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Thursday, June 11
Global Free Speech

An Afghan teacher. Photo: Yunus Tuğ/Unsplash+ I was sitting in the staffroom of the school where I teach. It was a hot afternoon, and the weather made everything feel heavier. The room was small and crowded, with furniture pushed tightly against the walls as if it had been forced into place years ago and never moved again. Beside me stood an old grey metal cupboard where we kept our daily lesson plans. Its doors were stiff and heavy, and sometimes we had to push hard just to open it properly. The room had only one window. Because the building was above the second floor, the window had been built high into the wall according to local customs, so people could not easily look into their neighbours’ homes. From where I sat beside the cupboard, I could glimpse the sky. It was pale blue mixed with grey, but the sunlight spread across it so harshly that it almost looked white. The brightness felt distant, as if it belonged to another world outside the room. Beside me sat Basira, one of my colleagues who had studied architectural engineering at university. Sometimes she looked at that window and spoke about the years she had spent drawing designs and construction plans, believing she was building a future for herself. She once told me that architecture had taught her to think about light, openness and possibility. Now she sat in a room where even the architecture carried silence and limitation. It was a private school, because that was the only place I could find work. In Afghanistan, private schools are usually attended by the children of businessmen, powerful families and those who can afford better educational opportunities. I studied in a public school myself and I have always believed that education does not depend entirely on the type of school someone attends, but on the determination and enthusiasm of the student. But when I went looking for a job, my opportunities were restricted. After the Taliban came to power in Afghanistan, women were stopped from teaching boys over the age of seven, and girls over the age of 11. Many high school teachers lost their jobs, their profession, their source of independence, stability and participation in society. Some of them moved down to teach at primary school. At the same time, women from other professions, like Basira, went into teaching because it was the only job open to them. The result is that a private school in Kabul or Mazar has an infinite supply of highly qualified women teachers and can treat them as badly as they like. We live under threat. As one of my colleagues said to me once: “Bring a knife and kill us instead. How can we live after being fired with no future and no place in society?” A simple example: laptops. I was expected to bring my own – but I did not have one. This article is typed on a phone. I use my phone for my lesson plans and everything else. But even our phones had to stay hidden most of the time because teachers were not supposed to use them openly during school hours. The administration believed phones distracted teachers from teaching and worried they would spend time scrolling through social media instead of focusing on students. Cameras were installed in every classroom and hallway, and teachers were constantly watched by the school administration. At break, 17 teachers shared the staffroom. Now, four were outside supervising students during the break, while the rest of us squeezed together wherever we could find space. Sometimes we sat so close it felt as if we were sitting in each other’s laps. Beside me sat Freshta, who had studied English literature and spent two years studying nursing before her education was interrupted. She had dreamed of becoming a doctor, but now she taught Oxford Science to young children in a private school. I was studying medicine myself, carrying my own unfinished hopes quietly beside me each day. Across the room sat Yalda, who had studied law and imagined a future in the courts, before the Taliban returned. Teaching was never supposed to be her life. Susan was one of the few who truly loved teaching. She studied mathematics and taught the Afghan curriculum, while I taught Oxford mathematics, which was slightly more advanced. But even Susan was easily replaceable. Our headteacher often spoke of our students studying for their future, but all the time his teachers were learning how temporary they were. Sometimes the worry of losing this last remaining job reminded me of The Metamorphosis, where Gregor worries about work even after turning into an insect. When it comes down to it, people care less about who leaves than about who can still be useful. Across the room one of our middle-aged teachers, Ustad Ziba, was struggling. She suffers from heart problems and finds it difficult to breathe while teaching in a mask. One of her hands constantly pulls the mask down and pushes it back up again as she gasps for air. We thought we were lucky to be in a school where, after much discussion, women teachers were not required to wear the full burqa inside. Instead, we wear a hijab, a headscarf that covers a woman’s hair, neck, shoulders and sometimes the chest, so that not even a single strand of hair is visible. It is worn with a long, loose dress that covers the entire body. In addition, all teachers wear a medical face mask, which covers the nose and mouth. On hot days though, even this lighter face covering is restrictive. Before these rules, long dresses were my favourite clothes. But after they became mandatory, my feelings