“The Underground Hungary”
David Lembersky
“Don’t worry about the migrants – they only stop here on their way from Africa.”
Attila was wrong, of course, but I had no idea what he was talking about yet. It was my first day in Europe, and Attila, my landlord, had only picked me up from the airport an hour before. The African migrants he was referring to were actually Syrian refugees, and Attila’s ignorance reflected a larger problem for the refugees in Hungary.
The refugees lived in Keleti Train Station, half a block from my apartment. Attila was showing me around the neighborhood, where to buy food, and which metro to take to class the next morning. Keleti, Budapest’s international train station, is also a huge metro station for two of the city’s busiest lines. The station was immediately visible outside my apartment building. Constructed in 1881, the station stands and a shrine to human accomplishment. The façade is adorned with statues of James Watt and George Stephenson, icons of the Industrial Revolution. They stand on either side of a stained-glass arch that requires passers-by to look straight up to see the whole thing. The entrance hall is adorned with gold leafing and frescos glorifying Hungarian history. As I looked around the entrance hall taking in all the ornateness, I saw what the station was meant to be: a monument to the power of the Austro-Hungarian Empire, which oversaw its construction.
Below the gold decorated arches, below the marble statues, and below the train station with passenger cars entering and exiting Hungary with ease, the scene changed quickly. Gold leaves and frescos were replaced gray cinderblocks, which instead of a sense of awe, imposed the desire to rush onto the metro and hurry to the destination. Underground the shrine to human accomplishment that stood above was forgotten. Narrow gray tunnels served only to direct people to the subway platform, while inconvenient gray pillars blocked their way.
In this part of the station I saw the “migrants” Attila meant. There were about two hundred people living down there, but because of the size of the train station it hardly felt like that many. They were separated by families staying in tents kept to the edges of the metro station. There were tents next to the To-Go bakery, next to the stairs going down to the subway tracks, and next to the stairs going back up to the train station. I saw an old lady changed a child’s diaper while her husband fed another. The refugees were not scared or dangerous, only tired.
As we walked through the station to buy a monthly pass, Attila motioned to a family and said, “These are the migrants. I don’t know why they leave home.” I didn’t grasp what was happening until that night when I had time to look into it.
***
The refugee population below Keleti grew, and every morning I could tell there were more tents and families than the day before. After two weeks, the refugee crisis began making international headlines, and the population below Keleti grew from the two hundred on my first day, to over two thousand.
Tents had even moved upstairs, outside the main arch. There was no more room underground. As I walked to catch the subway I had to tiptoe in order to avoid stepping on people. Not one bit of the concrete ground was visible beneath clothes and blankets. Still, life was happening beneath the surface: kids were playing soccer, letting the ball fly over dozens of people; mothers embraced their children; and families ate what little food they had together. The refugees in Keleti inspired me; they were not a defeated people – they had made it safely to Europe.
Hungary, it turned out, was not as happy with their arrival. As I stepped off the subway going home from school on Wednesday, there were new characters in Keleti. Hungarian soldiers surrounded the train station, keeping the refugee population contained, and prohibiting the camp from expanding. The soldiers were in full riot gear, with automatic rifles, tear gas, riot shields and masks. They weren’t directly threatening the refugees, but their presence alone was terrifying. As I walked out of the station, it was clear that whatever life had existed beneath the surface was being suffocated.
By Friday, Hungary decided to close its borders to refugees. The army blocked the doors to the train terminal so new refugees couldn’t come in, and those living in the metro station couldn’t proceed deeper into Europe. That afternoon I stepped off the subway and saw protests. The refugees formed into a crowd in front of the blocked door. Though most remained silent underground, those who had spent the past few days sleeping outside showed their unrest. They needed a way out of Hungary. They wanted to be trapped as little as the Hungarian government wanted them there, and their unified shouts made that painfully clear.
Unfortunately, the military presence had grown too. At this point, there were police vans full of riot control up and down my block. Twenty vans at least. Some were empty; some had riot officers on standby ready to put down a disturbance at a moment’s notice. All carried rifles, tear gas and wore helmets. For the first time in my life, I understood what it meant to be scared of the police, to worry that they would harm me. And I still can’t imagine how those refugees had the courage to protest in the face of these officers.
As a Jew in Hungary, the imposing military reminded Hungary’s checkered past with oppression. Stories of neighbors selling out Jews to the Hungarian Nazis filled my head. And I realized the irony that Jews were marched past this very train station just 70 years earlier.
***
That Friday night my roommate Michael and I decided to eat at the restaurant across the street from the train station. As night had fallen, the protests had died down, and fewer police officers stood outside, though our block was still lined with the vans. As we opened the doors to the restaurant we heard the yelling coming from the back.
“They’re people too!” We heard a man yell in English to the restaurant owner. But we didn’t hear the response. Instead we saw the owner spit in the face of the man trying to find food for the refugees. I rushed outside and watched as the police officers went into the restaurant and pulled out three refugees and their champion.
“Incredible that the police are on the owner’s side” I whisper to Michael. He nods in agreement. “Will they be able to find any food tonight?” I ask.
***
Saturday night Michael and I heard sirens all night, though at first we thought nothing of them. We stayed out too late – the metro lines had all been closed for a few hours – so we had to walk home. As we walked home, sirens continued to rush by us, and we became suspicious that something may have happened ahead.
When we turned left onto our street, onto the street of the train station, we saw that buses lined the street as far as the eye could see. The front buses were full, the later busses were being filled with refugees, while the riot control oversaw the whole operation from the sidewalk. Unsure if we were allowed on the street, Michael and I weaved cautiously through police offers, moving very slowly to show we were no threat.
We approached one officer to find out what was going on.
“What did he say?” I turned to Michael.
“I think he said no questions.”
“It sounded more like ‘no English.’” I still wanted to know what was going on.
We approached a second officer, but this time the response was clear, “No questions. Leave.”
My throat tightened at his response. Slightly nervous that he was irritated with the Americans, but more concerned that all the officers had the same angry face directed towards the refugees.
We walked past all the buses with all the refugees. But what really haunted both of us that night was this was the same street the Nazis marched the Jews down 70 years before. Now the Hungarian government was shipping refugees in buses in the middle of the night in order to solve the crisis. And away the buses went, down the street that was already stained by oppression, past the shrine to human accomplishment.
