Traces of the USSR: How Soviet History Still Shapes Mongolia Today
Author: Lexi (Enkh-Oyun), student at Macquarie University, majoring in English Literature with a minor in History.
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Growing up in Mongolia, the influence of the Soviet Union was always present, although we never questioned it. I was a kid who lived in a Soviet-style apartment building, watched Russian cartoons, and studied Russian all throughout my school years, and yet, I have nothing to show for it. Even after its collapse in 1991, traces of the USSR linger in Mongolia.
Mongolia was a poor pastoral community at the start of the 20th century, but under Soviet leadership and supervision, it became a highly organised and controlled communist state. Our politics, economy, cultural institutions, and even food habits were reshaped under the Soviets. Additionally, the Soviet Union aimed to protect Mongolia as an obstacle against China, another communist country. Thus, Mongolia developed as a political and ideological conflict between Chinese and Soviet interests throughout the Cold War, with the USSR eventually retaining control over Mongolia’s political and cultural development.
Mongolia was an independent state, and we were not officially colonised. However, as I was doing my research, I realised that Mongolia experienced many of the conditions associated with colonisation, mostly through education, language, religion and daily life. This article will show how everyday life in Mongolia still keeps the images of the past and how these Soviet legacies, which were introduced to us as “progress”, continue to shape how we live, learn and define the identity of Mongolians. Public history matters here because so much of our past was rewritten, silenced, or forgotten. Remembering these everyday legacies helps us reclaim not just facts and parts about our past, but a shared cultural identity.
Language
Language is not just a tool of communication. It is the heart of our culture’s memory and sense of self. One of the examples of Soviet influence that caused a tremendous loss of cultural and linguistic heritage was the erasure of the 700-year-old Mongolian traditional writing system. In the 1940s, under pressure from the Soviet Union, Mongolia abandoned its traditional vertical script and adopted the Cyrillic alphabet. At that time, the reason was modernisation and the eradication of illiteracy. It also aimed to bring Mongolia closer to the Soviets on both a practical and intellectual level. Unfortunately, so much of the Ancient Mongolian texts and scripts were destroyed, preventing future generations from connecting with their past.

Calligraphy of poem “White cloud” composed and brush-written in Mongolian script by Injinash Banchinval. 19th century. Source: Vanchinbalyn Injinash. Wikipedia
For my generation the traditional script feels foreign and ancient. We never learned to read or write it fluently in school. Cyrillic, along with the Russian language itself, became the norm. Even today, many Mongolian words commonly used in daily speech are borrowed directly from Russian. For instance, “salfetka” (салфетка) for tissue, “stakan” (стакан) for glass, and “pal’to” (пальто) for coat. Many people don’t even realise these are loanwords, as they’ve become so ingrained in our everyday life.
This linguistic change did more than change the characters we wrote. The continuity of Mongolian literature and written culture halted there, and many Mongolians were robbed of the opportunity to grow up reading historical texts and books in their original script. Fortunately, people are realising this huge cultural estrangement, which is still very present in our country, and through various initiatives, it is being addressed to revive our traditional scripts. Bringing back the traditional script is not just about ancient letters, but more about restoring a piece of our identity. Mongolian identity was viewed through the USSR far too long. Public history helps us see language as something living. It reminds us that reconnecting with our roots is not just cultural, but deeply personal too.
Religion
The change in language cannot be viewed separately from the destruction of religious literacy. Mongolia’s spiritual life, which was formerly deeply influenced by Buddhism and shamanism, was severely disrupted during the Soviet Union’s communist era. Spiritual institutions were attacked as remnants of a feudal past, and religion was viewed as a barrier to progress. Between 1937 and 1939, the Mongolian Republic state, with Soviet backing, launched a brutal campaign of repression and mass genocide. According to the Victims of Political Persecution Memorial Museum in Ulaanbaatar, over 13,680 lamas were executed, and 615 of the country’s 771 temples were destroyed. This collapse of the Buddhist sangha severed a crucial source of cultural authority and learning. Monasteries that were once the epicentres of education and literacy through Tibetan script, were eradicated. Sacred texts were burned, and Tibetan-language schools were closed. This is one of the reasons the traditional Mongolian script was abolished, as the dictated use of Buddhist liturgy was the Mongolian traditional script as well.