changed. Whenever I wear them now, I feel as if I am tied with ropes. As I walk, I am constantly afraid of slipping because the long skirt sometimes gets stuck under my feet. When I move around the classroom while teaching, I often think, “What if I suddenly fall in front of my students?” Even simple movements no longer feel natural or comfortable. I was eating a biscuit with a glass of green tea when our male headteacher, a man around 37 years old, came in. In school, he wears local Afghan clothes because in formal workplaces it has become compulsory for men as well as women. Today, he was wearing a long tunic (perahan), loose trousers (tunban) and a long outer coat. No face mask for him though. I could see his kind, anxious face. Our headteacher is an educated man and has two daughters. From the time he started at our school he has always spoken to us in a calm and respectful way. Unlike many others, he did not seem happy about the restrictions placed on women. I felt that he understood our struggles, even if he could not openly speak against the rules. He was part of the school administration, but always afraid that Taliban officials might suddenly arrive without warning to inspect the building. It was always a shocking event: dusty white pick-up trucks would roll up,  armed men sitting in the front. The back opened onto a space for carrying groups of fighters. Truckloads of dust and fear. They would enter our school without even asking permission from the administration, park their vehicles outside the gates and step out with guns hanging from their shoulders. They’d walk through the corridors as if they were searching for a fugitive or someone who had committed a terrible crime. Their radios crackled in their hands while teachers and children lowered their eyes and became silent. Even before they spoke, terror spread through the building. That day, the headteacher told us about something he had heard the day before. A woman walking beside her husband in the market had been stopped because her mask was not covering her face properly. As he spoke, I imagined the scene clearly in my mind. In many provinces, women are beaten with whips by the morality police. This time though he said there were also female workers with the Taliban patrol. They surrounded the woman in the crowded market while male officers stood nearby watching. The woman resisted, perhaps only by trying to protect herself or pull her veil closer around her face, and then the female officers were ordered to beat her. Afterward, they grabbed her by the arms and pulled her toward the waiting vehicle to take her away. All the people watched silently, as if a film scene were unfolding in front of them, yet no one dared to speak. Fear held every voice down. I imagined the dirt roads of the market, the carriages and carts parked around the crowded streets, and the salesmen with tired faces standing helplessly behind their vegetables and goods. Dust hung in the hot air while the woman was dragged away, and everyone pretended not to see because in that moment even looking too long could be dangerous. He lowered his gaze and looked down. There was a kind of silent shame on his face, a silence that many men in Afghanistan seem to carry when they witness these restrictions, but cannot openly oppose them.  The weight of it all bore down on the room. We teachers looked at each other. Yalda pressed her mask tighter against her face, as if trying to disappear into it. Freshta looked down, as if she was searching on the floor for the lost sparkles in her eyes. I stopped eating my biscuit. For a few seconds, no one spoke. The silence was so deep that it felt like even breathing had become louder than usual. The headteacher said: “Dear teachers, your dignity is more important than anything to us. We don’t want any of you to be beaten or arrested on the excuse that you are wearing makeup, using nail polish or not properly covering your face and body.” After that, he left the room. But the heaviness of his words, and the heaviness of these rules, stayed in the room. At that moment something inside me tightened. The room felt even smaller. I looked away and stayed silent. I thought about all the years I had spent studying and working for a future I believed in. I had worked so hard to become someone. Yet now, even the smallest choices, how I dressed, whether I covered my face with a mask on a hot afternoon, no longer belonged to me. I realised that I wanted to scream. Not just a sound, something deeper. I wanted to scream that I exist. That I am a human being. That I have thoughts and a heart and a voice. But the scream did not come out. It stayed inside my throat like a stone that I could not swallow or remove. I wiped my tears before anyone could notice. Outside, life continued as normal. Inside us, something had already changed, even if nothing around us did. I can still feel that scream now. I’m putting it here. Rahmati is a 24-year-old and lives in Kabul, Afghanistan. She had been studying at Kabul University for two years, but her education was stopped. She currently works in education and writes under a pen name for her safety. Some personal details have been adjusted to protect her identity and her family. This story is very personal to her. It reflects the emotional reality of living under restrictions and the silence experienced by many Afghan women. Writing has become her only way to express what cannot be safely spoken in daily life. She hopes that, through publication, these experiences will be seen and understood by a wider audience. READ MORE

