There are many firsts in any life.
People usually think of the more romantic, sentimental firsts…
Yesterday was the first time I saw riot police. Yesterday was the first time I saw tear gas used.
Yesterday was the first time I saw said riot police bash the shit out of an unarmed man.
The ‘unrest’ started after a tape was leaked to the press of the Hungarian Prime Minister’s speech to his party conference in May, of him admitting that they had lied to win the last election, and basically swindled the Hungarian people out of whatever they could lay there hands on. All this peppered with expletives.
A spontaneous demonstration sprung up outside parliament and people milled about all day Monday, chanting slogans, waving flags, demanding the PM’s resignation.
I only gleaned this through wafting news reports and word of mouth. Then, my mates arrived for dinner, and were all set to go to the demonstration afterwards. It was raining. I was hesitant.
We were outside the Nyugati train station, contemplating the steady stream of rain, when a group of protesters turned left out of Bajcsy Zsilinszky ut onto the Korut, some in a tractor, others on foot, chanting “Wake up!” and other such things, waving flags and singing. I was instantly swept up in the jubilant hope of the occasion- protests (not that I have attended many) tend to have the ability to make you believe that it is possible to make a difference. Szasza and I turned and melted into the crowd, which occupied the tram tracks and held up traffic on either side.
“Wake up Budapest” and “You screwed up” echoed back and forth between the buildings as we made our way to the foot of Margaret Bridge and turned left into Jaszai ter, where the White House (government offices) sits ugly and stark by the river.
As I was walking with Szasza, hand in hand, watching the flags in the late summer wind, and admiring the lights on the Danube, I heard a new chant:
“Magyar rendor velunk van!” (Hungarian police are with us)
I turned right, and in a line closely side by side stood riot police, all in black, shields raised, helmets fixed.
At this stage the crowd was still reasonably civil, a cross between a festival and a football game before it becomes nasty. We were on our way to the Parliament Building, the surge of energy like a Mexican wave passing through the crowd.
As we turned the corner and the square before the parliament came into view, some members of the crowd ran forward and pushed on some barriers, causing the police guarding the building as well as waiting photographers to rush forward, and eliciting the following response from the crowd “fenykepezzetek a kurva anyatokat!”
We moved on, and called to try and find Szabi. He was on Szabadsag Ter, at the Television building. Not being a seasoned protester, it took me a while to figure out why.
We made our way in somewhat less of a crowd to the square, where I experienced my second shock. The steps of the TV building were crammed with protesters but behind them stood rows more riot police, at least three deep. Like giant beetles, who weren’t quite human anyway. Black uniforms, black helmets and shields raised and ready. The crowd swelled and chanted, we found Szabi and then found a view, straight onto the crowd at the steps and behind them the riot police.
To be fair, the uniformed ones behaved quite well to begin with and held off with retaliation for quite a while, despite mud, plastic bottles and beer cans flying at them. There was one man at the front of the crowd, visible because he was dressed all in white, holding a flagpole minus the flag. Suddenly he ran at the shields and began beating at them with the flagpole, and that’s when the teargas cans appeared. Another first. We were far enough back not to feel anything, just to watch the milky clouds float upwards through the trees. The crowd on the steps regrouped and ran at the shields with renewed force, chants rose louder.
All at once the riot police fled back inside the building and the crowd surged forward. It was a temporary cease in action as soon the water cannons were in place and jets of water were shooting from the door, scattering people down the steps. Then the riot gang appeared again, regrouped, perhaps stronger. I was frozen to the spot when people began running away from the steps, away from the flying water and raised batons. It was frightening, in the truest sense of the word. My legs felt weak, my heart was hammering as if it were going out of fashion and I was breathing in short sharp bursts. Szasza swivelled me around and held me from me behind, using his body as a shield, as people pushed and ran past us, but my panic was increased by the fact that I couldn’t see anything. Perhaps he was also trying to shield me from seeing. I wrenched myself free and turned around, still holding on to his arm and saw that we were the last in line in front of the advancing police. Like a black swarm with batons raised they ran down a man not two metres from where we stood and began to bash him with all their furious might. I was sickened and stunned into watching for a few seconds before Szasza pulled me away and began desperately to search for Szabi. As we cut across the square though, we found ourselves directly in the line of fire of the rocks and paving stones that were being hurled toward the advancing police line, so we took the long way round, and found Szabi safe and well.
It was beginning to get crazy. Now it wasn’t just plastic bottles and mud being thrown. There were plants, ripped out of the ground and flung forward, bits of glass, full bottles, and showers of rocks. I wasn’t scared anymore, just disappointed because I knew that this could only get worse. We decided to make our way out of there.
The crowd had decreased in size by the time we got to the Parliament, but at least there, there was some sensible action. Speeches were being made, solidarity and patience called for. It was raining heavily again, and we wandered slowly through eerily deserted streets homeward.
The implications of the evening are still unclear. That the international media has taken notice is a definite positive. Hopefully this will mean that Gyurcsany will have no choice but to take some kind of action, though few people honestly believe that he will resign.
For my part I am quietly glad that at least some Hungarians pulled the finger out and rather than just bitching about their lot in life, took to the streets and made an effort to change things. A crowd can be a very powerful weapon, it can move people to peace or to aggression, and sometimes both are necessary. Turning over cars and lighting fires seems a pointless thing to do, but if the camel’s back has been well and truly broken, something has to be done to get some ATTENTION!
I think a bigger demonstration needs to be organised, one with a definite leadership, one with less beer and more speeches; I don’t think a few thousand people can topple a government, perhaps a few million could. But I think this was good for a beginning. Good that no one died. 150 people were injured, 102 of them police officers, god only knows the extent of the damage at the TV station, and the damage to the Soviet war memorial will result in a diplomatic hoo-ha.
The wheel has started turning. We have taken the first small steps. And, as the crowd broke into singing, not the national anthem, but the Szekely Himnusz, I realised that, even lacking Hungarian citizenship, there is a place for me here, and here is something worth fighting for.
