Hungarians hate everyone but themselves, and with the latter things aren’t even that clear. We’re a funny people like that. When we see someone higher up we will fall all over ourselves to lick and clean their boots, to put it very politely. I’m sure it stems from the empire, when alliance with the those closest, or as close as possible, to the emperor meant you at the very least had some measure of security in your life. Or maybe it comes from when we were riding through the steppes, wherever they may be (if you recall, no one is sure where exactly we’re from. Most scholars’ money is on Mongolia, we prefer a “slightly mystical valley from which we went West.”
Since either selective memory or dementia kicked in by the time we arrived (or else we’d been traveling for so long each generation forgot more than the next), by the time we settled down, even the descendants – the great-great-great-great sons of those who’d initially left – had forgotten where we came from and pretty much tethered their belongings and livestock to the ground because everyone at one point or another gets tired of traveling, albeit only for a little while.
Which may or may not explain why we’re such jerks. When we set up camp permanently we gave up one of our most fundamental needs, to travel, to move around, to hunt and gather, but mainly to kill for a living. We forgot what it was that brought us into this new valley in the first place, and as with all things you repress, it made us cranky and unhappy. Then, our neighbors near and far, at varying points in the new country’s history, decided to do unto us as we had done to either them or their neighbors, and henceforth defeat followed defeat. By the time they lay claims to our land, we’d forgotten again, and all that remained was a bitter taste in our mouth and nothing left to fight, except to help the enemy, who was now ruling over us, repeating either what we’d done to most peoples as we were leaving the original valley that begat us, or what had made us move in the first place. Resigned to the will of whatever higher power had defeated us, we submitted ourselves to our fate, alternately cursing God (some of us), and asking Him for help.
Is it any wonder then that our thoughts are so bitter and always bring us and those around us bad luck? That we commence things with an attitude of, whatever we commit ourselves to, it’ll always bring us and everyone else we associate with impossible luck?
And yet, I am speaking out of line, attempting to be an impostor, for my father’s people were neither of this nor of the other land. They came from another place, farther away, by an entirely different route. And maybe I am part of my mother’s people after all, when I unwittingly take on their attitude by claiming that having lived here for generations is not enough? That we are still that other thing as well, because that other thing defines us more, marking us as outsiders. And the everlasting question remains, who am I in all of this, and how much of this country can I / am I allowed to actually claim?