The Story of My Light

by Miklós Vámos

Translated from the Hungarian by Ági Bori

I am Hungarian, but that does not mean I am crying over Trianon or wearing old-fashioned folk costumes. It does mean I am a great admirer of the Hungarian language and, throughout my career, I have used it and its malleability to create my distinctive, multidimensional style. I truly enjoy the elasticity of the language. The Hungarian government? Not so much. My friends and fans know that I despise the rigid views and the belief system of Hungary’s current administration. I do not ask for or accept anything from them, which means that I am supported only by my broad readership in Hungary and elsewhere in the world. Being Eastern European means being alone and belonging to a minority, linguistically and otherwise. I don’t shy away from this identity, though–I take pride in it.

I am a chameleon among other prominent Eastern European writers. There are authors who always tell you the same (or similar) stories using the same styles, often describing the same characters who, inevitably, live or work in the same places. All my novels—sixteen, as of today—however, differ from each other to such an extent stylistically and structurally, it’s almost as if they had been written by sixteen different authors. This is likely one of the reasons why so many readers like my work.

I was born in 1950. Despite my impoverished post war childhood, I considered it a good year for a birth at the navel of the so-called Eastern Bloc (countries occupied by the Red Army and strongly controlled until 1990 by the Soviet Union). Moreover, I was born prematurely, probably because I felt that I needed those extra forty days to start my career as early as possible. I tried to write already inside my mother’s womb. I wanted to ask her to throw in a piece of paper and a pen, plus some light, but she didn’t give a damn and simply assumed that my kicking was typical fetal behavior. Well, she often misunderstood me during the thirty-six years we spent together on this planet.

As a preemie, I had to get acquainted with the stately incubator made in the USSR (back then, almost all the machines and equipment were products of the fantastic Soviet industry). A number of my premature birth-fellows lost something in there–for instance, their eyesight. I survived those days and emerged a healthy and bouncy infant.

Years later, when my budding self recognized the meaning of words and the possibility of composing sentences from them, I began to invent short stories on a regular basis. Initially, they weren’t longer than, let’s say, one paragraph. I told them to every adult who was willing to listen to me. The bigger problem was that I recited the same stories over and over again, with minute changes in each telling, because that was my way of correcting them since, technically, I did not yet know how to write.

Ever since my adolescent years, I have always felt as if I were living in a relatively comfortable state correctional facility called Hungary. After every infrequent and short-lived adventure to the Western world, I never knew if I would have the possibility again to cross the severely guarded borders of my fatherland. When you were sitting on a train, let’s say, to Vienna, you could see the minefields, the barbed wire fences, and the huge X-shaped tank traps, not to mention the heavily armed border patrols through the grimy windows. They would shoot anyone who tried to disembark from that train and find a way through the treacherous soil in an effort to flee to Austria on foot.

The noun “dissident” has always had an additional meaning in Hungarian: those who left their country and stayed permanently in the Dollar, Deutschmark, Franc or Pound zones were officially called dissidents. (Actually, that was also the title of a banned protest song of mine, but never mind that...) The word also has a verb form: to “disszidál” means to defect. Ladies and Gentlemen, I tried to defect twice. First to France, in 1978, at the end of a semi-de jure student scholarship.

The second time, one of my plays was performed at the Source Theater in Washington D.C., and I was invited to the premier. Thanks to this trip, I had the opportunity soon after, in the late eighties, to go to the Yale School of Drama on a Fulbright scholarship. With the help of my lucky stars, I secured a guest professorship, while, simultaneously, I taught courses at Connecticut College and City University. Also, I could publish articles in weekly and daily papers, including The Nation. I was even published in The New York Times twice. What else could one wish for?

I was in seventh heaven and thought I would never return to Hungary. But then something unexpected happened, something beyond my wildest expectations. The Berlin Wall came down, Ceausescu was shot dead, and Hungary cut the barbed wire fences at its borders. Socialism collapsed in the Soviet Union and the entire Eastern Bloc. I was glued to the television and read the news with excitement. I felt a strong urge to go home and see this new world, sense it, and enjoy it. As of today, I still believe that my return was a good decision.

I wrote new books, including some novels that were translated into multiple languages. My most successful work was The Book of Fathers, which came out in 25 languages. Even The New York Times praised it. The review was written by Jane Smiley. She was so enthusiastic—I couldn’t believe my eyes. Her last sentence was the icing on the cake: “Note to Vamos’s publisher: More, please!”

I was on top of the world. After this, I was sure that my other novels also would be published in the U.S. Instead, there came the global repercussions of the Great Recession. No more books of mine made their way onto the shelves of books translated into English.

Around the same time in Hungary, the democratically elected Parliament became the playground of two merging parties: the Christian Democrats, and the more dominant one, FIDESZ, or the Alliance of Young Democrats, which was initially a dynamic party of nice and courageous kids fresh out of college. Their leader was Viktor Orbán. As a young prime minister, he seemed to be the right man for the  task. Four years later, however, he and FIDESZ lost the parliamentary elections. In the ensuing years he made the party stronger and more cohesive. Mr. Orbán and his partisans ran once again in 2010 and won the election by a landslide, gaining absolute majority in the Hungarian Congress. They are no longer young or democrats—the kids grew up and turned into fat, balding, gray-haired older men. Most importantly, they became extremely rich by using every possible form of subsidies. They occupy all the important political and economic positions, and they are the recipients of most tenders.

The entire civilized world knows that Mr. Orbán fights with the EU and, at the same time, wants the financial support of the supranatural union. Shockingly, he is still courting the Russian government, despite the war in Ukraine.

Thanks to the gas and electricity crisis, Hungary feels cold, in every sense of the word. The population has been divided into two groups: unconditional followers of the ruling party and  the rest of the country. Members of the last group are not necessarily or noticeably hostile to Orbán and his gang, but they definitely do not like his usual authoritarian modus operandi.

This regime makes enemies even with artists and writers. There are always the favored ones who are strongly supported and in numerous ways. Those who do not join the institutions created or chosen by  politicians leading the country get nothing in return.

Lately, it’s been educators whose heads have been on the chopping block. Not long ago, a high-ranking politician referred to teachers as a “sweaty bunch in checkered shirts.” This statement prompted a widespread response from numerous well-known people–including me–who then proceeded to post photos of themselves in checkered shirts in support of  teachers. For years, there has been a push for higher wages and a total revamp of the educational system.

Recent times have seen a surge of protests from educators and students, parents and civilians, not to mention public figures, including authors, singers, and actors. The atmosphere feels different this time. The large public gatherings enjoy a groundswell of support, except, not surprisingly, from the government, which repeatedly ignores or makes a mockery of them.

I have never been a member of any party. I do not need support or monthly payments for my political views, which I cannot even describe, to be honest. All I know is that I love freedom and despise everything and everybody who wants to limit it. Nowadays, I feel as if the Socialist rules have resurfaced. There are only a few newspapers and media outlets where you do not find traces of censorship. It has become nearly impossible to criticize the government that has, over the years, completely brainwashed its devoted followers. The country, at any given time, has a myriad of propaganda posters plastered all over the country, targeting various “enemies” of the state.

Fortunately, I am successful with my books in Hungary. Yet I wonder: What shall I do next? Pack up and be a so-called dissident again? Shall I move to Vienna, Paris, or back to the U.S.? Oh boy… Why can’t I enjoy my golden years in peace, without feeling resentful toward the current state of my home country?

My dear novels, please, go and emigrate, instead of me. Fly out and represent me in the free world, especially in the U.S., and tell people over there what is going on here, in the very heart of Europe.