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An Afghan teacher. Photo: Yunus Tuğ/Unsplash+ I was sitting in the staffroom of the school where I teach. It was a hot afternoon, and the weather made everything feel heavier. The room was small and crowded, with furniture pushed tightly against the walls as if it had been forced into place years ago and never moved again. Beside me stood an old grey metal cupboard where we kept our daily lesson plans. Its doors were stiff and heavy, and sometimes we had to push hard just to open it properly. The room had only one window. Because the building was above the second floor, the window had been built high into the wall according to local customs, so people could not easily look into their neighbours’ homes. From where I sat beside the cupboard, I could glimpse the sky. It was pale blue mixed with grey, but the sunlight spread across it so harshly that it almost looked white. The brightness felt distant, as if it belonged to another world outside the room. Beside me sat Basira, one of my colleagues who had studied architectural engineering at university. Sometimes she looked at that window and spoke about the years she had spent drawing designs and construction plans, believing she was building a future for herself. She once told me that architecture had taught her to think about light, openness and possibility. Now she sat in a room where even the architecture carried silence and limitation. It was a private school, because that was the only place I could find work. In Afghanistan, private schools are usually attended by the children of businessmen, powerful families and those who can afford better educational opportunities. I studied in a public school myself and I have always believed that education does not depend entirely on the type of school someone attends, but on the determination and enthusiasm of the student. But when I went looking for a job, my opportunities were restricted. After the Taliban came to power in Afghanistan, women were stopped from teaching boys over the age of seven, and girls over the age of 11. Many high school teachers lost their jobs, their profession, their source of independence, stability and participation in society. Some of them moved down to teach at primary school. At the same time, women from other professions, like Basira, went into teaching because it was the only job open to them. The result is that a private school in Kabul or Mazar has an infinite supply of highly qualified women teachers and can treat them as badly as they like. We live under threat. As one of my colleagues said to me once: “Bring a knife and kill us instead. How can we live after being fired with no future and no place in society?” A simple example: laptops. I was expected to bring my own – but I did not have one. This article is typed on a phone. I use my phone for my lesson plans and everything else. But even our phones had to stay hidden most of the time because teachers were not supposed to use them openly during school hours. The administration believed phones distracted teachers from teaching and worried they would spend time scrolling through social media instead of focusing on students. Cameras were installed in every classroom and hallway, and teachers were constantly watched by the school administration. At break, 17 teachers shared the staffroom. Now, four were outside supervising students during the break, while the rest of us squeezed together wherever we could find space. Sometimes we sat so close it felt as if we were sitting in each other’s laps. Beside me sat Freshta, who had studied English literature and spent two years studying nursing before her education was interrupted. She had dreamed of becoming a doctor, but now she taught Oxford Science to young children in a private school. I was studying medicine myself, carrying my own unfinished hopes quietly beside me each day. Across the room sat Yalda, who had studied law and imagined a future in the courts, before the Taliban returned. Teaching was never supposed to be her life. Susan was one of the few who truly loved teaching. She studied mathematics and taught the Afghan curriculum, while I taught Oxford mathematics, which was slightly more advanced. But even Susan was easily replaceable. Our headteacher often spoke of our students studying for their future, but all the time his teachers were learning how temporary they were. Sometimes the worry of losing this last remaining job reminded me of The Metamorphosis, where Gregor worries about work even after turning into an insect. When it comes down to it, people care less about who leaves than about who can still be useful. Across the room one of our middle-aged teachers, Ustad Ziba, was struggling. She suffers from heart problems and finds it difficult to breathe while teaching in a mask. One of her hands constantly pulls the mask down and pushes it back up again as she gasps for air. We thought we were lucky to be in a school where, after much discussion, women teachers were not required to wear the full burqa inside. Instead, we wear a hijab, a headscarf that covers a woman’s hair, neck, shoulders and sometimes the chest, so that not even a single strand of hair is visible. It is worn with a long, loose dress that covers the entire body. In addition, all teachers wear a medical face mask, which covers the nose and mouth. On hot days though, even this lighter face covering is restrictive. Before these rules, long dresses were my favourite clothes. But after they became mandatory, my feelings changed. Whenever