During the outbreak of Willkommenskultur, when Angela Merkel was still determining which way was forward for Europe, I toyed with the idea of what would happen if the Szeklers decided to up and leave. Disclaimer: any resemblance to reality can only be down to coincidence!
So it happened once, when everyone could still roam freely across the European Union, that seven hundred thousand Szeklers got themselves together and set off. They hired all the buses from Szeklerland, Sanyi Miska led the convoy with the Csavargó coach service and Lőrinc Rapid brought up the rear with the 3pm regular tin can service.
“Where to, where to, Szeklers?” they were asked at the Romanian-Hungarian border.
“To Germany,” grunted Uncle Pista from the front seat, who, although not a ‘lófő’ [Szekler nobility], still knew two words of Romanian.
“And why there?” asked the Schengen border guard, a bottom-inspecting type.
“We’re being discriminated against here, look, no flag, no use of our mother tongue, they even deny that we exist,” the Szeklers complained.
One of the Szekler university students studying in Cluj even said that what they’re doing to them in Bucharest is bloodless genocide, to which the older ones hissed, one shouldn’t speak so rudely.
“So there’s plenty of trouble, and little work,” Uncle Pista summed up the essence. “And we’ve got them smooth phones too, we can selfie with Merkel… damn this newfangled language, well, we can take pictures with phones too,” the old man threw in the final argument. The Szeklers sat on the bus, everyone with a phone in hand, GPS on the phone, Germany set as the destination, showing it to the border guard.
The Schengen border guard scratched his head, because there’s this European principle of free movement, right, the Szeklers could go if their bottoms were itching so much, but he didn’t like it that much, so he called Brussels, saying, look, there are seven hundred thousand Szeklers here, they want to go to Germany. In Brussels, there was a big problem because President Juncker was holding a press conference, and everyone wanted to know from his assistant how many cognacs he was on, anyway, the spokesperson was already preparing his denial at full pelt. The Szeklers were assigned an elbow pad-wearing file pusher. The elbow pad-wearing file pusher called the HCLU [Hungarian Civil Liberties Union]. At HCLU, they didn’t know that the Szeklers had suffered any grievances in Romania. The elbow pad-wearing file pusher called the Helsinki Committee. At the Helsinki Committee, they didn’t know that the Szeklers were suffering any grievances in Romania. The elbow pad-wearing file pusher called the Romanian government, where they assured him on their word of honor that minority protection in Romania is exemplary. The Brussels file pusher called back the Schengen border guard and asked if the Szeklers were possibly homosexuals, because then they might be able to interpret the problem. The Schengen border guard didn’t dare ask the Szeklers, there they were all sitting in the parking lot, calmly eating bacon, and everyone had a pocketknife, the Schengen border guard had some sense after all.
“Do you have papers?” the saving question occurred to the Schengen border guard.
“We’re not going to write, but to work,” Uncle Pista answered.
“I don’t mean that, can you prove with some document who and what you are,” the Schengen border guard clarified.
At this, Uncle Pista had the luggage compartments of the first bus opened and they brought out several raffia nets.
“Here’s everyone’s bulletin [ID], arranged alphabetically, but hurry with the reading, because by the time you finish, the Hungarian Academy of Sciences will have rewritten the alphabet too,” the university students from Cluj giggled.
The Schengen border guard was desperate, there was nothing else for it, he called Angela Merkel. Angela Merkel was just trying to turn back the wheel of time, it’s quite a big job, she was sweating profusely.
“And what do these Szeklers want?” Angela asked suspiciously, because she knew these Transylvanians, they bought a bunch of Saxons from Ceaușescu back then, there wasn’t a single problem with any of them.
“They say they want to work,” the Schengen border guard shrugged.
“Ah,” Chancellor Merkel nodded on the phone. “But you didn’t misunderstand something, they’re not Syrians?”
“No,” the border guard shook his head. “There’s not a single Syrian among them.”
“And how many are brain surgeons?” Angela asked.
“Hold on a moment,” the Schengen border guard turned out of his little booth and asked Uncle Pista. The Szeklers looked hopefully towards their offspring studying in Cluj, but there were all studying humanities, IT and veterinary, drinking Igazi Csíki Beer there, not a single one of them wanted to become a brain surgeon , no luck.
“Nein, gracious lady, none of them are brain surgeons,” the Schengen border guard reported on the phone.
“Are there any women rapists among them?” Angela asked.
“I won’t say a slap doesn’t fly sometimes,” Uncle Pista answered the question translated by the Schengen border guard, “I mean, we get it back too if we don’t appear before them with the buddies from the Wife Annoyer Club for three days, but violence, that we don’t have. I’d cut off the pee-pee of anyone who would dishonor our girls.”
“Oh dear, oh dear,” Angela Merkel held her head. “This is not good. And do they speak German?”
Guard turns out, asks, the Szeklers collectively shake their heads, guard back:
“Nein, gracious lady.”
“Well… That’s their only positive,” Angela Merkel sighed. “But that’s not enough. If they’re not Syrians, and not brain surgeons, then not speaking German won’t be enough for Willkommenskultur. Send them home.”
And so it happened that the Szeklers were sent home. In their sorrow, the kinfolk roasted the bacon they brought with them and ate it all. If the Szeklers hadn’t eaten the bacon, my tale would have lasted longer.
Notes:
Cultural and historical references:
Szeklers: A Hungarian-speaking ethnic group in Transylvania, Romania.
Willkommenskultur: German for “welcoming culture”, referring to Germany’s initial open policy towards refugees in 2015.
Angela Merkel: Former Chancellor of Germany, known for her role in the 2015 European migrant crisis.
Ceaușescu: Former communist dictator of Romania.
Hungarian and Romanian terms:
Lófő: A traditional Szekler social rank, similar to nobility.
Buletin: Romanian term for ID card.
Willkommenskultur: Intentionally misspelled as “willkomenskultur” in Hungarian, reflecting how foreign terms might be mispronounced.
Cultural nuances:
The story plays on stereotypes about Szeklers (e.g., their dialect, use of pocket knives, eating bacon).
References to discrimination and language rights reflect real issues faced by the Hungarian minority in Romania.
Linguistic notes:
The ending is a play on traditional Hungarian folktale endings.
Specific cultural items:
Igazi Csíki Sör: A popular beer brand from the Szekler region.
Asszonyboszontó: Literally “Wife Annoyer”, likely referring to a local pub.
Homeland Dictionary 