Hungary – Justice or Promise?

This article is the third in a four-part series exploring the practice of attic sweeping. You can read Parts One and Two here and here.

Post-transition compensation was not merely an economic issue, but also a test of trust, self-determination, and the promise of historical redress. In Hungary, however, the gap between legal settlement and the social sense of justice quickly gave way to disillusionment.

Author: Olga Nádra

1991–2000

The regime change in Hungary did not arrive out of nowhere. It entered a society that had learned over the course of decades that adaptation was the condition of survival. The attic clearances, collectivisation, and the silence that followed left behind not only economic losses, but also a deeply embedded mental mode of operation: caution, risk aversion, and the fragility of trust. Yet when the system changed, something else appeared alongside it. Something that for a long time had had to be suppressed.

Hope.

The period of regime change in Hungary was not merely a political turn, but the surfacing of social and mental tensions that had accumulated over decades. After decades defined by forced adaptation, silence, and self-restraint, the opportunity opened for the first time to place the relationship between the individual and the state on new foundations. Not only did the system change, but so too did ideas about the future.

The Hope of Redress

At that moment, many people were not simply expecting political reform, but redress. They expected that history, which had previously taken away, would now give back. That after nationalisations, expropriations, and forced changes in life paths, at least part of what had been lost could be restored. This hope was not exclusively economic in nature. It was not only about land, property, or wealth, but about identity, dignity, and regaining control over one’s own life. About the possibility of return.

In this situation, the newly democratically elected parliament carried particular significance. For many, it was not merely an institution, but a kind of moral guarantee: the promise of independence, justice, and social representation. Those who had previously learned that it was better to remain silent in the face of power could, for the first time, feel that trust had meaning. That decisions were finally being made not above them, but partly through them.

In this context, the question of compensation assumed special weight. It did not appear as a technical measure, but as a historical and moral issue. The possibility of regaining land and property also carried the promise of restoring self-determination. It implied the partial reconstruction of a world that carried significance not only in economic terms, but also in terms of way of life and community.

The Logic of Compensation Vouchers

The system that was created, however, was based on compromises from the very beginning. Instead of actual restitution, an indirect solution was introduced: the compensation voucher. This instrument appeared legally orderly and economically rational, since it offered eligible individuals the opportunity to take part in privatisation and to acquire land or other resources. At the same time, this construction did not mean direct restitution, but rather a system in which entitlement and actual access were separated from one another.

The logic of the market economy, which was being built at a rapid pace during this period, was not a neutral environment. Those who possessed information, connections, and economic experience were able to take advantage of the opportunities the system offered. Others, however — especially the older generations and those who had already emerged as losers from collectivisation — once again found themselves in a disadvantaged position.

The compensation voucher system formally offered the same conditions to everyone, but in practice it was highly asymmetrical. Many did not understand how it worked, did not trust it, or simply had no possibility of waiting for longer-term returns. As a result, these vouchers were often quickly converted into cash, many times for a fraction of their nominal value. This was not an irrational decision, but the logical reaction of a generation that had learned that in conditions of uncertainty, short-term security comes first.

Market, Asymmetry, Disillusionment

At the same time, the purchase of vouchers began, and during privatisation a new economic stratum started to emerge. In many cases, the process was opaque and, seen from the outside, appeared unjust. Although the system functioned legally, at the level of social perception the feeling increasingly emerged that opportunities were not being distributed equally.

Political decision-making in this period carried a dual message. On the one hand, it spoke in the language of the rule of law and justice; on the other, it created economic and institutional frameworks that did not make real participation possible for everyone. This duality gradually eroded the initial trust.

Disappointment did not appear in a single moment, but built up gradually. At first, only questions arose: why was the system not working as they had expected? Why could not everyone make use of the opportunities? Then uncertainty appeared, followed finally by the recognition that the hope brought by the regime change had not become a general experience.

A New Erosion of Trust

This recognition was especially grave in a society that had already experienced loss once before. This time, what people believed in was not taken from them by force, but was lost within a system that formally offered opportunity, yet in reality was not accessible to everyone.

This process had not only economic consequences, but also left deep mental effects behind. Trust, which had briefly strengthened, weakened once again. Caution once more took the place of risk-taking, and withdrawal often took the place of participation.

The patterns of adaptation formed earlier did not disappear, but reappeared in a new form. Silence was no longer the result of direct coercion, but a kind of learned strategy: a way for the individual to reduce the feeling of vulnerability in an environment they still did not experience as fully predictable.

The Legacy of the 1990s

From this perspective, the political dynamic that emerged in later decades becomes understandable. In a society where trust is fragile, and where historical experience makes uncertainty appear as a high risk, stability becomes a primary value. Political actors who promise simple, comprehensible narratives, strong frameworks, and predictability gain the advantage.

The years following the regime change therefore transformed not only political and economic structures, but also society’s relationship to trust, justice, and participation. The hope that had genuinely appeared for a short time could not become a lasting experience for many. It was gradually replaced by caution, disillusionment, and the quiet recognition that opportunities are not equally accessible to everyone.

Yet this experience did not disappear. It did not come to an end in the 1990s, but lived on as a behavioural pattern, as a reflex, as collective memory. It became an underlying layer that continued to shape how society relates to the state, to power, and to new “promises.”

Because history does not repeat itself only once.

In the next part, I examine how these patterns appear in the present. In what forms vulnerability, central intervention, and the logic of the “promise” return, and how all this can be interpreted in a society that has already experienced what it means to have something taken away from it — and then attempted to be given back in another form.

Cover photo credit: Fortepan / Zoltán Kölcsényi, 1990

Support independent analysis and journalism at CEA Magazine: https://centraleuropeanaffairs.com/donation

For more insights on Central European political risk, EU institutional developments, and transatlantic relations, follow CEA Magazine and the CEA Talk podcast.