The Grammar of Celebration: A Birthday in the Heart of HSE’s School of Foreign Languages
There is a unique alchemy that occurs when the structured world of academia is gently pierced by the spontaneous warmth of human connection. We spend our days in lecture halls and libraries, parsing the subjunctive mood in Spanish, deconstructing post-colonial narratives in English literature, and wrestling with the intricate syntax of German case systems. Our minds are palaces of vocabulary and theory, and for a student, especially one far from home, these palaces can sometimes feel like fortresses of solitude. But then comes a day that belongs not to the curriculum, but to the heart— a birthday. And my birthday at the Higher School of Economics, within the embrace of the Department of School of Foreign Languages, became a masterclass in a different kind of language altogether: the language of love, belonging, and unexpected kindness.
20th November will ever be memorable. The day began, as most do, with the soft, grey light of a Moscow morning filtering through the large windows of the building on Staraya Basmannaya. The air smelled of old books, fresh coffee, and the faint, clean scent of winter clinging to the coats of arriving students. I moved through my morning routine with a quiet sense of anticipation, the private joy of a birthday that I expected to be a quiet footnote in the margin of a demanding academic week. My classmates knew, of course a few had sent cheerful messages in our group chat but I anticipated nothing more than a few warm wishes between seminars.
The first shift in the day’s tenor came during our evening seminar with Professor Elena . Professor Elena is the kind of academic who commands respect not through severity, but through a profound, palpable love for her subject. To be in her class is to understand that language is not a mere tool, but a living, breathing entity, a tapestry woven from history, culture, and the human soul. That day, we were dissecting the nuances of intercultural communication in a business context, and the room was filled with the familiar, focused energy of intellectual pursuit.
As the seminar drew to a close, she didn’t immediately dismiss us. Instead, she adjusted her glasses, a small, knowing smile playing on her lips. “Before we conclude,” she began, her voice, usually a clear conduit for scholarly insight, softening into something more personal, “I understand we have a reason for a small celebration today.” All eyes, including my own surprised ones, turned towards her. She looked directly at me. “We wish you a very happy birthday.”
The class broke into a warm, collective applause. I felt a blush creep up my neck, a mixture of embarrassment and delight. But Professor Elena was not finished. She reached into her leather satchel, a well-worn companion that doubtless carried countless essays and dense theoretical texts, and pulled out a small, carefully wrapped package.
“This is for you,” she said, walking over and placing it on my desk. “A small token to mark your day.”
The room fell silent, curious. My fingers, slightly trembling, worked to untie the simple ribbon. Beneath the paper was a cup, customize with HSE and an inscription in Latin "Non Scholae Sed Vitae Discimus".
I looked up, and my eyes met hers. In that moment, the professional boundary between professor and student dissolved entirely. What remained was a pure, unadulterated show of love—not romantic, but maternal, mentor-ly, human. It was the love of a teacher who sees not just a student, but a person on a journey.
As I left the lecture hall, floating on a cloud of emotion, I was ambushed by a whirlwind of energy named Raihanullah. Raihinullah, a fellow student from a cohort known for its boisterous camaraderie, came bounding down the corridor, his face split into a wide grin. In his hands, he held not a textbook, but a large, gloriously imperfect homemade cake.
“Happy birthday!” he boomed, his voice echoing in the hall. “We couldn’t let the day pass without sugar!”
The cake was lopsided, the frosting a valiant but messy effort, and it was quite possibly the most beautiful thing I had seen all day. It was not the gift of a professor, but of a brother-in-arms. It was the solidarity of the late-night study sessions, the shared panic before exams, the laughter in the canteen. Raihanullah hadn’t just bought a cake; he had taken the time, in the midst of his own academic pressures, to make one. This was a different dialect of love the language of shared youth, of impulsive generosity, of the family you find along the way.
He gathered a few more friends, and we descended upon an empty seminar room. As we cut the cake, the conversation was a lively cacophony of Russian, English, and other native tongues, a true reflection of our department’s international soul. It was amidst this joyful chaos that Julia, a Russian classmate with a thoughtful demeanor and a sharp, insightful mind, leaned in.
She watched as I accepted a slice of cake from Raihanullah and then said, softly but with great certainty, “You know, in Russia, the most important wish for a birthday is not for happiness or success first.” She paused for effect. “The first and most important thing we say is, S Dnem Rozhdeniya! Želayu zdorovya! — Happy Birthday! I wish you health.”
The room seemed to quiet down for a moment around her words. Ždelayu zdorovya. I wish you health. It struck me with the force of a fundamental truth. In a country with a history as harsh and resilient as Russia’s, this was the bedrock upon which all other wishes for happiness, love, and prosperity were built. You cannot enjoy a new book, you cannot savor a piece of cake, you cannot build a future, without the foundational element of health. Julia’s words were not just a cultural footnote; they were a gift of context, a key to understanding the Russian heart. It was a wish born of a collective memory that understood the fragility of life and the paramount importance of strength to endure it. It was, in its own way, another profound and deeply caring expression of love.
My birthday at HSE’s School of Foreign Languages was more than a celebration of my birth. It was a celebration of the many languages of the human spirit. Professor Elena gave me the language of intellectual and emotional recognition, a gift that spoke of my past efforts and future potential. Raihanullah gave me the language of fraternal, joyful community, a reminder that we are not alone in our struggles or our celebrations. And Julia gave me the language of cultural wisdom, a grounding, primordial wish for the strength to simply be.
As I walked home that evening, the cup held close to my chest, the taste of sweet cake still on my lips, and the resonant words ždelayu zdorovya echoing in my mind, I understood that I had received the greatest education of all that day. I had learned that the most fluent speakers are not those who have merely mastered grammar and vocabulary, but those who have learned to translate the deepest feelings of the heart into acts of kindness, generosity, and love. And in the heart of a world-class university, that is a lesson no textbook could ever provide.
Reflections by
Ngutor Ezekiel Faasema