I wear them now, I feel as if I am tied with ropes. As I walk, I am constantly afraid of slipping because the long skirt sometimes gets stuck under my feet. When I move around the classroom while teaching, I often think, “What if I suddenly fall in front of my students?” Even simple movements no longer feel natural or comfortable. I was eating a biscuit with a glass of green tea when our male headteacher, a man around 37 years old, came in. In school, he wears local Afghan clothes because in formal workplaces it has become compulsory for men as well as women. Today, he was wearing a long tunic (perahan), loose trousers (tunban) and a long outer coat. No face mask for him though. I could see his kind, anxious face. Our headteacher is an educated man and has two daughters. From the time he started at our school he has always spoken to us in a calm and respectful way. Unlike many others, he did not seem happy about the restrictions placed on women. I felt that he understood our struggles, even if he could not openly speak against the rules. He was part of the school administration, but always afraid that Taliban officials might suddenly arrive without warning to inspect the building. It was always a shocking event: dusty white pick-up trucks would roll up,  armed men sitting in the front. The back opened onto a space for carrying groups of fighters. Truckloads of dust and fear. They would enter our school without even asking permission from the administration, park their vehicles outside the gates and step out with guns hanging from their shoulders. They’d walk through the corridors as if they were searching for a fugitive or someone who had committed a terrible crime. Their radios crackled in their hands while teachers and children lowered their eyes and became silent. Even before they spoke, terror spread through the building. That day, the headteacher told us about something he had heard the day before. A woman walking beside her husband in the market had been stopped because her mask was not covering her face properly. As he spoke, I imagined the scene clearly in my mind. In many provinces, women are beaten with whips by the morality police. This time though he said there were also female workers with the Taliban patrol. They surrounded the woman in the crowded market while male officers stood nearby watching. The woman resisted, perhaps only by trying to protect herself or pull her veil closer around her face, and then the female officers were ordered to beat her. Afterward, they grabbed her by the arms and pulled her toward the waiting vehicle to take her away. All the people watched silently, as if a film scene were unfolding in front of them, yet no one dared to speak. Fear held every voice down. I imagined the dirt roads of the market, the carriages and carts parked around the crowded streets, and the salesmen with tired faces standing helplessly behind their vegetables and goods. Dust hung in the hot air while the woman was dragged away, and everyone pretended not to see because in that moment even looking too long could be dangerous. He lowered his gaze and looked down. There was a kind of silent shame on his face, a silence that many men in Afghanistan seem to carry when they witness these restrictions, but cannot openly oppose them.  The weight of it all bore down on the room. We teachers looked at each other. Yalda pressed her mask tighter against her face, as if trying to disappear into it. Freshta looked down, as if she was searching on the floor for the lost sparkles in her eyes. I stopped eating my biscuit. For a few seconds, no one spoke. The silence was so deep that it felt like even breathing had become louder than usual. The headteacher said: “Dear teachers, your dignity is more important than anything to us. We don’t want any of you to be beaten or arrested on the excuse that you are wearing makeup, using nail polish or not properly covering your face and body.” After that, he left the room. But the heaviness of his words, and the heaviness of these rules, stayed in the room. At that moment something inside me tightened. The room felt even smaller. I looked away and stayed silent. I thought about all the years I had spent studying and working for a future I believed in. I had worked so hard to become someone. Yet now, even the smallest choices, how I dressed, whether I covered my face with a mask on a hot afternoon, no longer belonged to me. I realised that I wanted to scream. Not just a sound, something deeper. I wanted to scream that I exist. That I am a human being. That I have thoughts and a heart and a voice. But the scream did not come out. It stayed inside my throat like a stone that I could not swallow or remove. I wiped my tears before anyone could notice. Outside, life continued as normal. Inside us, something had already changed, even if nothing around us did. I can still feel that scream now. I’m putting it here. Rahmati is a 24-year-old and lives in Kabul, Afghanistan. She had been studying at Kabul University for two years, but her education was stopped. She currently works in education and writes under a pen name for her safety. Some personal details have been adjusted to protect her identity and her family. This story is very personal to her. It reflects the emotional reality of living under restrictions and the silence experienced by many Afghan women. Writing has become her only way to express what cannot be safely spoken in daily life. She hopes that, through publication, these experiences will be seen and understood by a wider audience. READ MORE

