Echoes Of The Multigenerational Hungarian Trauma
A sliver of insight for the uninitiated into what it really means to be Hungarian…
During the past two years, I have spent more time in Hungary than the previous 36 years of my entire life. Yes, that makes me 38. Congrats on figuring that out — sarcasm, just one of the many Hungarian traits. Because this is not a story about Hungarian inventions like the Hydrogen bomb or the Rubik’s cube — we’re both playful and dangerous. It’s not about spicy Hungarian sausages, the pörkölt, or the Hungarian gulyás — we sure love our food. You don’t need me for listing famous Hungarian sportspeople, scientific achievements or cakes you’ll only find in Hungarian cafeterias — yes, we pulled our weight, baked our cake and ate our cake all throughout history. There’s Google and AI for that, and while all of that is part of being Hungarian, it’s not the essence of our national identity, and most certainly not what I think of when at times I remember that I am, in fact, Hungarian, not just Irish and Romanian. It’s something else, something that runs far deeper — it’s multigenerational trauma.
For context, I am an ethnic Hungarian born in Romania. I lived in Romania, England, Spain, Northern Ireland and finally Ireland, where I gained my 3rd citizenship. That makes me a Romanian Hungarian Irish, or an…
