He longs for love, but the head of a sect is never loved by his followers

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This wretched country has probably never had a government as cowardly as this one. Yellow-belly politicians, and overpaid, undereducated, small-minded, light-fingered yardbirds fleeing, like the proverbial roadrunner, from the press and accountability, demand respect from everyone. But what I can’t figure out is why on earth they’re not happy. They’re in power, have attained everything they’d set out to and still they whine and wail for the seventh year running like boozy floozies in a Jacuzzi.

Then I realised that they hadn’t achieved everything and haven’t got what they were after the most. Bad news: this is going to stay this way now. Although it’s true that they can do virtually anything, they can divide the country’s assets amongst themselves and keep taking home their swag, at the moment there is no police, effective legislation, court of law, prosecution, or accountability that could thwart them. There are a few judges who have managed to remain independent.

In time-honoured fashion, they aren’t content with what they’ve got, they’re hankering for something that no money can buy. Here I’ll cease walking on eggshells, because no-one will get what I’m trying to say like this. At least not those who ought to get it, and those who already do, do so anyway.

Fidesz, or Orbán to be precise, wanted this country badly. To win, to rule. He fought for this for many years, with the active help of Simicska, now halfway to oblivion. To secure his victory, of course he needed the clumsiness of MSZP, now in opposition, and the citizenry to be fed up with the tomfoolery. That’s when Orbán won, climbed into the throne and proceeded destroy everything around himself just as he’d long planned to. His number one enemy was the intelligentsia; Felcsút’s superannuated soccer player virtually declared war on them. There came a kind of cultural revolution in the country; this I’ve said many times before.

Figures like Lajos Kósa, Szilárd Németh, László Kövér, Péter Szijjártó, András Tállai, Zoltán Balog,  Rózsa Hoffmann et al were elevated into power. People who would only have been fit to be gatekeepers in a free market economy. There are of course smarter underlings too around the great leader, like Lázár or Rogán. Orbán can’t really do very much with the dummies, they’re kept to follow orders. And smarter ones he’s wary of, as they’re a potential threat to his position and can make a move on the throne any time they see fit.

He’s compiled his power base strategically too. He’s aimed for the dumbest class with his primitive earworm of a message. All the while, he longs for love, but the head of a sect is never loved by his followers, but adored, venerated, and dreaded. Anything but love him.

So a lonely leader is perched at the helm of a country, who can do whatever he pleases, only he’s still not accepted into the ranks of those he’s longed to join since his youth. He’s surrounded by a bunch of mindless minions, with the smarter hyenas circling the throne, and his devotees prostrate at his feet. But no-ne respects him for himself, appreciates him for his humanity, or looks up to him for his statesmanship. There isn’t a single prominent artist, public figure, thinker, or scientist renowned worldwide , or at least Europe-wide, not motivated by base rewards, who would stand by Orbán for himself.

But this is what he’d want. To be loved, respected, appreciated, looked up to. Do any of you remember how he started out?

We all know where we’ve got to. The country has become a business, a family business venture, with dumb, cowed underlings, servile brown-nosers and a ruler consigned to eternal gloom.

The football stadium in his back yard, the untouchability, the illusion of being all-powerful, the stealthily hoarded wealth, the independently successful daughter/son-in-law/neighbour are all for nothing. He wants what he cannot get. And however determined the personality disorder, deep down he knows it’s not enough. Kósa’s regard, the fake glory whipped up by paid scribblers, the second- and third grade artistes high tailing up to him, the ring of insignificant political analysts and philosophers are not enough. However satisfied he ought to be, he isn’t and never will be. He hasn’t been able to breach the circles where the price of admission is paid in purity of heart. In place of real spiritual glory, he bought himself some with money. And it shows. And it makes him miserable.

And when the leader is unhappy, so is everyone else around him. That’s why they’re pulling out all the stops to destroy everything and everyone who is freer, purer, more sincere, nobler, more human. This is where we’re at and this is not the end yet. But the end will not be beautiful, because it can’t be any more.

Written by Edgar Swan 

Translated by Judit Gábris

Edited by Réka Eszter Szabó

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