5 September 2015
Background:
In 1990, I visited
Hungary as a Fulbright Exchange Program teacher. At the time, things were very uncertain (the
Soviet Union’s communist system had not yet collapsed) and people were cautious
about befriending Americans in the rural area east of Budapest that I lived
in. And the party called Fidesz was a
new, young progressive party – not the firmly entrenched right wing party with a
supermajority that changed the constitution to remain in power.
After my retirement at Liverpool, I had wanted to teach
the poor in India, but the heat of summer there was too much for me. A year ago I took the position of English
teacher through the Central European Teacher Placement program after completing
the CELTA (a Cambridge English Language Teaching Certificate) in Budapest the
previous year. As a retired social
studies teacher, I knew I was older and slower so I chose the intensive program’s three month part-time course . It gave me the time to become reacquainted
with Budapest and Hungary. I thought
that a quiet year in a relatively calm place like Central Europe would be just
what I needed. I was assigned to the
sleepy, small town of Tata, popular with weekend tourists from Budapest, Munich
and Vienna. It is lovely and much like
Ithaca, surrounded by lakes, hills and a few tourist attractions. The area was once owned by the wealthy
Eszterhazy family. I now teach at a former
Piarist school that now is a Gimnázium focusing on bilingual
education.
Saturday, September 5th I
awoke in my simply furnished Soviet era flat feeling lazy. I had stayed up until 1:30 AM playing Candy
Crush Soda Saga, though I needed to go grocery shopping the next morning. In Hungary, most shops close early on
Saturday afternoon and almost all shops are closed on Sunday (especially in
small towns like mine). If I didn’t
shop then, it would have to wait until next weekend or until I could get
a lift to TESCO (Europe’s answer to Walmart).
I sighed.
I headed to Ébresztő, my favorite café wearing a light poncho as it was raining. I asked for my large, warm latte
and a flaky croissant with jam. As usual, I excitedly discussed in my poor Hungarian what color the jam should be. I tell the barrista anything red is good,
but today her face fell, so I said how about something orange. This is what it is like to live in a country
where you haven’t (and aren’t likely to) master the language. This was met by a smile and a Hungarian “Yes,
we have orange jam.” I am sure this jam
has a name. I am sure I should call it
lekvar (a thick fruit butter), not jam.
But this conversation is part of my daily routine to help me feel more
connected to the world. I blew on the
beautiful pattern in my foam, sipped, and began to feel human. And I began to consider another
activity.
One year ago, if anyone had told me that Hungary would be at
the center of a refugee crisis, I would have scoffed. Now the news showed the growing influx into
Hungary – peoples from the Middle East, South Asia and North Africa – especially into Keleti
pályaudvar, Budapest’s eastern station.
The week before I had stopped and given some sandwiches to one
family, but really hadn’t done much other than talk to Migration Aid, a loosey- goosey all volunteer group in Budapest
that collects clothing, baby food, diapers, groceries. When I talked to a Hungarian woman in the
group, she said to come down and start handing out things, give directions
to those who speak English or German, or just play with the kids. It was great to know there were Hungarians
concerned with those squatting at the railway station with few supplies.
Hungarian history classes heavily focus on the invasions
throughout their history – especially the Ottoman invasion and occupation. So they are noticeable tense about the
incoming Muslim migrants. A wall was
going up south of one of my favorite cities – Szeged – near the Serbian
border. It wasn’t stopping anyone. The irony that Hungary, the first country to
take down its Cold War era fence, was now putting one up, was not lost on anyone.
So, I finished my coffee and started to head out only for
the barristas to shout “Melody, don’t forget your rain poncho!” I meandered around Tata and finally went into
a toy store and bought bubbles, coloring books, crayons and a soccer ball. Just in case I decided to do the right
thing. Or give them to someone
else someday.
Ten minutes later I stood at the bus stop and debated. I walked back to the bank and withdrew a
little extra money. Just as I came back
to the bus stop, the sun broke through the rain clouds. It was a sign. I had to be a good person. I just had to. I got on the bus to Tatabanya (think as Oswego is to Mexico) and then asked
the ticket office for a ticket to Keleti.
The sales clerk tsk-tsked and looked and said Nem (No!) to Keleti. I told her I would get off at Kelenfőld
railway station and then take the Metro to Keleti. Although
Keleti was opened for the moment, I could tell she didn’t want me to arrive
only to be told it had closed because another refugee drama might erupt. So I decided to go first class. Per usual, I hopped on the wrong train but got
there anyhow. I really should own stock
shares in MAV (Hungarian rail) since I have paid so many fines for my confusion
in Hungarian!
