Hungary’s prime minister secured his position for the next four years in April, an outcome that pushes my beloved country further away from democracy and me further into an identity crisis. Who am I, if I don’t agree with the majority of my small nation’s population?
I remember when Viktor Orbán – and his party, Fidesz (which ironically stands for Alliance of Young Democrats and started out as a centre-left, liberal activist movement) – rose to power for the second time. My parents, alongside many other hopeful individuals at the time, had voted for them. For Orbán. The previous socialist government had been in power during the 2008 financial crash and was plagued by corruption scandals, so even for those who didn’t necessarily agree with Orbán’s agenda, the 2010 victory still seemed a welcome change. By all means, people were hopeful.
Two years later, our family of four – my parents, my brother and I – packed up our life in Hungary and moved as far from the country as physically possible: all the way to the east coast of Australia. The timing was most definitely not coincidental.
What happened in those two years, and what has been happening in the ten consecutive years since, forms an integral part of my identity and heavily influences my relationship to my Hungarianness.
Earlier this year, Viktor Orbán won his fourth successive term as Hungary’s prime minister with two-thirds supermajority. This makes him the longest-serving head of government in the European Union. The news did not take me by surprise, although it did enrage and devastate me in an unexpected way. Under Orbán’s leadership, the Fidesz government has significantly reshaped Hungarian politics and social policy during its 12 years in power, and will likely continue down this path. This path being increasingly corrupt, far-right and ethno-nationalist. Twelve years of politics cannot be summed up simply and concisely in one paragraph, although suffice it to say that I’ve never been happier to live somewhere else than now.
But what does this mean for younger generations of Hungarians, and those who have to watch these events unfold from afar? What sort of weight is placed on the shoulders of emigrants who must witness their country’s moral foundations go up in flames?
The question of identity is laden with complex emotions even at times of peace. Leaving your home country, someplace that’s always had a you-shaped hole in it to comfortably fit into, to then try and carve out this same space elsewhere is a difficult task, no matter where you come from and where you decide to settle. Even when the act of leaving is underlined by reason, logic and free will, moving, assimilating and adapting while also taking care to hold onto heritage is hard.
I feel infinitely grateful that an ever-slowly shifting perception of cultural diversity in Australia has allowed me to retain my Hungarianness in the first place. A generation or two above me wouldn’t have been so lucky, expected to leave everything behind and to assimilate by way of forsaking their culture and traditions. By all means, my experiences could’ve been made even harder.
Over the ten years I’ve lived in Australia, I’ve come to consider this part of the world my own too. Not only by law (I became a citizen in 2017) or social conventions (I have an Australian partner, Australian friends), but rather by the growing responsibility I feel for the issues faced by those living here. Australia has opened its door to me, and so I feel an obligation to repay that in kindness through my actions: through the votes I cast, the issues I educate myself on, the causes I stand up for. The country I help shape, in other words.
Taking on Australia as my second home has not, however, meant that I have lost a sight of my roots. Being Hungarian comes as naturally to me as breathing air – I speak Hungarian with my family, I cook the recipes perfected through generations, I hope to pass on these cultural signifiers to potential children of mine someday.
So when it comes to identity, it’s both easy and complicated. I’m Hungarian – by birth, by blood, by my conventions. But I’m also Australian – by choice and by the values I hold. The two not only do not cancel each other out, but they make a better whole. So why do recent events – why do things that have been happening on the other side of the world for years – suddenly seem so elemental to my sense of self?
It’s not just about perception, although of course that plays a part too – it makes a difference whether people associate my Hungarianness with hearty food and a rich culture, or with a kleptocracy led by a corrupt dictator. I cling to my Hungarianness – it is an inseparable part of me, the first question people ask me, the first “fun fact,” a trusty ice-breaker. And so it matters what image is conjured in the mind of the people I cross paths with.
But this goes deeper than that. It speaks to the alternate timeline in which my family never left, in which I’m still in a country surrounded by people who believe Orbán to be the only person standing between them and a perceived hostile Muslim invasion. In which diversity is a curse-word and many people live in fear of being unfairly discriminated against based on their skin colour, religion or sexual orientation. In which informed sex education is criminalised. It speaks to my Hungarian friends, to the multitude of people who feel they would rather leave their home country than stay.
When I look at the current state of Hungary, at the generalised meaning of Hungarianness now, I see a gap that enrages and terrifies me. That’s not the Hungarian I am. Not the Hungarian I want to be thought of as. In many ways, it’s not who I believe Hungarians to be. But who am I, then, if the signposts that existed and moored me for the first 16 years of my life are no longer there?
The truth is, nobody wants to leave their home for no reason. Why would we? If we all lived in free countries with fixable issues and the means of fixing them, wilful immigration would seriously decline. When you leave, it is because you’re searching for something better, because you must, because you’re forced to move forward.
It’s easy for me now, as someone who’s lived outside of Hungary for the past ten years, to say in 2022: this is exactly why we had left. To be grateful for the choices, the possibilities, the freedom that Australia offers in comparison. It is impossible, however, to remove myself from the equation entirely. To divorce myself from it – because, sure, I don’t have to go through it owing to my parents’ foresight, but millions do.
Just because I no longer live there doesn’t mean that I don’t want the best future for my loved ones, that I don’t visit, that I don’t want to take my future family there and proudly acquaint my future children with their roots too.
And I think herein lies the weight of my identity crisis – how do you remain proud of your heritage at times when it seems like being Hungarian is nothing to be proud of?
Like any immigrant will tell you, it is both a protective film and a gap of vulnerability to “come from somewhere”. In order to remain proud of this somewhere, I find that politics need to be put aside. It’s difficult, for many reasons – politics are everywhere, they seep into every decision we make, they infiltrate every opinion we have. But I believe that separating identity from politics, in this instance, is essential.
Whenever our home countries go through difficult times, we need to look deeper, past the things that divide and all the way to the things that unite us on a cellular level. It feels overly romantic – and almost nationalist-apologetic, which I assure you, I am not – to say that we as Hungarians all belong to one nation, that our unity goes far deeper than politics.
That anyone who claims to be Hungarian knows what it feels like to hear the words édesanya, szülőhaza, or piros, fehér, zöld; to dig into a traditional Sunday lunch surrounded by family; the rushed feeling of elevation that inevitably follows a chance encounter with other Hungarians overseas; the pride, camaraderie and gumption that follows you wherever you go in the world. Regardless of your political beliefs or your voting history, these are the things that make you Hungarian – and many more.
I must put aside the fact that the majority of Hungarians voted this government in, that the values Viktor Orbán represents – which are far from my own liberal views – are theirs too. I must accept these and move on, just like millions of other emigrants and immigrants must make these daily sacrifices too: continuously speak highly of other aspects of their home countries, slyly seek out the nearest butcher, hairdresser, mechanic that speaks their language and can make them feel like they might belong too, or swallow down conversations with friends and family back home, time and time again.
You live and you adapt and you try to wear your flag as much as you can – if not for the pride of your heritage, then for your sanity alone. Because no matter where you go, how well you assimilate, or what you believe in, nothing changes the fact of your birth. For better or worse, I am Hungarian. And while it might seem impossible at times, there’s a lot in that for me to be proud of.