy. The African man—he was a priest—went to Germany, and another person did too.

I stayed in Poland at first. I might work there for a short time and then return to Ukraine if the war ends. The war might end in a few months. I stayed for four days in a church near Kraków.

During that time, I spoke with a migration officer and asked whether I could study in Poland. They said it might be possible, but I did not understand the process or requirements. I did not know what to do next.

After four days, I called a contact from Italy and asked for advice. He told me that Germany would be a better option—that it would really help practically. So I decided to go to Germany.

When I arrived in Germany, it was tough at first because I had no money. Germany was much more expensive than Ukraine. I was at a Bahnhof—a train station—, and there were many German volunteers there. Civilian volunteers helped refugees.

They spoke with me, used websites where volunteers register to host people, and drove me in their own cars. I told them I had a friend at a specific address. They asked if I were sure the friend would help. I said yes. They took me there.

Later, I stayed in a refugee camp with Ukrainian refugees.

Jacobsen: Do you want to continue the story?

Anonymous Indian in Ukraine: Yes. While I was travelling, I was with the African priest again. I asked him what would happen next because we had no money. He read the Bible often, even at night. He told me a story about the shepherd and the goats. He said that people are like the goats, and God is the shepherd who takes care of them. He told me not to worry—that God had already planned food, money, and safety for us.

Jacobsen: Do you identify as religious?

Anonymous Indian in Ukraine: Yes, I do.

Jacobsen: Which religion?

Anonymous Indian in Ukraine: I follow Hare Krishna.

Jacobsen: For readers who may not know much about it, can you briefly explain the belief system—its texts, its leaders—or how it helped you during this time?

Anonymous Indian in Ukraine: Yes, of course, it helped me. At that time, the African priest—he was Christian and had churches in the Ukraine—shared his beliefs with me. He repeated the shepherd-and-goats idea. He said that God is in control and that everything will be taken care of. He told me this while we were in Kraków, in a hotel. That stayed with me.

After that, I thought everything was planned, so I decided to go to another country. I went, and things unfolded that way.

Jacobsen: What do Hare Krishna followers believe, and how was that helpful for you?

Anonymous Indian in Ukraine: In the Hare Krishna tradition, there is a strong emphasis on mindset and intention. Lord Krishna teaches that a person’s thoughts, words, and actions matter. If you think positively and act rightly, things tend to move in a better direction.

There is a saying about being careful with your words. If you speak good things, good things follow. If you talk badly, negative things follow. During that time, I kept telling myself that everything would be okay, that people would help me, and that I would get permission to stay. I was worried because I come from a developing country and needed a visa to remain in Europe.

I also tried to understand things rationally, but I remembered what the Christian priest had told me and also relied on my own religious text. I had been carrying my book, the Bhagavad Gita, with me for more than seven years, along with my personal photos.

There is a critical moment I remember. I went to the Berlin registration center. Early in the morning—around noon—we stood in a long line with Ukrainian, Syrian, and Arab refugees. We completed registration, but afterward my companion was assigned to one city, and I to another. That scared me. Until then, he had helped me, and suddenly I was alone in Germany.

Germany felt overwhelming. I could not read the language, I did not understand the train or metro system, and I did not know where to go. I was terrified. He told me, “Just go. Everything will be fine.”

The registration center gave me a paper assigning me to another city, about eight to nine hours away from Berlin. The town was Karlsruhe. I travelled there by regional train.

I did not have cash. At one point, I asked a German man for help. He asked if I needed food or chocolate. I said no, but I needed to reach my destination. He told me which bus to take and explained that it was free. That is how I reached the registration center in Karlsruhe.

At the center, a staff member—who turned out to be from Pakistan—checked my bag. He noticed my book and asked where I was from. When I said India, he smiled and told me everything would be okay. That gave me some relief.

I was then placed in a refugee camp. I spoke some Ukrainian, so I helped with communication. We waited there for about four months while documents were checked.

After that, I received permission to live and work in Germany, and I was also allowed to study. However, there was a requirement: I had to learn German to B2 level, which is a high academic standard.

I realized that learning German to that level could take years, and I might lose the chance to study medicine during that time. So instead of relying on government assistance, I chose to work. I worked in warehouse jobs and supported myself. I worked continuously for about two years.

Anonymous Indian in Ukraine: After two years, I went back to the registration center and asked what would happen next. I told them to look at my history over those two years—how I worked, followed the rules, avoided trouble, and respected the country. I asked what options I had.

They told me that I would need to leave. I said that was okay. They also told me that in the future I could return to Germany on a work visa or as a specialist. So there is still hope that I may go back one day.

Jacobsen: When you returned to Kharkiv, were you effectively stuck there again for about 9 months?

Anonymous Indian in Ukraine: Yes. When the war began, our documents were temporary. Residency permits were issued for limited periods, and mine needed to be renewed. I stayed in Kharkiv to restore it.

Ukrainian government workers do their jobs well, but during the war, it was tough. Bombings and air-raid sirens happened constantly. Sirens could last for hours, day and night. As a result, government offices could not operate normally. Banks were often closed. It was not safe for people to work.

As a result, processes that generally take a few months stretched to about 9 months. During that time, life was tough. Almost every night, I could see drones outside my window. Ukrainian air defences would respond, and you would hear explosions. Electricity and water were often unavailable. In 2024, there were periods with no water for three to four days. I bought bottled water and even used it for bathing. I could manage only because I had some money. Without it, I do not know how I would have survived.

Nights were the hardest. Attacks often happened around 11 p.m. or midnight. You could not go outside after 9 p.m. The streets were dark. Shops were closed. People stayed in their rooms. There was no light at night.

Jacobsen: And once the paperwork was finally processed?

Anonymous Indian in Ukraine: I contacted a friend and asked if there was anything I could do or anywhere I could stay. My university is still there, and my academic records are there as well. For now, I continue studying on my own.

My friend invited me to stay with him in another city so I could sleep safely. In Kharkiv, sleeping was tough. People still live there, but it is tough. I have a friend who has lived in Kharkiv since the beginning of the war—even during the occupation—and still lives there now because he loves the city.

Kharkiv is a beautiful city. It is spotless, one of the cleanest cities I have seen. The people are very kind. Kharkiv helped me a lot.

Jacobsen: What is your plan now?

Anonymous Indian in Ukraine: I try to think positively. Something good will come. I know English, but English alone is not enough here. English is functional in countries like the United States, Canada, Australia, and New Zealand, but here it does not help much.

I know Ukrainian, and I understand some Lithuanian. Now I want to learn a language that has more impact in Europe. I am thinking about the Dutch.

I continue learning languages and studying medical subjects on my own. I am in contact with my university, and they have my records. I am asking about the available options. That is my plan for now.

Jacobsen: Any final words? A line from that helped you through these moments?

Anonymous Indian in Ukraine: There is a saying I like: The best actor is given the most challenging role.

Jacobsen: Thank you very much for the opportunity and your time.

Scott Douglas Jacobsen is a blogger on Vocal with over 100 posts on the platform. He is the publisher of In-Sight Publishing (ISBN: 978–1–0692343) and the Editor-in-Chief of In-Sight: Interviews (ISSN: 2369–6885). He writes for The Good Men Project, International Policy Digest (ISSN: 2332–9416), The Humanist (Print: ISSN 0018–7399; Online: ISSN 2163–3576), Basic Income Earth Network (UK Registered Charity 1177066), A Further Inquiry, The Washington Outsider, The Rabble, and The Washington Outsider, and other media. He is a member in good standing of numerous media associations/organizations.