published in Postimees, 20 August 2022

On 20 August, coincidentally, Hungary and Estonia both celebrate a national holiday. The two holidays cannot be more different than each other: one celebrates the creation of its thousand-year empire that still stands in the embrace of the Carpathian Basin, the other its last secession from an empire – now is its 31th anniversary. Flags flutter on the streets of each country, concerts and parades are held, fireworks are shot.

I always watched with envy how proudly Estonians display their colors. They seem to be everywhere: on cars, bags, jewelry, clothing and home decor – Estonians seem to be happy to fly their flag just whenever and wherever. Even in nature, you can’t escape it: blue, black and white seem to be formulating everywhere one gones, be it the winter forest or the seaside, and if they’re absent, surely some roadside rukkilill and flying sparrows will substitute them.

You wouldn’t see such an abundance of Hungarian colors in Hungary, and even where you did, it would mean something totally different from national unity. Like many things, this is rooted in the Soviet times, and later perfected by Orbán’s government.

Back in the days of the Soviet occupation, the Estonian flag was banned. The original flag has a romantically fascinating story of surviving in a chimneyway in the countryside, and in the 80’s, displaying the flag was a sign of open rebellion. If you flew them, you had guts. It was a tool to rise against the oppressive system.

In Hungary though, our flag was always red-white-green. After 1949, a Soviet-style coat of arms was placed in its middle, which was cut out during the Revolution of 1956, creating the famous new symbol of the flag with the hole in the middle. In later times of Socialism, Hungarians were free, even encouraged to celebrate their national holidays, wear their national symbols, and Üles, madjar! Kodu kutsub. Aeg on käes – kas nüüd või iial! was recited together with Nüüd üles, keda needus rõhub, nälg, orjus ikkes hoiavad.

Most Hungarians don’t feel the way Estonians do about their flag. However, we have the kokárda, the red-white-green ribbon knot in memory of the 1848 revolution. It is worn on 15 March, when people pin the knot on their lapel to remember their rebel ancestors. I remember anticipating this day, when I can display nationality, and feel united with my fellow Hungarians. Then came Viktor Orbán.

In 2002, a right-wing civil organization started a movement, asking “true patriots” to wear their kokárda until election day, 7 April. That civil organization clearly meant Orbán’s party, and a person wearing a kokárda became an unmistakable sign of a Fidesz voter. On the streets, at the workplaces the population was visibly split into two distinct groups: one that was wearing our unifying symbol of revolution, and one that was not. Fidesz lost those elections, but my mother hasn’t worn a kokárda ever since.

In 2010, after the definitive victory of Fidesz, began the loud monopolization of patriotism: when Orbán won, he renamed almost all state institutions with something starting with National, and declared his aspiration to be the prime minister of all Hungarians. Though sounds noble, it quickly became clear what he meant: instead of trying to appeal to all citizens, he planned to define who counts as Hungarian.

If you listen to Orbán’s speeches, he never talks about his voters. He talks about the Hungarians. If he wants something, the Hungarians want it. If he wins, the Hungarians won. If he loses, the Hungarians are under attack. In his speeches he describes Hungarywith loving words as the warm, welcoming, fuzzy place you can always return to, where you are understood, the one you can always call home.

But what about those who didn’t vote for him? Are those millions not Hungarians? Are they against Hungary? Are they traitors?

By now, most of them feel excluded from their nation. They might not feel so, had kokárda not become suddenly Fidesz, had nation not become suddenly Fidesz. There are no alternative ways to love your country than the version that is offered to you. Through the billboards and the leaflets and the propaganda media, the message couldn’t be clearer: if you are not with us, you are against us, therefore you are against Hungary.

There are always parties who try to sell themselves as “true”, or “better” patriots who are somehow more worthy to carry the national flag. However, most parties in the EU simply don’t have the power and resources to perfect it like Orbán did. I can tell its consequences though.

According to a 2021 survey, two-third of young adults who are dissatisfied with the government (and only about 25-30% of them support Fidesz) are planning to leave the country. This is by far the highest in the region. And though it might not be the decisive factor, feeling unwelcome in their homeland surely helps them make the move. It definitely helped me. Some are simply heartbroken for being labeled unpatriotic, some, like my mother, can no longer identify with our symbols, some even grow hostile to their own nationality and reject it.

I stubbornly refuse to let any government hijack my nation’s colors from me, and I wear them proudly whenever there is a reason to. Whether I like it or not, I am a Hungarian, and on days like 20 August, I try to remember all the good things that come with my nationality. Last year though, I started to wonder: what message does it convey to carry a Hungarian flag on your chest in Estonia? Does it make the implication that I support the current Hungarian government and its deeds? Does that imply that I may support EKRE?

Last July, while campaigning for the Presidency, Henn Põlluaas was flying a Hungarian flag next to his podium in Tartu. Why? He didn’t talk about Hungary on the spot, nor was it a national holiday or any celebration. Later that day, Delfi published an explanation as it was a symbol to show support for proceedings taking place in Hungary. Here in Estonia, my country’s flag became Orbán.

Of course, this is EKRE. Many of its members have expressed their admiration for Orbán and his politics. Though I disagree, I would never doubt these people’s love for Estonia. But there are very few things that can harm a nation more than robbing a vast amount of its citizens from their patriotism. In that sense, Orbán’s Hungary is not the role model – it’s the most cautionary tale.

One’s national identity is a deeply personal thing. This is why politicizing its symbols – flags, knots and cornflowers – works. They can be symbols of unity, as well as division. In Estonia, they still symbolize unity. I hope it stays this way.