Hungary is, in a word, in a state of WAR against the Hapsburg

Host: The evening sky hung low over the Danube, a dark velvet streaked with thin veins of smoke from the city’s distant chimneys. The air was thick with the smell of iron and rain. In the square below the crumbling Buda fortress, two figures sat beneath a bronze statue of a fallen general — its sword arm raised forever toward a freedom that had cost him everything.

Jack sat with his coat collar turned up, a cigarette glowing between his fingers, its ember a lonely heartbeat in the cold wind. Jeeny stood by the railing, looking out at the river, her hair blowing across her face, her eyes locked on the lights of Pest shimmering on the other side — a mirror city, a reflection of longing.

The bells of St. Matthias began to toll, slow and heavy, as if marking the rhythm of an old nation’s grief.

Jeeny: “Lajos Kossuth said, ‘Hungary is, in a word, in a state of war against the Hapsburg dynasty — a war of legitimate defence, by which alone it can ever regain independence and freedom.’”
She turned, her voice quiet but fierce. “He believed freedom isn’t given. It’s wrestled from the hands that refuse to let you breathe.”

Jack: He flicked the cigarette away, watching its red tip vanish. “And that’s where they all go wrong, Jeeny. They think war makes you free. But war just replaces one master with another — death.”

Jeeny: “You think freedom can be begged for? Signed on paper? No. Every tyrant only understands resistance.”

Jack: “And every war hero ends up buried in the same ground as his oppressor. Freedom born of blood always smells the same.”

Host: The wind picked up, rattling the flagpoles above the fortress, the metal clinking like chains being tested for weakness. Jeeny stepped closer, her hands trembling but her gaze steady.

Jeeny: “You sound like a man who’s given up on believing people can rise.”

Jack: “I’ve seen them rise. In Iraq, in Syria, in places where the revolution starts with hope and ends with rubble. You call it defence — they called it that too. But in the end, everyone’s home is ash.”

Jeeny: “Then what would you have them do? Bow forever? Smile beneath the boot?”

Jack: “No. I’d have them live. Freedom isn’t worth dying for if the dead can’t use it.”

Jeeny: “Tell that to those who lived under the Hapsburg crown, when Hungarian speech was banned, when poets were executed for writing their mother tongue.”

Jack: His tone hardened. “I’m not saying Kossuth was wrong to fight. I’m saying maybe freedom is less about banners and guns — more about endurance. A quiet refusal that outlasts empires.”

Host: The lamplight flickered across his face, catching the faint lines carved there by years of disillusionment — lines that might once have been faith. Jeeny’s eyes softened, but her words did not.

Jeeny: “Endurance without action is surrender dressed in patience. Hungary’s chains didn’t fall because people endured — they fell because they stood up.”

Jack: “And yet, they fell only to rise again under another flag. Austrians, Soviets, and now Brussels. Tell me, Jeeny, when does a nation truly stop being someone’s servant?”

Jeeny: “When it stops believing it must ask permission to live.”

Jack: “Then maybe freedom isn’t a war. Maybe it’s a mindset.”

Jeeny: “A mindset doesn’t stop a soldier’s boot. It doesn’t open a prison door. Freedom must be defended — or it dies quietly in the comfort of compromise.”

Host: A flash of lightning split the clouds, illuminating the Danube like a blade drawn across the heart of the city. The thunder that followed rolled through their silence — deep, ancient, like the echo of distant cannons.

Jack: “You speak as if violence purifies.”

Jeeny: “No. I speak as if resistance redeems. There’s a difference.”

Jack: “There’s a price too. Kossuth lost everything. His nation, his home, his crown of hope. Was that redemption?”

Jeeny: “Yes. Because his loss became a legend. Legends keep nations alive when bodies cannot.”

Jack: “Legends don’t feed the hungry.”

Jeeny: “But they feed the will to rise again.”

Host: Jeeny stepped closer, her eyes fierce now, the rain beginning to fall — thin and cold, streaking across her cheeks like unshed tears. Jack stood unmoving, his silhouette framed by the statue behind him — the general’s bronze sword seeming to rise from his own shadow.

Jeeny: “You always talk about logic, Jack. About survival. But there’s something beyond that — dignity. The kind that doesn’t count bodies or weigh profit. The kind that says, ‘I exist, even if I must die proving it.’”

Jack: “And you think that makes it right? That dying for a flag is better than living without one?”

Jeeny: “No. But sometimes, the only way to make life worth living again is to risk losing it.”

Jack: “That’s poetic suicide.”

Jeeny: “No. It’s faith.”

Host: The rain deepened, drumming softly on the stone steps. The river below glowed silver in the lightning, a restless body mirroring their argument — violent, alive, and beautiful.

Jack: “Faith in what? That God chooses sides? That history will remember?”

Jeeny: “Faith that freedom is worth the pain it demands. Kossuth wasn’t just fighting Austria — he was fighting resignation. The belief that obedience is peace.”

Jack: He sighed, looking at her. “And what if peace is what people really want? Not glory, not independence. Just quiet.”

Jeeny: “Then they’ll never know they could have been more than quiet.”

Host: The church bells tolled again, closer now, their sound rolling through the wet air like a pulse. Jeeny’s voice softened, her anger dimming to sorrow.

Jeeny: “You mistake war for love of blood. But Kossuth’s war was love of life — a defence of the soul. Sometimes, the only way to protect life is to face the fire that threatens it.”

Jack: “And you think I don’t understand that?”

Jeeny: “You understand pain. But not purpose.”

Jack: “Purpose burns too hot. It leaves nothing standing.”

Jeeny: “It also lights the path for those who come after.”

Host: They fell silent. The rain turned to mist, the city below glimmering in the haze — like a ghost of its past self, haunted but unbroken. A lone violin drifted faintly from somewhere across the river, a song both mournful and defiant — perhaps one of Kossuth’s marches, perhaps just the echo of memory.

Jack stepped forward, resting his hands on the railing, staring out across the dark water.

Jack: “Maybe that’s what freedom is — not the victory, but the refusal to forget the fight.”

Jeeny: Nods softly. “Yes. Freedom isn’t a state. It’s a struggle that keeps a people human.”

Jack: “Then maybe you’re right. Maybe every generation must fight the same war, just with different weapons.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Some fight with swords, others with truth.”

Host: A faint smile crossed her face, weary but real. Jack turned to look at her, the light catching the tired hope in both their eyes.

Jeeny: “You see, Jack… Kossuth’s war never really ended. It just changed shape. Every time someone refuses to kneel — anywhere — his spirit wakes again.”

Jack: “Then maybe that’s the kind of immortality worth having.”

Jeeny: “The only kind that matters.”

Host: The rain stopped, leaving behind a thin mist curling like breath around their feet. Across the river, the Parliament building glowed — golden, resolute — its spires piercing the darkness like prayers made of light.

Jack and Jeeny stood together in silence, the statue’s shadow long across the ground, the city humming softly around them — alive, defiant, and still whispering the name of freedom.

And somewhere in that hush — between thunder, history, and heartbeats — the spirit of a nation seemed to breathe again.