Dispatch

Pushing Back

Hungary's beleaguered opposition takes to the streets to contest Prime Minister Viktor Orban's growing authoritarianism.

BUDAPEST — The warm sun balanced just above the jagged Buda Hills as hundreds of thousands of Hungarians spilled into the streets of Budapest to commemorate Revolution Day, an annual celebration honoring the country's 1848 uprising when Magyar nationalists fought for independence from the Habsburgs. Yet, the postcard-perfect backdrop stood in stark contrast to the widening political split between the government and growing opposition movements, each of which staged their own competing demonstrations -- at precisely the same times -- just far enough from the other to prevent the din of their rallying cries from overlapping.

Boulevards were emptied of cars as the city transformed into a patchwork of fervent and sometimes volatile protests. In front of the neo-Gothic parliament building, skirting the edge of the Danube River, was the pro-government rally featuring headliner Prime Minister Viktor Orban. A mile south of Parliament, past a boardwalk lined with tables of foot-long pretzels doused in sugar, and perched at the foot of the chalk-white Elisabeth Bridge, was the main opposition's demonstration run by the civic group "Milla" (which stands for "One Million for Press Freedom in Hungary"). And in the center of one of the city's main intersections, the radical, far-right Jobbik Party set up a small stage flanked by a 12-foot high television screen.

Preaching to a clogged square of roughly 100,000 supporters, Orban warned the European Union that Hungary would not tolerate interference on any level. Since sweeping into office in 2010, Prime Minister Viktor Orban's center-right Fidesz party, which has a two-thirds super-majority, has locked horns with critics at home and abroad -- including the European Union, International Monetary Fund,  and even the U.S. State Department -- over swipes at media freedoms, an overhauled constitution, the economy and judiciary reforms. It's become something of a bête noire for the international media, alarmed that something awry is happening in this small, landlocked country of 10 million. "We will not be a colony, we will be slaves no longer," said Orban, referencing a passage from a poem written by Hungarian poet and revolutionary, Sandor Petofi, amid chants of his name and repeated bursts of applause. "We do not need the unsolicited assistance of foreigners wanting to guide our hands."

His fiery rhetoric came on the heels of an unprecedented decision from the European Commission (EC) to withhold 495 million euros of aid, unless steps are taken by Hungary to lower its deficit. The punitive measure was softened slightly by an addendum stating funds could be reinstated by as early as June should the country's budget policies align with EU stipulations.

News of the EC announcement made no dent in the prime minister's appeal to 75-year old Tamas Buranyi, who attended the March 15 rally with a Hungarian flag fastened to his lapel and another in his hand. "In this extremely difficult time, Fidesz is doing what is best for the country," he said. Interweaving between the crowds were several hundred right-leaning Polish citizens who had traveled to Budapest for the holiday as a show of support to Orban and his policies. "The criticism against his personality," Buranyi added, "[It] makes it very difficult to govern the country properly."

Orban's barrage also took aim against foreign meddling with the country's newly adopted constitution. "We write our own constitution, we don't ask for help from foreigners who want to guide our hands," he said. The crowds, many of whom were wrapped in floor-length swathes of the country's red, green, and white flag, fired back: "We will protect it!"

Both Orban and his supporters might find their stance a bit more difficult to defend when the Venice Commission, legal advisers to the Council of Europe, releases its report on Hungary's controversial constitutional reforms early next week. A version of the document, leaked to the German newspaper, Der Spiegel, is critical of recent reforms, stating among other things that the country's three-month-old National Judicial Office -- run by a single person with the power to replace and select judges, as well as the cases they work on -- "threatens the independence of the judiciary."

The Hungarian Civil Liberties Union (HCLU) was one of four Hungarian NGO's invited to speak before the Venice Commission this January. "This report has the power to force change and to turn back the rule of law in Hungary," said Szabolcs Hegyi, head of political rights program at the HCLU, and one of the presenters. "The government should in no way dismiss or disregard this report."

On the Elisabeth Bridge, which stretches between Buda and Pest, were the Milla attendees. Here, tens of thousands of protesters chanted,  "We're not giving up!" and "Long live freedom!" as speakers from several humanitarian, media, and minority organizations spoke of the need to fight for their rights in the face of recent government overhauls they see as chipping away at their country's democratic structures.

One of the event's earliest speakers was the recently crowned winner of the simulated online "Alternative Presidential Election," the Hungarian "gangsta" rapper Dopeman. Spearheaded by a mix of cultural producers and political activists, candidates for the election had only one requirement to fulfill in order to qualify for running: submit a two-minute-long video answering the question, "What you would do if you were president?" On stage, Dopeman, who is of Roma origin -- Hungary's largest minority that has been facing a rise in violence from extremists -- read a passage from one of his most famous songs: "I am a Hungarian. I am a Jew. I am a Gypsy. I am a mixed-blood Aryan. And I am a Hungarian."