As I exited the Metro escalator towards Keleti station, I could
see that, compared to the previous week, there were fewer refugees. But they had left behind rubbish. Cleaning crews were hosing down the area where around ten port-o-potties had been set up for hundreds of migrants.
I made my way to the open area around the corner from the
Metro to the Migration Aid people. They
were handing out clothing donated by many Hungarians – this is typical of the
Hungarians kindness that isn’t being printed in the press. The volunteers looked tired and compassion
fatigued – when you give and give until you feel hollow and empty inside. I showed one woman what I had brought and
she said just go, find some children and started coloring, or find some migrants
who needed help and teach English.
A large family of boys picked through the clothing donations. They lit up as I handed them a soccer ball
and began immediately to play in the same area where frustrated protestors had
loudly denounced Victor Orban’s halt of migration into Austria and
Germany. Another family with two sons and a daughter, told me that they were from Iran. I used
the twenty or so phrases I knew in Farsi (well, maybe not all of them – my
friends in college taught me some naughty ones I shouldn’t use with children!). They gave me smiles, one hugged me and said “Tank
Yew”. Their mother looked happy that she
didn’t have to focus on lifting their anxiety for awhile. Another family of Iraqis and two boys from
Afghanistan got the rest of my goodies.
One boy got a bottle of bubbles and, in the middle of a station
overpowered by the smell of body odor and urine, delightedly showed me he could
blow bubbles again and again.
An art class was being run on the concrete ground by
Hungarian volunteers, and I led incoming refugees coming downstairs to
Migration Aid so that they could begin to get help before the Hungarian government
shut down everything again (as they apparently were about to do). A group of men asked me for help getting
shoes in good condition. It was cold and
they were in sandals. I pointed them in
the right direction. It was beginning to
be scary. I now saw that the longer you
stayed, the quicker you became a volunteer expert. And this grandma is no expert in
Hungary. I walked through the filth of
the covered area many refugees slept in.
I was amazed at the garbage right next to the new clothes and few belongings that the refugees had brought with them.
Many of my
students live in a small town a half hour outside of Budapest called Bicske (pronounced
BEECH-keh). Thursday night, they had
sent me instant messages. There had been
a rumour that Orban had loaded a group of refugees onto trains and that no one
knew where the train had gone. In
European history, trains and disappearing people are not a good thing. My students told me that their parents had
sent them text messages not to get off at the Bicske station because there were
protests. The train had uncoupled two
cars of refugees at Bicske and allowed the Europeans in the first car to continue
on to Vienna. Police surrounded the cars and tried to force them to disembark and go to a camp to register. If they were fingerprinted and registered at this camp then moved on to Germany, EU rules state that they might have to return to Hungary, far less welcoming with far fewer opportunities. A protest had broken out and, furious that they were being tricked, the refugees protested and then led a hunger strike.
My students
received IM’s at the last minute saying they could get off the train as
scheduled and their worried parents quickly picked them up and rushed them
home. They made it to school late the
next day, but I could tell the situation was hard for them. They tried to take photos of the refugee
cars, but they weren’t close enough. My
brave students! I told them that their
town was now famous all over the world.
They giggled again and ran to class.
Later that day, angry protestors and immigrants marched
defiantly out of Bicske and Budapest, often causing traffic problems and
slowing public transportation. As they
became exhausted walking west towards Austria, the ground became strewn with
the items they could not longer carry.
That gave me a tiny grandma inspiration. If there’s one thing that I always tell my
students, it’s “Keep Tata beautiful.
Keep Hungary beautiful.” I often model picking up the local park to set
a good example for my students. Now
Keleti was a mess. The often prejudiced
attitude that “these people are filthy” would be confirmed as they left behind
not only garbage, but the things they could not carry.
Walking out of Keleti, I found a few of the tiny corner
stores still opened. After several
tries, I found a CBA grocery that had a
massive pile of garbage bags – good heavy shiny black ones, not the green kind
that rip that I use so often in Hungary.
I bought two rolls and began to go from group to group, focusing on the
ones that had things (clothes, toys) with nothing to carry them in. I told them to take one for the donations you
have been given and take another to clean up the area around you and keep it
clean for your children. Soon I had to
run back and buy two more rolls and then two more. I was becoming the go-to lady for garbage
bags. Suddenly the single young men were
coming to me to get some. Now they
wanted to keep their areas clean as well or knew someone who needed help. Soon I was chatting to those that spoke
English, comforting and encouraging those who needed it. Sometimes all we could do was to laugh
bitterly to ease the tension.
