Impulses for Thought from Budapest

© Aggressor Project

At the end of March, more than a fortnight before the – as would soon become apparent – momentous parliamentary elections, three junior project members paid a visit to Budapest. Our prime goal was seeing the Attila exhibition at the Hungarian National Museum (an exhibition review will be published on H-Soz-Kult soon!). From Attila to Stalin to Zelenskyy, we have seen a lot of individuals deemed heroes and aggressors on our way, both on the streets and inside historical museums, who represent the controversies surrounding the Hungarian past and present. Here are some points to ponder after the journey – which was all the more impressive thanks in no small part to the guidance of Dr Márton Zászkaliczky.

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In Hungarian memory culture, Attila is seen as a heroic ancestor, and many believe that Hungarians descend from the Huns. By contrast, since the 5th century and the Huns’ campaigns of conquest, Attila has become a symbol of brutal violence and ruthless aggression in many other European countries. Shortly before the parliamentary elections, the Hungarian National Museum opened a major special exhibition on Attila. We visited it.

“The Sword of the God of War” hall | © Lisa Fahrni

In a brief introduction, we learnt that very little is actually known about Attila as a person. The special exhibition then led us to its main focus: the “World of Myths”. Here, through various themes (Sword of the God of War, The Scourge of God, Attila’s Feast, The Death of Attila, Attila – Forefather and Hero) and a rich array of objects, we were shown how Attila has been interpreted across different eras and cultures of remembrance. In doing so, neither the real violence associated with the Huns’ campaigns was denied, nor was the identity-forming role he plays as a positive figure in the Hungarian collective memory. However, by shifting the focus from Attila the person to the various myths that have developed over time, these conflicting narratives were brought together. The aim of the exhibition, one of the curators told us, was to elucidate how myths are created and can be instrumentalised for political purposes. This is especially important because Hungarian right-wing populists actually refer to Attila and the Huns to assert ethno-cultural ties to Turkic states and to spread anti-Western and anti-European sentiments. In fact, we encountered such instrumentalisation right outside the Attila exhibition: in the stairwell, a ‘Hun warrior’ greeted us, and directly behind him was a yurt, such as those used by Hungarians and Turkic peoples – yet there is no evidence that the Huns lived in such yurts. Here, the private foundation that financed the Attila exhibition had intervened.

Apart from such intervention – which they repeatedly sought to resist – the curators and staff at the National Museum have succeeded in creating this special exhibition in a way that educates visitors about the various myths surrounding Attila, thereby reconciling conflicting narratives that range from warlike hero to cruel aggressor. We very much hope to see more exhibitions of this kind in the future – perhaps in cooperation with other museums in the EU.

Elisabeth Osing, M.A.

Copy of Raphael’s fresco “The Meeting between Leo the Great and Attila” by Antal Haan, 1880-1881. The Attila Exhibition, Hungarian National Museum | © Vilma Vaskelaitė
A glance through the glittering gates of the Attila exhibition, flanked by the facial reconstructions of Huns skulls. Hungarian National Museum | © Vilma Vaskelaitė
“The Death of Attila” hall, The Attila Exhibition, Hungarian National Museum | © Elisabeth Osing

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A simple stroll through the centre of Budapest already offers insights into interpretations and representations of history, provided one takes a close look at the monuments that can be found on almost every corner.

Directly opposite the Parliament Building – which is architecturally modelled on the British Palace of Westminster – the long ramp of the Trianon Memorial, or “Monument of National Solidarity, leads down into the earth. It was inaugurated in 2020, exactly 100 years after the signing of the Treaty of Trianon. The architecture, with its rough-hewn steles encircling an eternal flame, is reminiscent of memorial halls.

Carved into the walls are countless names of places that were Hungarian prior to the Treaty of Trianon, specifically in 1913. Just above Budapest, for instance, we find Bácsföldvár – the Hungarian name of the now Serbian village of Bačko Gradište.

Photo © Vilma Vaskelaitė

Under the Treaty of Trianon, Hungary lost two-thirds of its former territory, a loss that made Trianon a symbol of national trauma and to which the Orbán government has frequently referred. The impression of a memorial to victims is therefore entirely intentional, except that the victim is the nation itself, Hungary, which has been fragmented and robbed of its former greatness in terms of territorial extent.

Trianon Memorial, Budapest. Left the the ramp leading to the broken granite block that encloses an eternal flame. Right the view to the Parliament from the end of the pathway | © Vilma Vaskelaitė

A few steps further, we encounter the Memorial to the Victims of the German Occupation, which was also erected under the Orbán government in 2014, 60 years after Nazi Germany occupied Hungary. In this case, we see Nazi Germany clearly depicted as the aggressor, in the form of an eagle whose talons are reaching out towards Hungary, personified as an angel. An external, collective, symbolically represented aggressor attacks the nation as a whole. An inscription designates the monument as a “memorial to the victims”, yet neither specific groups of victims are named, nor is the Hungarian Arrow Cross Party or Hungarian collaboration depicted in any way. This quite obvious example of memory politics has drawn criticism also in Hungary itself. The erection of the monument was accompanied by protests, the traces of which are still very present in the area around the statue: there is a multilingual protest letter against the monument which distorts history; a printed blog post calling on Hungary to take responsibility for its past; and, above all, flowers, pictures and objects – such as a backpack or shoes – that individually commemorate Holocaust victims in Hungary and tell their life stories. Metal plaques mark the “Living Monument”.