Peter Molnar, a former Hungarian parliamentary member and one of the drafters of the 1996 Hungarian media law, which paved the way for starting a dual broadcasting system similar to those found in Western Europe, also took to the stage demanding the abolishment of the recently formed Media Council. A contentious law in effect from last January combined public media outlets into one central body and authorized a Media Council, comprised of just government appointees, to issue hefty fines for violations (ostensibly for offending the human dignity of minorities, but in practice more about stifling free speech). The law was revised, but the Media Council remains, and the government maintains the new regulations abide by European standards. For Vice President of the European Commission Neelie Kroes, the changes requested aren't happening fast enough. "The Hungarian government needs to do more and act quickly to reassure" she told the European Parliament this past February. "I continue to have grave concerns about the current situation."

At the rally, Molnar posed the question: "What does the Hungarian nation wish?" To which he asked the crowd to answer with the first of the country's famous "12 Points," a list of dictates composed by the leaders of the March 15, 1848 uprising: "Freedom of the press and abolition of censorship."

As Molnar spoke, a combat boot-clad and bomber jacket-wearing bulge of far-right protesters who ditched Jobbik's event in an attempt to disrupt the Milla demonstration occupied a small triangle at the base of the Milla demonstration, which stretched hundreds of meters deep into the Pest side, along Free Press Boulevard. A speaker, placed outside a nearby café, blasted Hungarian folk songs, drowning out the sounds of the opposition rally's presenters. Encircling the far-right crowds were dozens of riot police. Standing in the center, among the far-right antagonists, was 28-year old Attila Bagusz, a waiter in a Budapest hotel. "I decided to come here because I am against Milla and their ideas of a liberal democracy," he said. "What is most important to me is to remember our roots and save our cultural treasures."

Minutes later the group began screaming "Ria Ria Hungaria," a traditional slogan adopted by the far right. They held up anti-EU posters and railed against the IMF. A few cries of "Go home!" were lobbed from the Milla side. A stream of helmeted riot police funneled into the small strip of land separating the two groups. To which the far-right agitator raised their arms in a Nazi salute and shouted: "Filthy Jews."

The phrase galvanized the crowds on the Milla side to begin collectively chanting, "Nazis, go home!" Almost immediately, police pushed the Milla crowds back. And as soon as the Milla rally finished, they were ordered to clear from the street, quickly deflating tensions.

Holding out till nightfall was the Jobbik rally. On the periphery, a crowd gathered around two men cracking long leather whips, used for steering cattle, against the asphalt. Up on stage was the Hungarian rock band, P. Mobil, singing: "I am the future and I am the past. Take care of me because I am dying out."

Making good on their calls against outside interference, a few hundred hard-core, far right supporters attempted to storm a high rise where the IMF has its offices, a stones throw from the American embassy. They were quickly thwarted by the police. Hungary hopes to secure a 20 billion Euro IMF-EU loan to repay its public debts, which is one of the highest in the EU.

Holding tight to his two-thirds majority, it seems unlikely Orban will feel pressure from within to reform anytime soon. His actions since taking office have made it clear that pressure from Europe is unlikely to turn his government's core policies -- although that could change if the IMF deal, which needs to be signed off by the EU, is seriously threatened.

Meanwhile, the left-liberal opposition is still heavily fractured and extremely weak. The only party that has gained any real momentum in the last two years has been Jobbik. And yet, there was a glimmer of hope this week with a court ruling in favor of the independent radio station, Klubradio. Just three months ago, the Media Council announced the radio station's frequency, used for over a decade, would be given over to an unknown broadcaster. The court ruling restoring the frequency to Klubradio was seen by the opposition as an indication there are still some institutions here in Hungary that act independently.

Back at the unofficial Milla headquarters, the smoky Seagull Bar in the heart of the city's Jewish quarter, was co-organizer Adam Schonberger. Behind him, the walls were strewn with political murals and chalkboards brimming with listings for upcoming events. Despite the standoff, and the nearby Jobbik gathering, the crowd here was ebullient as they flipped between phones and laptops, sharing images and anecdotes from the day.

"I feel inspired that things are finally moving in the right direction," he said. "It is about working together and speaking up for democracy," Schonberger added as participants came by to shake his hand. "If we were just able to just hint at those ideas, then I think we were successful."

FERENC ISZA/AFP/Getty Images

Dispatch

Libya's Year Zero

Life without Qaddafi's Green Book.

