Queer defiance at a festival in Hungary

One of the largest festivals in Europe, Sziget takes place on a beach-lined island in the middle of the Danube River, a short journey from the city centre of Budapest. Upon entering, you have to cross an imposing industrial bridge, which makes for an unusually stark symbol of the barrier between the outside world and the unreality of a festival, where quotidian life is temporarily suspended. But its nickname – “the island of freedom”– also carries a symbolic meaning. In a country hovering somewhere between democracy and dictatorship, where an authoritative right-wing government has recently introduced some of the harshest anti-LGBTQ+ legislation in Europe, Sziget is an oasis of queer culture and progressive attitudes. 

Alongside its line-up of international stars (this year’s event, held across six days in August, featured Lorde, Billie Eilish and Florence + the Machine, among other big names), the festival features a dizzying array of smaller stages. When I visited last month, I spent most of my time at Magic Mirror, a circus-like structure which hosts LGBTQ+ events – there is everything from panel discussions, film screenings and workshops to stand-up comedy, drag brunches, and DJ sets (late at night, its atmosphere falls somewhere between a Berlin techno party and a disco night in 1970s Manhattan.)

Its programme draws artists, performers, activists and intellectuals from all over the world, as well as Hungary itself, and its curators aim to promote a diverse, expansive and international vision of queerness. “We want to have an open space where people can raise questions, and we don’t believe there is only one answer. We want to start a conversation that doesn’t end at Sziget festival,” Ádám András Kanicsár, the organiser and host of Mirror Talks (a series of panel discussions held at the stage), tells me.

While Magic Mirror has been running for two decades, its existence has only become more necessary in recent years. In 2020 and 2021, Hungarian Prime Minister Victor Orbán introduced a raft of anti-LGTBQ+ legislation, including an effective ban on gay adoption, the end of legal recognition for transgender people, and a law which banned LGBTQ+ content from appearing in educational material or TV shows for under-18s.

Last year, in an attempt to impose this new legislation on Sziget, the government demanded that the LBGTQ+ stage – including its family-friendly daytime events – be made inaccessible to anyone under the age of 18. “There was a lot of pressure on us to do that, but we decided that we wouldn’t. The festival doesn’t get a penny from the Hungarian government so this ensures a certain level of freedom,” says György Ujvári-Pintér, the organiser and coordinator of Magic Mirror. 

While queer Hungarians are facing more and more legal oppression, this is not the whole story. “Some of the government’s measures have been like a Stonewall event for the Hungarian LGBTQ community,” Ádám tells me, as we sit at a picnic bench on a scorchingly hot Sunday afternoon. “I guess we had been kind of passive through the years. But because of these trends that we can see in Hungary now, and elsewhere in the world, the younger generation of LGBTQ people are getting more active, finding their voice and protecting themselves.” 

Not only are more and more people turning up to Budapest Pride but two years ago, in a significant milestone, Hungary held its first Pride event outside of the capital. “Although it’s more true of Budapest, generally I think the society is more progressive than the government,” György explains. “That’s why it feels very strange sometimes, because when I’m in Budapest I get the impression that it’s not such a bad place.”

“We can see in Hungary now, and elsewhere in the world, the younger generation of LGBTQ+ people are getting more active, finding their voice and protecting themselves” – Ádám András Kanicsá

In spite of the government’s authoritarian turn, it’s true that Budapest doesn’t bear the oppressive atmosphere of a dictatorship. It’s not like 1984 or Goodbye to Berlin: there are no mass rallies, no statues of the supreme leader and, as far as I could make out, no one is scurrying through the streets under the watchful glare of the secret police. It has a distinct character, and its beauty is striking, but it mostly feels like any other modern European capital. “There is a gigantic gap between Budapest and the rest of the country and it’s important to point out the difference,” Gergő D. Farkas, a 26-year-old dancer and choreographer who was running two daily workshops at Magic Mirror, tells me.

“But Hungary, including Budapest, can still be a masculine, misogynist and macho environment. I’ve been spat at on the street, people give me fucked up looks, sometimes they call me a faggot. That can totally happen,” they said. Currently based in Stockholm, Gergő was raised in Budapest and has seen how it has changed over time. For all the city’s flaws, it has nonetheless become easier for Gergő to find spaces where they feel safe, or at least safer, many of which are mixed, queer-friendly environments. 

In recent years, according to Ádám, Budapest’s LGBTQ+ scene has only gone from strength to strength: along with gay bars and club nights, there’s an underground ball scene and a vibrant political and intellectual culture. Hungary seems to be caught in a push-and-pull tug between progress and reaction. Attitudes towards queer people are softening at the same time as they are hardening. Things are getting better and worse, with both sides gaining power in different ways. “You feel the support in an enhanced way, but you also feel the aggression in an enhanced way,” Gergő says.

