As a gay man living in Hungary, Orbán’s defeat has changed my life

On the morning of the election, I woke up alone and sat on my terrace for about half an hour, just staring at the roofs of my neighbourhood. I knew that this was the last morning of the Hungary I knew and, whatever the result, the country’s fate would take an irreversible turn. I felt the kind of eerie peace you have when you know this is the day you’re going to break up with a lover. 

I turned on the news and saw that morning turnout was at a record high. That could be a problem, I thought, as turnout in the morning is generally high in the villages and those areas are generally pro-Orbán. But this time, turnout was high in the bigger towns: and that was the first sign that change maybe wasn’t just a fever dream or an overblown bubble. I couldn’t force down any breakfast; however, if we’re not too strict on the definition of breakfast, I had plenty: three coffees and a dozen cigarettes.

I walked to my voting district, seeing the same hope and fear I saw in my bathroom mirror on everyone’s faces as I passed. In the booth, I stared at the ballot for so long that my friend asked me from outside if I was OK. I brought my own pen, like a flat-earther, cast my vote, and as I was walking out of the building, the weight of helplessness came down crashing on me. I had done what I could: there was nothing else to do on this very last day of the old Hungary. All we could do was wait for the polls to close, and that was an awfully long time away. Ten hours. 

I spent the day scrolling through Reddit and news sites while watching the live coverage in the background. I was searching for anything to ease my discomfort and quiet my worries, any post or bit of information that could finally confirm once and for all that it was safe to hope. I cried and almost threw up as the evening approached and they closed the polls. By that time, my boyfriend was back after voting in his hometown, 100 miles away. We went to a gathering with our friends to watch the live coverage of the results. Like so many people in the country, we made Hungarian pastries –  sweet rolls called bukta (a word which also means “failure”) filled with orange jam, the colour of Fidesz. We checked the time: 10 minutes before the first results. We were glued to the screen, literally counting minutes. 

Then the first results came, and Tisza was leading everywhere. OK, promising, we thought, but it’s still so early. But then, after about 30 minutes, the map that we were so afraid of becoming orange again was covered in blue, signalling that Tisza had won almost everywhere. Not all the detail was in, but it became more and more clear that the challenger had been victorious. And then, all of a sudden, Péter Magyar posted that Orbán had congratulated him over the phone and everyone – even the TV hosts – froze.  A few minutes later, Orbán gave his concession speech and the text on the screen said: “Orbán’s 16-year government is over.” My phone blew up, just like everyone’s in the room and across the country. My friends burst into tears, we hugged each other, then took to the streets: we wanted to be at Péter Magyar’s victory speech on the other side of town. 

As we took the escalators to the metro, a loud, cheerful sound emerged from the depth of the tunnel: people were clapping, chanting and high-fiving each other. It was electrifying to experience something we thought would never come, together with strangers, sharing the joy of relief. We had to wait for another train because the first one was packed, as was the station. Everyone was celebrating and I was so choked up to finally witness what I have always believed: that this nation wants to come together. 

On the square where Péter Magyar was about to give his victory speech, people climbed on to trees, bus stops and even vehicles, just to get the first glimpse of a new Hungary. We bumped into friends, old colleagues and teachers, all ecstatic. Then Péter Magyar gave his speech, promising to unite a divided nation and that everyone would be equal from now on. And then he said something that took everyone by surprise: that everyone can love who they want and build the family they want. No one will be an outcast just because they love differently than the majority. 

That had been one of my few concerns about him until that point: that he would not touch LGBTQ+ issues for a very long time, for fear of scaring away his conservative voters. Still, we had accepted this because we wanted change so, so badly. To hear him reaching out to us in his victory speech was as validating as locking eyes with strangers, congratulating each other with a shy smile that we had done something extraordinary together.

On the way home, we were walking among honking cars, and at first, I thought they were angry because we were blocking the road. But then, as I glanced over, I realised they were honking because they were also celebrating. Some drivers were literally jumping out of their cars to join the party, jumping up and down, shouting from the top of their lungs that the day had come after all. 

I got home by 1am with my boyfriend and stared at the roofs around us on my terrace, sharing a cigarette and soaking up the joy of a lesson almost like a fairytale: that change really is possible. We were told, and believed for so many years, that Orbán’s regime had grown into such a behemoth, that the system was so corrupt and rigged, that it could not be beaten at an election. And yet, we did. This alone, I hope, will give so much agency to the country that we won’t be so scared and helpless if we have to chase away the next bad guy.

People woke up on Monday morning with the happiest hangover, taking the tram in sunglasses, leaning on the window for a snooze after a well-deserved, long-overdue, exhale. I’m back to apartment-hunting: and I can barely grasp that I don’t have to contemplate leaving my home, my country, any more. 

Krisztián Marton is a Hungarian novelist and screenwriter who wrote this article for the Nerve in the run up to the election. His book Crybaby has won a PEN/Heim prize to be translated into English