TRIPOLI, Libya — In the Libyan capital, the constant hum of construction and traffic, along with open shops and restaurants, suggests a thriving country. Few visible traces of war scar the city, aside from the hulk of wrecked concrete and rebar that was Muammar al-Qaddafi's Bab al-Aziziya complex. In what now ranks as one of the world's most heavily armed countries, armed clashes have become quite rare, and the sound of gunfire is almost never heard.

But there's another side of Libya's story. It's a country where fighters outside the control of the ruling National Transitional Council (NTC) are embedded in the heart of the capital, journalists are imprisoned for weeks without charge by militias, and Amnesty International has detailed multiple instances of prisoners being fatally tortured by the country's erstwhile liberators.

In the Arab country where revolution has come closest to obliterating the old order, Libyans have embarked on a long process of resurrecting their state. Without their hatred of Qaddafi to unite them, Libya's new ruling class is having a series of difficult conversations about what they want their new government to look like.

Perhaps the most daunting project for the new Libya is fostering civil society and democratic principles in a society controlled for so long by an egomaniacal dictator. One player is Mahmoud Jibril, the former chair of the NTC's executive board, who is organizing a new political coalition from an office building in a nondescript area of Tripoli. He changes headquarters frequently for security reasons, and indeed, his current office bore no personal traces. While a large staff bustled in the outer offices, he sat in a spacious but austere office, its windows facing the Mediterranean Sea, and put his calls on hold for our interview.

"We need either a strong leader or a strong legitimacy in the system," Jibril told me. "If we go for the strong leader it's more swift, but there is no guarantee that we don't slip again into dictatorship. We have to establish a strong system. It will take more time, but it's the better goal."

Regarding reports of widespread abuse of prisoners, Jibril observed that "rehabilitating the winners is much more difficult than rehabilitating the losers."

Jibril's political coalition, one of dozens that has sprung up ahead of Libya's first post-Qaddafi elections in June, is called the Alliance of Libya's Patriots. It is made up of parties, powerful local personalities, sports clubs, and other social groups from across Libya. Each has pledged to educate those in their community about the democratic process via leaflets and brochures that detail what elections are, what institutions are, and what parties are.

Jibril insisted that his coalition's primary goal is to teach people about democracy rather than push a specific political platform. "I have no ideology," he said at a news conference in February. "We need better health care, better education, better communications. We have some moderate Islamic presence in the coalition, some liberals, some secularists. Whether you are liberal or Islamist, I say with all respect, what matters to me is visible results."

The problems Libya inherited from Qaddafi's regime are not just a lack of knowledge about democracy, however. Corruption is widespread. The interim government is opaque and distant. And many argue that anyone who served under Qaddafi -- including Jibril, who was a reformist aide to Saif al-Islam al-Qaddafi -- is too tainted to be trusted with governing the new Libya.

A rival political coalition, calling itself the Union for the Homeland, insists that "a new Libya needs new faces." Founded by Abdul Rahman al-Swehli, a dissident imprisoned by the Qaddafi regime at the beginning of the uprising, the movement consists of people who were on the outside looking in under the old regime.

"In Mr. Jibril's meetings for his alliance, everybody who was there before is there now, except for Qaddafi," said Salah El-Bakkoush, a co-founder of the union. He pointed to projects such as the Great Man-Made River, which cost the country millions in the 1980s, as examples of how the old government squandered the funds of the people and yet enriched themselves. "People should get the idea that they have some responsibility for the loss of our money."

As in Egypt and Tunisia, the toppling of a dictator has also opened a door long shut to political Islamists. On March 3, Libya's branch of the Muslim Brotherhood announced the formation of its political party, the Justice and Development Party. Lacking the wide grassroots support that the Brotherhood enjoys in Egypt and Tunisia, the party nonetheless declared itself heartened by interim leader Mustafa Abdel Jalil's statement in October that Islamic law should be the basis of the future Libyan legal system.

Islamist parties, however, are not the only ones announcing themselves into Libya's burgeoning political scene. Ali Tarhouni, the NTC's former finance minister who had previously taught economics at the University of Washington, launched his National Centrist Party on Feb. 27. "We are a moderate Islamic country," Tarhouni told me over the phone. "This is a grassroots political party, and we look to have serious political force in this country."

As if those competing political currents were not enough, some Libyans in the east are looking to radically curtail the control Tripoli exerts over their affairs. On March 6, NTC member Ahmed Zubair al-Senussi, a scion of the old monarchy, unilaterally declared a federal state in the eastern part of the country, with its capital in Benghazi.

Others, however, criticized the move as too much, too soon for the nascent Libyan state. "We made the revolution against individual decisions and dictatorship," said Hana el-Gallal, a Benghazi native who holds a Ph.D. in international law and has been active in the revolution from the beginning. "We will not accept federalism unless it comes from a government elected by the people. It is an idea we want to put on the table, but it has to be put before the entire people."