One of the panellists at Magic Talks was Viktória Radványi, the President of Budapest Pride. Along with colleagues from Kiev, Amsterdam, Prague and Kaunas (Lithuania), she was there to take part in a discussion about the challenges facing Pride events across Europe amid a hostile climate. According to Viktória, the current assault on queer Hungarians is – to some extent – out of step with the country’s recent history.  “In the 90s, Hungarians were pretty progressive,” she tells me. “Right after the Soviet Union fell, Hungarian civil society was really pushing for LGBTQ+ rights, and we were one of the first countries in our region to have a Pride march. So it’s frightening to see how far the government’s campaigning can turn people around.”

The week before Sziget, two of Viktória’s colleagues were on holiday at a secluded beach resort in Hungary, when they were recognised by the youth camp of a far-right political party. The members of this group began harassing and filming them, before uploading the video to their website where it was picked up by the right-wing media. “Besides harassing our organisers, news outlets are claiming that the organisers of Budapest Pride are paedophiles,” she explains. “This is what happens. Anti-LGBTQ+ campaigning enables homophobic people to take that thought into action, because they feel supported by the government."

“There’s a delegation of violence, because the governing party members cannot commit physical hate crimes – politically, that would be a disaster,” Viktória continues. “But similar to what happens in Serbia or Georgia, they have these far-right groups to do the dirty work.” Although it has now been almost a decade since there was a violent attack at Budapest Pride, it took years of tireless campaigning from activist groups and civil society organisations to ensure the police would protect the event and those attending.

“Hungary is not a police state, it’s not that if I put up a rainbow flag the police will come and beat me up. Instead, it’s a soft power that keeps everybody’s heads down” – Viktória Radványi

The anti-LGBTQ+ climate in Hungary has been enabled by the steady erosion of its free press. There are now very few independent media outlets left, with the majority either being controlled by the state or oligarchs with close ties to Orbán. “The editorial lines are micromanaged to the letter,” Viktória says. “It’s not like you can write what you want and then sometimes you get a phone call afterwards. There is a minister – described as the ‘propaganda minister’ by his own colleagues – who briefs the editors of each media outlet on what to write and what not to write about. There’s also a blacklist of people who cannot be invited to speak.” 

Tamás Dombos, a colleague of Viktória’s and a board member of the Háttér Society, was recently invited to talk on a radio programme about how school bullying affects LGBTQ+ young people. Ten minutes after he agreed – pleasantly surprised to be given the opportunity – he received a second call where the producer told him, somewhat bashfully, “oh sorry, I didn’t realise you were on the blacklist”. The interview was cancelled. In the Hungarian media, according to Viktória, it’s all but impossible to talk about LGBTQ+ people in a positive or even neutral context. 

While there are a handful of openly queer public figures, most of whom came out before the latest crackdown on LGBTQ+ rights, Viktória knows of many more who are still in the closet: if they were to be open about their identity, they worry that they would never work again. “Everybody is incredibly afraid and self-censoring, and this creates a chilling effect,” she says. “Sometimes, there’s nobody who tells you not to do something, you just know what you should do and not do in order to be safe. That is the scary part of ‘hybrid regimes’ [a term used to describe countries which have a mixture of autocratic and democratic features]. Hungary is not a police state, it's not that if I put up a rainbow flag the police will come and beat me up. Instead, it’s a soft power that keeps everybody's heads down.”

Along with György and Ádám, however, Viktória believes that social attitudes are at least partially moving in the right direction. When the government organised an anti-LGBTQ+ referendum last year, filled with leading questions such as “are you afraid that kids will go through gender reassignment surgery” (an option which isn’t even possible for minors in Hungary), a coalition of civil society groups organised a campaign which encouraged voters to spoil their ballots. To the shock of the government, over 1.7 million people (over a tenth of Hungary’s population) heeded this call. “Ordinary people pushing back is what gives me a lot of hope,” she says.

Rather than being an aberration, Hungary is simply further down the same track as the US or Britain. Right-wing politicians and media pundits around the world look to Orbán as a model, and to Hungary as their vision of an ideal society, while spouting the same rhetoric and proposing similar legislation. The Danube Institute – a right-wing think-tank indirectly funded by Hungary’s foreign office – publishes Hungarian Conservative, a magazine which can be purchased at WHSmith stores throughout Britain (somewhat bizarrely, given its niche subject matter.) The institute also runs a YouTube channel which regularly hosts a rogue’s gallery of hard-line British conservatives, including Laurence Fox and Douglas Murray.

For two years in a row, CPAC (an annual conservative conference based in the US), has staged an event in Budapest. During his 2022 speech, Orbán outlined how his own political tactics, including media dominance and “countering LGBTQ+ propaganda”, could be adopted by the Republicans to achieve and consolidate power. “We must find allies in one another and coordinate the movements of our troops,” he says.

Across the world, opponents of LGBTQ+ rights are joining forces and practising solidarity, which means that it’s never been more imperative for queer people to do the same. In a way that’s both heartwarming and slightly depressing, Magic Mirror’s international approach reflects the reality that – like it or not – we are all embroiled in the same fight.

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