Memorial to the Victims of the German Occupation | © Vilma Vaskelaitė

In both examples, a clear focus is evident: the nation is portrayed in its entirety as a victim of external attack that has suffered in the form of territorial loss or occupation. Individual fates or Hungarian perpetrators do not feature in the narrative presented here; what is lamented is a loss of territory or sovereignty. The nation is portrayed as a homogeneous entity or, by evoking the atmosphere of a memorial site, even as a sentient, suffering person.
At the same time, this brief tour also revealed the presence of civil society organisations, criticism, and protest against misleading representations of history.

Lisa Fahrni, M.A.

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For anyone looking for a first-hand experience of a divided memory, a visit to the House of Terror and the Holocaust Memorial Center in Budapest, one right after the other on, let’s say, a casual Friday, is highly recommended. The order does not matter much. After squeezing through the House of Terror with all the crowds, the echo of one’s footsteps in the empty halls of the Holocaust Memorial Center should be just as bewildering as the theatrical, often grotesque design elements at the House of Terror (like a cosmic alien-like dummy of the leader of the far-right Arrow Cross Party, Ferenc Szálasi, or a labyrinth of blocks of lard), overwhelming one after the sombre atmosphere at the Holocaust Memorial Center, which could even be described as subdued if it weren’t for the harrowing photos from the Nazi concentration camps.

Dummy depicting Szálasi with a glowing head at the House of Terror | © Vilma Vaskelaitė

Memorial wall in the courtyard of the Holocaust Memorial Center bearing the names of the Holocaust victims. Budapest | © Vilma Vaskelaitė

Both museums do not have many material objects for display. Instead, they have strong narratives and convey them through carefully composed textual and visual elements. It is no surprise that the Holocaust Memorial Centre’s narrative is focused on the victims. The Hungarian oppressors from the interwar period (the antisemitic policies of Miklós Horthy) and the wartime period (deportations under Prime Minister Döme Sztójay, mass murders by Arrow Cross Party thugs under Szálasi) are mostly seen as faceless collectives, along with the German aggressors. By contrast, the House of Terror, which focuses on the perpetrators, is full of individual aggressors. Lenin, Stalin and Mátyás Rákosi tower over the many lower-ranking communist agents portrayed throughout the museum. The trio watches you constantly from the paintings, posters, busts and tiny portrait cameos adorning the wall, like ‘Orwellian’ Big Brothers. Good luck finding a few blurred portraits of Hitler, Mussolini and Szálasi in the darkness at the beginning of the exhibition. So much for the purported equivalence between the fascist and communist regimes.

Portraits of Lenin, Rákosi and Stalin in “The Fifties” hall of the House of Terror | © Vilma Vaskelaitė

The House of Terror thematises the suffering of decent Hungarians under the Soviet dictatorship, presenting it as a unique Hungarian trauma and paying almost no attention to the other countries of the Eastern Bloc or the broader geopolitical context. By contrast, the Holocaust Memorial Centre contextualises the fate of Hungarian Jews within Europe. Horthy’s resistance to Hitler’s demands to deport Jews as well as the everyday connections between gentiles and Jews in Hungary, are aptly contrasted with the anti-Jewish pogroms and extensive collaboration with the Nazis in countries such as Lithuania and Romania during the war.

Interior of the Páva Street Synagogue, a part of the Holocaust Memorial Centre | © Vilma Vaskelaitė

Both museums were established in the early 2000s and are state-funded. They were originally meant to complement each other, at least according to the director of the House of Terror, Mária Schmidt, responding to the criticism for glossing over the Hungarian contribution to the Holocaust. However, it is a sense of confusion after the two visits that might tell a visitor a great deal about the politics of memory in Hungary and other post-communist European countries.

Vilma Vaskelaitė, M.A.

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Further Reading

Creet, Julia. 2013. “The House of Terror and the Holocaust Memorial Centre: Resentment and Melancholia in Post-89 Hungary.” European Studies 30: 29–62.

Feischmidt, Margit. 2020. “Memory-Politics and Neonationalism: Trianon as Mythomoteur.” Nationalities Papers 48 (1): 130–143.

Kremmler, Katrin. 2023. ‘Eurasian Magyars’: The Making of a New Hegemonic National Prehistory in Illiberal Hungary.” In: Digging Politics. The Ancient Past and Contested Present in East-Central Europe, edited by James Koranyi and Emily Hanscam, 181–216. Berlin/Boston: Walter de Gruyter GmbH.

Murber, Ibolya. 2019. „Ungarn und sein Friedensvertrag von Trianon 1920.“ Beiträge zur Rechtsgeschichte Österreichs 9(2): 418–429.


OpenEdition suggests that you cite this post as follows:
aggressor (April 27, 2026). Impulses for Thought from Budapest. "The Aggressor" Blog. Retrieved May 12, 2026 from https://aggressor.hypotheses.org/3063


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