Picture taken in the Memorial Museum of the Victims of Political Repression in Ulaanbaatar. Skulls were recovered from mass graves of Buddhist monks killed by the Communist regime. Photo by Massimo Introvigne. Bitterwinter.
Mongolia’s long-standing shamanic traditions were also denounced Shamanism, which was founded on ceremonial healing, animistic belief, and worship for ancestors, was deemed absurd and outdated. Many shamans were forced into secret lives as Soviet ideology rejected these customs as folklore or superstition.
For decades, religious practice was forced into hiding, and traditional knowledge was lost. While monasteries have been open for a while and interest in Buddhism and shamanism has returned, I still am not sure if all of our spiritual knowledge has been recovered. The Victims of Political Persecution Memorial Museum serves as a space for establishing and preserving our collective memory in addition to being a place of mourning. It enables a younger generation, like mine, to understand what was lost and the importance of remembering part of our public history. Although we have been rebuilding, I feel as though many Mongolians are disconnected from historic spiritual roots. Visiting Buddhist temples today is more of a cultural gesture than a religious experience for many, including myself. This subtle detachment is one of the quiet but long-lasting effects of Soviet suppression. Remembering what happened to our monasteries, monks and shamans is the first step to help us understand why we feel this cultural loss and how we can begin to recover it. Public history gives us the language to talk about that silence and the tools to reconnect.
Education and Uniforms
Our education was also influenced by the Soviet Union. With a strict curriculum, centralised supervision, and focus on scientific and technical training, Mongolia’s educational system was structured very much like the Soviet model. For decades, all schools were required to teach Russian, and many teachers had their training in the USSR or taught straight from Soviet-translated materials. Another part of our school life were the daily cleaning duties. Every student was required to stay back after school and help clean the classroom by sweeping and mopping the floors, wiping every surface, and tidying up the desks. At the time, I thought this was just part of school life, but later I learned that this practice is part of the Soviet-era student duties, where physical labour and communal responsibility were part of the education system. I see that those routines taught us more than discipline because it changed how we understood things like respect and responsibility, which is a huge part of Mongolian culture, even now.
Some of my teachers back in school were terrifying. They had a harsh, no-nonsense attitude, and some even used physical punishment occasionally, mostly on male students. It was normal to pull ears, hit students in the back, and once, one of my teachers slapped my classmate across the face. At the time, I thought this was normal to be disciplined, but now I realise many of these teachers were themselves educated under the Soviet system, where strict control and obedience were prioritised over emotional support. Their teaching styles mirrored the authoritarian mindset of the time.
Soviet aesthetics were even reflected in the appearance of the students. Particularly in rural regions, school uniforms continue to resemble the socialist-era styles of red scarves, white collars, and dark, conservative jackets. Decades later, I still recall pictures of my parents wearing the same outfits. The uniforms symbolised Soviet educational philosophy, which is all about order and collectivism. Everyone looked the same. There was no room for self-expression, only discipline and order. From a public history perspective, school uniforms are the manifestations of the past that continue to shape how Mongolian identity was constructed and expressed. The fact that they remain in use today reveals how deeply these values have been embedded in our cultural memory, subtly reinforcing ideas of conformity long after the political system that created them has disappeared.

Schoolgirls in Soviet-style uniform, from Bayan-Olgii province in western Mongolia. 2019. Photo by Agustinus Wibowo.
Architecture
The physical spaces we live in also reflect our Soviet past. Ulaanbaatar and other cities across Mongolia still feature the utilitarian apartment blocks known as “khrushchyovka,” named after Soviet leader Nikita Khrushchev. They were built for efficiency, not aesthetics. These concrete buildings were mass-produced across Eastern Europe and Mongolia.
Like the school uniforms, their uniformity symbolised the socialist ideal of equality. However, they also stripped away the traditional design elements of Mongolian housing. Where once families lived in gers (known as yurts) surrounded by open land, they now inhabited small, identical units with communal courtyards and shared stairwells. The urbanisation of Mongolia also caused many people to migrate away from rural settings to the city, and by the 1980s, around 60 percent of the population was living in cities and towns. Nowadays, half of the Mongolian population lives in the capital city, Ulaanbaatar.

