My parents were never happy about my interest in Hungary. Or rather, while the country was merely a travel destination in my book, it was fine. They’d even gift a few trips (mainly, because I wanted to take the bus during the winter, and my mother decided that 24 hours on a bus in February was a special kind of torture no one should be subjected to). But when I moved here it was a different story. My father rolled his eyes and asked why.
“For love,” I replied. “The country, it’s roots, myself.”
My father said nothing. Though when friends offered to put me up, he did ask me who these friends were. My father still being part of the Hungarian community, asking for their last names was enough. I gave him my friend’s mother’s maiden name. These friends were older, they’d already graduated, and were living the good life. My parents were worried that I’d neglect my studies (which I was very passionate about) in favor of whatever this crowd was doing (working, partying, spontaneous trips abroad). But later, when I came clean, he merely told me to walk away if I didn’t like a situation.
My mother was more vocal. To her it was incomprehensible why I, who identified with French and American values, would willingly put myself in a place that negates all that. Unlike my father (who left right after the war when the Americans liberated the concentration camp he was in), my mother had grown up in communism. And she didn’t like it. Both my parents have always been the life and soul of any party or gathering, social without excessive alcohol consumption, but where my father had grown up in Transylvania as part of one or two minorities (depending on your viewpoint), my mother had grown up firmly rooted into her country’s society. In more ways than one, where my maternal grandmother came from a poor peasant family, my grandfather’s side was practically part of the nobility. Well, by American standards, in their hometown they were akin to the Kennedys.
My mother attended a private Catholic School, which no doubt also fostered her independent thinking. She never cared much for the communist regime that had invaded her country, so she wanted out. Which also explained why she was so adamantly opposed to my move to Hungary. I’m pretty stubborn though, and also passionate, so if I get an idea stuck in my head, I’ll pursue it until I lose interest.
The thing is though, we need to learn. We all want to explore our roots, fueled by an inexplicable desire to know where exactly we’re from. My mother’s side of the family was never a mystery. Whenever we visited, there was always someone new to meet, Uncle So-and-So and Great-Aunt Something Or Other. My father’s side of the family was more murky – parents murdered in Auschwitz, no cousins or siblings – and he’d go silent whenever I asked. Which is understandable in so many ways, yet does nothing to curb a growing person’s desire to access her roots, forging her identity against the ever-present question of who am I?!
Hungary ended up doing just that. My first stay here coincided with my college years, meaning I would have grown no matter where I was. And yet, there is a distinct difference in where you grow, if you’ll pardon the cliche. In my case, being at a certain place at a certain time, I was surrounded by people who dared. Like me, they were young and in their twenties. Unlike me they’d grown up here, and where for myself and my peers travel was normal, for this group of people travel was a Very Big Deal. They all went abroad the minute they could and started to work. Years later they came back, loaded, and ready to invest in a series of ventures. Some of them failed, the ones that took off really yielded a profit. Ironically, that was the exact same thing I’d learned growing up in the States, take a risk. If it fails, pick yourself up, dust yourself off, and try again.
Hungary provided another extra. It helped me understand my parents, how they’d grown up, what it meant to be living in a place that did not praise the entrepreneurial spirit, but rather tried to mold you into “just one of us.” High school in America had taught me the importance of being part of the crowd, though being a European kid in the ’80s meant I could have as many friends as I wanted from as many groups as I felt like, and I could always dip in and out. I was extremely lucky in this respect, and several students in several schools even pointed it out.
Still, in Hungary, aside from my peers – who had their years in high school under a communist regime to tell about – there were the oldtimers, people who told of travel restrictions, of standing in line, of not getting accepted into colleges because their families were too rich, had roots in the nobility and therefore were not conducive to the new state created solely for the benefit of the worker. And yet, everyone told me, Hungary still had it better than some of the other countries. What summed it up best was my best friend and an acquaintance of my brother’s. My friend is two years older than I am, my brother’s acquaintance just turned 95 in March, sharp as a tack. And they both told the same story of community over individuality.
In my best friend’s case this happened while she was still in school. A natural athlete, and never happier than when she was able to engage in physical exercise, she kept winning trophy after trophy for her school. When I asked her if she’d managed to keep any at home, she told me they were all kept in the school, displayed for everyone to see, but they belonged to her school.
Enter my brother’s acquaintance, who worked as an inventor. He told us about some of the things he had come up with, and when my brother asked him if he’d ever gotten any recognition or paid, the man shook his head.
“Not a penny. It was all for the good of the country.”
I could understand so much better why my parents had always cautioned me to protect my work, not to disclose what I was doing, until it was all said and done. Why they supported my creative side, and let me explore what I was good at. Or hoped to be good at. Why they didn’t want me to set down roots in a country that placed more emphasis on the functional, where fine arts were merely frowned upon as something frivolous only the idle and rich can engage in.
Which isn’t to say that line of thinking isn’t alive and well in the West, just look at how many kids get pushed into Business or STEM. But, even with an emphasis on these subjects, it’s easier to find support for the arts than in what used to be known as the Eastern Bloc. Even with populism and authoritarian mindsets on the rise, individual thought is still valued and held in high esteem. After all, the thinking goes, question all you want so you can understand and grow. Make up your own mind, then put that thought back into the community. Let us have dialogue, instead of there being one person telling us what to think and want.
That’s what my parents tried to shield me from. My father always wanted for his children to stand up for themselves and to voice their opinions, provided we were respectful, of course. He never wanted us to succumb to the mass mentality. We might argue with him to the point of tiring everyone out, but even though he might not let us get away with everything, secretly he was extremely proud.
Hungary was supposed to silence my voice. That was the fear my parents had, because it is tough going against the grain, no matter how strong and individually-minded you are. Instead, like France and America, it taught me to stick to my values, reminded me of what they are. It also helped me understand my parents, where they were coming from in every sense of the word, but also what they were fighting against. Hungary is where my values fall into place. Finland is where I live those values out.
