1848, then now

The Sun is gently setting on the day. The golden rays flicker on the rooftops, the rusty antennas, the wind battered chimneys. The streets channel the attention towards the wide avenues, lined with flags obstinately waving in pride. People flock to sites history has deemed with relevance. Cars stay away; the hum of the city quietens. The silent chants for freedom make people walk upright, more so than on any other given day. The country becomes melodies and rhythms, verses and shapes: a heartbeat.

Budapest, a city gleaming with history. Pick a street, any street, and stand quietly, motionless in the middle. Allow the buildings to ooze their stories, to penetrate your skin, to fill up your soul. Pay attention to their wounds, respect their age. Bow before you move away, for the scent of history, the whiff of unrecorded privilege: you are now a bearer of. Here is a city that I watch in awe, amazed at its wisdom and patience. The cobble held the Hapsburg carriages, the revolutionaries’ horses, the boots of armies marching in, the steel of tanks, the blood that was shed, the shoes with holes, the tyres of cars.

I see what you see. The dirt and the neglect. The homeless, the ones who are cast out. The not so craftily veiled contempt of a shop owner, post office worker, and civil servant as a task is pushed in front of them. The reluctance to sacrifice for the greater good. The greyish colour of the Danube, infected with litter. The hopelessness in the eyes of people whose lives have been broken twice in half a century. The pensioners who have toiled to build a prosperous country, only to spend their remaining days suffering. The incompetence, everywhere. The lack of smiles. The shortcomings, the backwardness, the sometimes false pride of my people.

Do you see what I see? I see immense beauty. I see women and men with an avid desire for change. I see a nation that’s holding its head above the tempestuous waters of a malleable democracy. I see a country making mistakes, tripping on its own shoelaces, bringing with it a naïve, charming sense of hope. Its people are proud, they understand the sacrifices, the consequences. They will work to secure a better future for their children. I see a nation whose people for many generations were broken, crippled under the tyranny of lies and deceit. I see a recuperating society, willing to take on tasks almost beyond its capabilities. I see the citizens of this country as individuals with an ardent aspiration for more.

We have fought for our freedom countless times throughout history. I am a proud Hungarian, well versed in the problems a citizen of this country faces today. But I refuse to give up on my principles, on this land, on my people. Our history is rich, our endurance knows no limits, our hopes no invader has been able to crush. Our politicians we have picked, their mistakes we are carrying on our backs. Our anger grows fiercer with each carefully misplaced step. But look how well these people, my people, have endured. They know how to use their democratic power to demonstrate, with the force of thought, in peace. Look how proud they are of the land they call their own. Look how beautiful the sunset is over the hills of Buda.

The Danube peacefully rubs the shores of first Pest and then of Buda. Same as then, same as now.

Curing the soul

I don’t know which is harder, being dragged through the unbearable layers of a black hell, or sitting on the sidelines watching helplessly. Lying or being lied to. Living in a world of deception where the façade is voluntarily man made, or waking up to the reality of a pretended world. Holding a glass or reaching for it. I don’t know which is harder to understand, having sense of the destruction or causing the disappearance of mind and soul.

On any given day, we may stand or we may fall. There is no telling who is next and there is no telling who can stand. Once the sadness is so deep that no tears will fall then the soul will merge with the body and give up its fight. The outside and inside will separate and the sick part will watch the ailing part disintegrate into oblivion. The substance will shrink and leave a hollow shell. The mimicry will only be a result of involuntary muscle contraction, yet it will disperse any doubt cast over its authenticity. Can the sun help?

Rilke, Van Gogh, Beethoven, Rothko, Tennessee Williams, the guy you knew in school, the friend of a friend, the actual friend: all whose souls have succumbed to that insatiable hole. The desperate well to where creativity drives the critically genius and the ordinary: there is no distinction. Going down to the sound of the most pleasant verse cannot glorify the tumble. Bowing out with a last stroke on the canvas cannot make the exit glitter. Yet they try.

The example of one cannot be the rule for many. The testament of a soul that had been cured by physically removing parts of the body cannot become a rule, merely an anomaly. There’s a more profound quest for those who watch their souls drown in the sea of their painful existence. But the sight of victory brings greater displeasure and there is no telling when the outside will mould to the inside. Fear and pain keeps us on our toes because this formidable dark cannot be a force that overwrites things previously established.

I don’t know which is harder, being dragged through the unbearable layers of a black hell, or sitting on the sidelines watching helplessly.