I was introducing myself to a large Iraqi man who
asked for a couple of bags. He told me
he was volunteering, not a refugee. He
had heard my accent and asked me where I was from. I told him New York, but NOT NEW YORK
CITY. He smiled and said he had lived in
Toronto and said “You mean UPSTATE NEW YORK?!!” I wanted to HUG this guy for knowing the
difference! He even knew where Mexico,
New York was!
Suddenly I heard a strong American voice interrupt us. A woman began to interview him. Then she turned to me and apologized for
breaking into our conversation. “No
problem,” I said. She asked if she could
take my photograph and I said sure, giving her my name, my hometown and why I
was here in Hungary and volunteering. I told her I had thought of bags to both clean
up unsanitary conditions and to hold belongings. She had walked and photographed the
marchers the day before, but like me, she was older and only walked part of the
way, coming back to see what was still happening in Budapest.
So, who was this
woman? She worked with the Holocaust
Museum in Washington, DC. I told her how
much I appreciated going through the museum the first time. Apparently, they were witnessing what was
happening, who were potential victims, oppressors and helpers. I was just a little proud. My name and photo with my Iraqi Toronto
“neighbor” were going to go to a storage file somewhere, maybe even a research
exhibit someday, about what was happening in this new Great Migration. For two entire seconds I basked in glory
until another woman told me she need more bags.
Off I went to the store again.
I was running out of
energy. But the part of Keleti I
patrolled near the metro looked much cleaner.
Now the officials and other volunteer cleaners were taking over, their
job made easier just by everything being in orderly piles. Maybe the refugees felt better about having
something to do while they waited. More
refugees are expected this week, and the Hungarian government is probably going
to put a kibosh on further migration through their nation.
I understand
Hungarian fears and prejudices. They
have been grown and stoked in the fires of the many tragic events in their
history. The world media covers what the
government is doing and Hungarians are unfairly all painted with the same
brush. I witnessed so many young
Hungarians, university students, housewives, homeschooling parents, church
leaders, who came out of nowhere and helped in Szeged, Bicske, Budapest and
doubtless many other places. I recently
saw a photo of a Hungarian woman standing by the road and handing out fruit and
vegetables to the people who were marching to Austria.
Migration Aid is
completely volunteer and often very unorganized, but it helped to keep the
peace at a time when tempers could flare completely out of control on
either side. I was very proud of all the
Hungarians who helped, even by donating what little they often have. Each donation added up to a lot of help
before all the official agencies can pull it together and even begin to
help. They calmed fears and nerves on
all sides. They kept the peace for now.
As I left for home, I
got another jolt of reality. My usual
train to Tatabanya/Tata was very full as it headed west. Suddenly, it stopped at Bicske. It stopped a long time. Finally a large group of police escorted two
dozen very dark Asian men onto my car on the train. I watched the Hungarians blanch, even a
pastor with his white collar looked uncomfortable. The men, despite being intensely stared at,
were very calm and appropriate. For
awhile I just listened to them talking.
I knew the language wasn’t Arabic.
I moved closer to them and the door.
I assumed that they were going to Győr at the end of the line. But when my stop arrived, they all piled out
with me. I turned, smiled and asked them
where they were from. They told me
Bangladesh! I squealed – I have
friends who went to university with me from Bangladesh! As I tried my Bengali (as bad as my
Hungarian), they smiled.
I noticed that about
twenty Hungarian policemen had surrounded the group (and me). A younger policeman listened to our
conversation and came up to me and asked me if he had heard me correctly that
they were Bangladeshis and if they spoke English. It
felt rather intimidating to be surrounded by police, but I acted as if this
sort of this was normal and chatted with him until I saw his shoulders relax a
bit. I then said that if there was a
problem, I would pay for their tickets to go further west. Another policeman told me it wasn’t a
problem, they had some sort of paper that allowed them to continue to travel
and were just waiting for a connecting train to Munich. I looked up at the schedule and saw that
indeed, the next train was to Germany.
The police continued to surround us, but not in a hostile way. Just watchful. I loudly said goodbye and good luck to the
immigrants in English and Bengali and went up the stairs to the station.
I hesitated and stood
at the top of the stairs and watched. A
long time. I may have uttered a
prayer. I took out my camera and took a
photograph of all of them. The large
group of police surrounding the non-confrontational Bengalis. Just in case.
And then I took a
breath, ran across the street, and asked my favorite taxi driver for a ride to
Tata.
Note: I am very aware that none of the peoples that I met were actually from Syria. I am very concerned about the implications for Europe and migration patterns worldwide. Also, please remember that what the government of Hungary does isn't necessarily what the people are doing.
