In Pursuit of the Appropriate Metaphor
(Personal reflections on the outcome of the elections)
It was 3:30 in the morning on election night when I began to weep. The trigger was a banal song. The refrain went: "And start to live, so you’ll have something to tell your grandchildren as they jump up and down on the couch."
Pfaff, that hit hard. Start to live. (The second refrain adds: start to love and laugh!)
That was the moment the tears started to flow. I am not a sentimental old man prone to weeping at every touching scene — though perhaps I am drifting in that direction. But this was different. It was the onset of a cellular realization of what was actually happening.
And so began my pursuit of the appropriate metaphor. How does one express an all-pervasive existential experience — a state of body and mind that physically lasted for two days and mentally remains?
One effort was to compare it to a mother who has just given birth. The cosmic fatigue, the pain, and the sheer exhaustion are suddenly blended with a blinding light and a heavenly grace the moment the newborn is placed on her breast. It feels incredible, yet undeniable: the new life is there. It is real. What you imagined a thousand times during the long gestation has finally taken shape and is breathing against your chest.
Another was the scene of slavery ending in a nation. That first day when you are no longer the object of a master. When your powerlessness and vulnerability vanish overnight. When everything is allowed, and you are finally free. The meager, forced alternatives give way to endless options.
Perhaps these metaphors are "pathetic" in their grandiosity. But that is exactly my point. This event is not merely a "relief" or a "long-awaited change" — words with boundaries and measurable sizes. No, this is the moment a black-and-white movie turns into technicolor. Smells, lights, and colors blast into your perception. The distant, bleak, grey images are replaced by a Henri Rousseau-esque jungle.
It is not joy; it is euphoria.
My mother used to tell me stories of the 1956 revolution—how people suddenly became friendly and accommodating; how strangers engaged in lively conversations; how everyone (save for the arch-communists) hoped that after the war and the Stalinist era, they would finally become masters of their own lives. This is that atmosphere. The carnival on the streets of Budapest manifested an energy that could propel the whole country to the moon and back. (Gravity would bring us back, I know.)
If I may turn to a more personal aspect — the likely ground for that emotional outburst — I will turn seventy-three this October. My remaining lifespan is unknown; it may well be short. Start to live! the song said. What does that mean for me?
Therein lies the farce of life. Much like an amputee still feels their missing limb, I felt —and still feel — that something could actually be started. That I am no longer simply squatting in the shelter of private life, waiting for the end of a regime that once seemed eternal.
It was heartwarming to think of the younger generations, who will now begin their lives in a non-authoritarian system where discourse is not replaced by lies and propaganda. My son is forty and works in film production with UK and US teams, so he has had no reason to complain. But so many talented members of his and younger generations could never realize their potential under the feudal-socialist regime of Orbán, which ignored merit and rewarded only loyalty. The most talented — and those who simply wanted a free life where the state didn't peep into their bedrooms — emigrated. They now have a chance to return, provided their roots abroad haven't grown too deep.
The mere fact that I could even consider whether I wished to be part of the country’s restoration was invigorating. I have firmly decided not to seek an active role. Péter Magyar and his team have a wealth of competent people to choose from, and I dislike the image of retired professionals reactivating themselves to chase titles for deeds committed thirty years ago.
The 45-to-60-year-olds suffered the most, sidelined during their most productive years. And the youth — especially in the arts — were starved by a state that demanded loyalty for bread. They must take over. They do not need advice that relies on the realities of the late 20th century.
But the temptation to participate in discussions on policy and social justice remains. My field, refugee law, is a "hot potato," and Magyar’s program holds positions I disagree with. We may have professional debates. If negotiations resume on the 1997 ICJ judgment regarding the Gabčikovo-Nagymaros project, I may be of service with my library of original materials and familiarity with the proceedings.
I am not seeking new tasks; I have plenty of scholarly work on my plate. But the idea that the fate of this country will no longer be in the hands of ignorant, selfish feudal lords licking the ass of the king is sheer joy.
This is my subjective reflection on the earthquake that shook Hungary. I could write of the political implications for the EU or the causes of this landslide victory, but I am sure you have read plenty of that. If not, let me know, and I can offer a subjective version of those topics as well.
Budapest, 15 April 2026
Three days after the opposition victory.