A residential building in the Gandan district in Ulaanbaatar, 1978-1983. Photo by Łukasz Stanek, 2018.
Soviet-style planning extended to public buildings as well: schools, hospitals, theatres, and government offices were all constructed according to the same blueprint. Wide boulevards and centralised squares followed Soviet urban ideals. Charles R. Bawden, the author of The Modern History Of Mongolia stated that, “Ulaanbaatar is seen as the old Mongolia, or at least the version of Mongolia which remains so dearly and romantically in the minds of many: the last unspoiled country where nomads still live in the barren state of nature.”
Even today, the architecture in Ulaanbaatar continues to mirror the rigid, grey-toned order of Soviet planning. Architecture is a very powerful and visible form of collective memory. It is interesting to think that these buildings are lived-in evidence of the past that continues to shape how Mongolians navigate daily life. Some locals find nostalgia in these buildings, while others see them as reminders of our country’s bleak past. In either case, they are lasting monuments of cultural identity shaped not by Mongolians themselves, but by decades of Soviet planning.
Food
In Mongolia, food traditions have always been shaped by geography and our herding culture—meat, dairy, and flour-based staples dominate. But during the Soviet era, Russian and Eastern European dishes became increasingly common. Borscht, goulash, potato salad with mayonnaise (known as Russian salad or салат Оливье), pickled vegetables, and heavy stews entered our kitchens. Russian canned goods, sweets, and condiments became part of everyday life. If you go to any food canteen in Mongolia, you are bound to find Russian or Eastern European food.
Many families incorporated these food practices into their routines, and even today, older generations often prepare Eastern European dishes during holidays or family gatherings. These dishes, brought in during the Soviet period, blended into our routines so easily that they became part of us. This culinary heritage shows how profoundly memory and identity can be conveyed via food and how cultural influence is frequently absorbed without opposition. Food is a quiet form of history, as it bonds our families, and becomes part of your household long after its origins are forgotten. Public history helps us recognize that even the meals we share can tell stories about identity, influence, and the way culture moves across borders.
Conclusion
The Soviet Union may be gone, but its presence still lingers in Mongolia. It lives on in the language we speak, the food we eat, and the buildings we pass every day. These are not just pieces of history. They are quiet reminders of a shared past that still shapes who we are. Looking back, I realise how much of what I thought was ordinary was actually inherited from a different time and system. That realization has changed the way I see myself and my country.
This is why remembering matters. Public history is not just about statues or textbooks. It is about how we carry history with us in daily life. It shows up when people try to bring back the traditional script. It shows up when we revisit old temples or talk about what our grandparents lived through. My grandparents rarely spoke of the past and in many households, silence replaced storytelling. Public history helps break that silence, encouraging us to ask, listen, and pass down what remains. These moments help reconnect with the parts of ourselves that were almost forgotten. Mongolia was not taken over by soldiers, but by systems and beliefs that changed how we lived. Understanding that helps us see both the harm and the resilience. Writing this article helped me connect my own childhood to something bigger. That is what public history offers. It turns personal memory into something shared. It opens space for reflection and encourages us to carry our history with more awareness.

A military parade in Ulan Bator in 1946. Hollis Images. RadioFreeEuropeRadioLiberty.
In recent years, there have been growing efforts to revive the traditional Mongolian script, celebrate the traditional culture, like shamanism, and reassert a national identity less defined by not only Soviet but also other foreign influences. Some schools now teach both Cyrillic and traditional script, and there is a renewed interest in Mongolian-style architecture and clothing. Still, undoing decades of influence is not easy. The Soviet system reshaped Mongolia materially and psychologically. It instilled habits, preferences, and ways of thinking that persist long after its collapse. By sharing my own story, I hope to contribute to a broader view of the public history of Mongolia, one that includes the voices of normal people who lived through this quiet transformation.
| Lexi (Enkh-Oyun) is a full-time student at Macquarie University, majoring in English Literature with a minor in History. She’s passionate about all things history, literature and storytelling. |
OpenEdition suggests that you cite this post as follows:
Bridging Editor (June 18, 2025). Traces of the USSR: How Soviet History Still Shapes Mongolia Today. IFPH-FIHP. Retrieved November 15, 2025 from https://doi.org/10.58079/145cz