The most pressing political issue facing the new Libya is what to do about the thuwar -- the revolutionary fighters who toppled Qaddafi but are now running amok across the country, much to the dismay of many Libyans.

"Mohammed," a well-educated, soft-spoken native of Tripoli, tells a grim story that exemplifies the complete helplessness of some citizens of the new Libya. His family is from the Warfalla tribe, historically among Qaddafi's most loyal supporters. At the end of January, a brother of his was "kidnapped by a militia" on suspicions of being a Qaddafi loyalist, he said.

Mohammed himself sounded an ambivalent note about the uprising, blaming international forces for civilian casualties and making the case that the thuwar were employing the same tactics as Qaddafi did, only worse. "I supported this revolution from before it started," he said. "But at the end of March [2011], I changed my mind because I support Libya. Not Muammar, but not the rebels either. If it's about brothers fighting each other, OK. But I cannot support NATO."

The militiamen claim they found weapons in Mohammed's brother's home, as well as a list of names on the brother's computer -- men whom he allegedly planned to kill. The brother is being held in an unknown location, off the grid of the NTC prisons.

Mohammed's legs shook under the table of the hotel cafe where we spoke as he recounted his own recent kidnapping. He was lured into a trap by a phone call that promised him an opportunity to visit his brother. When he arrived, he was taken by the same group of thuwar; they interrogated and beat him until he passed out several times. He was let go after less than a day. He showed a cell-phone video of bruises sustained on his leg during the attack and said there were more in "sensitive areas."

Any time he makes a move toward meeting with a human rights group, he told me, he receives phone calls from militiamen ordering him to stop. When I asked whether he had gone to the authorities for help, he replied, "There is no government. Are you kidding?"

The dominance of the militias is even worse outside Tripoli. In the town of Gharyan, only 30 miles outside Tripoli, Imad Sager -- a harried chain-smoker who quit his job as an English teacher to fight in the revolution last year -- manages a makeshift prison crammed with nearly 1,000 sub-Saharan Africans, mainly from Niger. "The government doesn't give me any money," he said. "If the police want to do something to me, they have to ask -- I have more men and more guns."

The new Libyan government has made halting progress in bringing the militias under its control. Deputy Interior Minister Omar al-Khadrawi oversees the operations of the High Security Committee, a newly formed council designed to integrate the disparate fighting groups into the national police and military forces. As his phone rang nonstop during our interview in his richly appointed office, he told me that more than 15,000 thuwar are working with the committee. They will receive three months of training in Jordan, Qatar, Turkey, or the United Arab Emirates, which is intended to equip them to halt drug trafficking and other criminal acts.

After a few weeks, Khadrawi said, any thuwar not signed up for training through this committee will be illegal. But I asked whether the national security forces were strong enough to force them to disarm, he answered immediately. "No, they are not."

The challenge facing the new Libyan government is not only integrating the new fighters, but getting some of the old security forces back on their feet. During the revolution, protesters viewed the police as Qaddafi's front-line enforcers and burned their stations to the ground across the country. "Police forces feel like defeated army, feel themselves unwanted ones, and we need to support them," Khadrawi said.

Not all of Libya's policemen were irreconcilable Qaddafi loyalists, though. Khadrawi said that hundreds of pro-Qaddafi police personnel were removed from the force in recent months, and others left of their own accord. "Once Tripoli was liberated we called the police to return, and 70 percent returned to their posts," Khadrawi claimed.

On the surface, everything in Libya is in a state of flux. Ministry offices bustle with fast and furious phone calls, meetings, announcements of new political coalitions and committees. But this constant motion is also coupled with a sense that not nearly as much is being accomplished as Libyans had hoped. Perhaps that's Qaddafi's lingering legacy: Libya's new leaders form political "coalitions" rather than parties, chose to name an "executive board" of the NTC rather than specific leaders, and constantly form committees charged with making decisions. The steady insistence on consensus brings to mind the Qaddafi-era "popular committees," which were supposed to be local committees where people power ruled supreme -- but were in fact smokescreens behind which the Leader enforced his will. Now there is no Leader and the people are free to claim their power, but many seem reluctant to do so.

In Tripoli, as in many other cities throughout Libya, the hated word "jamahiriya" -- Qaddafi's term for his system of government, which translates as "republics" but was really just a cover for his autocratic rule -- has been painted over, scraped off, or covered with a tricolor flag sticker on most cars' license plates. Likewise politics in the new Libya: Even as authorities seek to replace the old system with modern democracy, the rate of change is uneven, and the clouded incoherence of Jamahiriya thinking, along with the lawless brutality of the Qaddafi regime, still lurks somewhere beneath the tricolor flag.

MAHMUD TURKIA/AFP/Getty Images