Intimidation and Revenge – If Grandchildren Ever Ask How This Was Possible in Hungary Back Then

Hungary is, de facto, once again a one-party state: thunderous applause, just like in the days of Stalinism

“Because back then they were like you are today!” – Henryk M. Broder’s striking answer to the question of how the Nazi Party (NSDAP) was able to rise to power in the 1930s also lends itself as an explanation for present-day Hungary.

Since Hungary’s Soviet Republic and the terror of the Arrow Cross regime were both relatively short-lived, they could easily be dismissed as unfortunate aberrations in an otherwise coherent national history. The much longer period of arbitrary rule under communist ideology, meanwhile, was conveniently explained away through the Yalta narrative. Yet the seamless transition of many Hungarians from serving the brown henchmen to the red ones is by no means a uniquely Hungarian phenomenon.

Turncoats may well constitute, in every nation, the critical mass indispensable for every major political shift.

In Hungary, however, the more troubling question is how the current system of arbitrary rule came to power. “Because today you are what they once were.” A cliché, perhaps—but one that bears repeating, especially since the ideology of progress continues to be invoked as the principal framework for interpreting human nature.

Anyone wishing to understand the mindset of Zoltán Tarr or Bálint Ruff would do well to take a glance at history, even if the frailty of human nature (natura lapsa) remains the enduring explanation that transcends historical eras. One need not be a psychologist to recognize the psychological forces driving the revolutionary zeal of these two men.

Ruff, the Minister heading the Prime Minister’s Office, is the archetypal apparatchik, unwaveringly consistent with himself. Tarr, the Minister of Culture, is the ideologically fluid careerist.

The former remained loyal to his internationalist worldview even during what the author calls the “16 years in the wilderness.” His colleague, by contrast—like Stalin, who initially intended to serve God—ultimately succumbed to the temptation of power, deciding that climbing the career ladder mattered more than ascending Jacob’s ladder.

Tarr is a master of grandstanding. Fortunately, he never served as an active pastor, for serving others is clearly not his calling. He is the quintessential ecclesiastical careerist—someone for whom the Reformed Church could no longer provide the opportunities for further advancement that he sought. During the election campaign, he remained deliberately vague (“First we have to win the election; after that, anything is possible”), but once the new government took office, he quickly became one of its most outspoken members.

Although he is formally responsible for culture and social affairs, he could just as easily head a cross-ministerial portfolio for intimidation and coercion.

Substantive policymaking is virtually absent from his ministry. Instead, it is characterized by investigations, settling scores, and lengthy tirades against the work of his predecessors—activities that seem to give him obvious satisfaction while causing growing concern among his often unwilling audiences. Anyone who still remembers communist officials and the way they treated the working population can hardly escape the impression that the same destructive spirit is at work once again. Younger generations, meanwhile, may be reminded of Marvel’s Ghost Rider: like the “Spirit of Vengeance,” Tarr appears determined to make alleged sinners suffer for the pain they have—at least in his own perception—inflicted on others.

Ruff, for all his narrow-mindedness, is the idealistic man of the Left—fiat iustitia et pereat mundus (“Let justice be done, though the world perish”). Faced with a choice between the two, I would personally prefer him over the cynical, would-be Grand Inquisitor Tarr. Like his cabinet colleague, Ruff is driven by ambition. At last, he is no longer confined to the role of political adviser or opinion-maker; he can now do what every careerist ultimately seeks—to wield power. Yet Ruff appears to see himself as pursuing a mission that transcends his own personal ambitions. The extensive authority he enjoys as deputy prime minister may well serve, in his view, to advance the causes championed by his progressive constituency.

Listening to him, one constantly gets the impression that he believes he must make up, in the shortest possible time, for what he considers the “failures” of the past sixteen years.

Hungary, in his vision, should not merely become an ordinary member state of the European Union but, if possible, the spearhead of the globalist project—devoid of real power, perhaps, but useful nevertheless as a warning to any would-be dissenters. His trademark breathless delivery is less a sign of extraordinary intellect coupled with an overwhelming desire to communicate, as his admirers claim, than of a revolutionary impatience that bodes ill for a country already worn down by years of political conflict.

History, however, is shaped not only by prominent personalities—whether great or merely self-important—but also by the ordinary men and women in the street. The “country of love” so often invoked by the TISZA Party is, in reality, permeated by resentment and envy. A small but highly influential segment of society, empowered by social media, now seems intent on re-educating everyone else in the spirit of a new class struggle. The relentless vilification of the opposition—an indispensable element of Péter Magyar’s politics of spectacle and of the rhetoric employed by his followers—calls to mind the ritual of the Two Minutes Hate in George Orwell’s 1984. Inevitably, this atmosphere spills over into public life. Hungary, too, has its social stratum that delights in harming others, and whose natural habitat is this poisoned public climate—or, in TISZA’s own Newspeak, the “country of love.”

The warmth and cordiality that once characterized the Hungarian people have given way to schadenfreude, malice, and fear.

Ideological trench warfare is now being waged within countless families. It is not only the nation that stands divided, but also what Pope Benedict XVI called the “fundamental cell of society”—the family itself.

These are days when one ought to reread Cécile Tormay’s Bujdosó könyv (The Proscribed Book). Her penetrating account of how the refuse lurking in the depths of the human soul—vindictiveness, vanity, and feelings of inferiority—rose to the surface during the Aster Revolution and upended Hungarian society still holds a mirror up to the present. Is history truly, as Cicero believed, the teacher of life? Postmodern deconstruction has taught us to doubt as much. Yet looking back at history may still offer a measure of consolation. Like Sisyphus, endlessly pushing his boulder uphill, one may at least preserve one’s dignity amid the absurdities of Hungarian public life.

Featured image: MTI/Szigetváry Zsolt