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I was sitting in the staffroom of the school where I teach. It was a hot afternoon, and the weather made everything feel heavier.

The room was small and crowded, with furniture pushed tightly against the walls as if it had been forced into place years ago and never moved again. Beside me stood an old grey metal cupboard where we kept our daily lesson plans. Its doors were stiff and heavy, and sometimes we had to push hard just to open it properly.

The room had only one window. Because the building was above the second floor, the window had been built high into the wall according to local customs, so people could not easily look into their neighbours’ homes. From where I sat beside the cupboard, I could glimpse the sky. It was pale blue mixed with grey, but the sunlight spread across it so harshly that it almost looked white. The brightness felt distant, as if it belonged to another world outside the room.

Beside me sat Basira, one of my colleagues who had studied architectural engineering at university. Sometimes she looked at that window and spoke about the years she had spent drawing designs and construction plans, believing she was building a future for herself. She once told me that architecture had taught her to think about light, openness and possibility. Now she sat in a room where even the architecture carried silence and limitation.

It was a private school, because that was the only place I could find work. In Afghanistan, private schools are usually attended by the children of businessmen, powerful families and those who can afford better educational opportunities. I studied in a public school myself and I have always believed that education does not depend entirely on the type of school someone attends, but on the determination and enthusiasm of the student. But when I went looking for a job, my opportunities were restricted.

After the Taliban came to power in Afghanistan, women were stopped from teaching boys over the age of seven, and girls over the age of 11. Many high school teachers lost their jobs, their profession, their source of independence, stability and participation in society. Some of them moved down to teach at primary school. At the same time, women from other professions, like Basira, went into teaching because it was the only job open to them. The result is that a private school in Kabul or Mazar has an infinite supply of highly qualified women teachers and can treat them as badly as they like. We live under threat. As one of my colleagues said to me once: “Bring a knife and kill us instead. How can we live after being fired with no future and no place in society?”

A simple example: laptops. I was expected to bring my own – but I did not have one. This article is typed on a phone. I use my phone for my lesson plans and everything else. But even our phones had to stay hidden most of the time because teachers were not supposed to use them openly during school hours. The administration believed phones distracted teachers from teaching and worried they would spend time scrolling through social media instead of focusing on students. Cameras were installed in every classroom and hallway, and teachers were constantly watched by the school administration.

At break, 17 teachers shared the staffroom. Now, four were outside supervising students during the break, while the rest of us squeezed together wherever we could find space. Sometimes we sat so close it felt as if we were sitting in each other’s laps.

Beside me sat Freshta, who had studied English literature and spent two years studying nursing before her education was interrupted. She had dreamed of becoming a doctor, but now she taught Oxford Science to young children in a private school. I was studying medicine myself, carrying my own unfinished hopes quietly beside me each day. Across the room sat Yalda, who had studied law and imagined a future in the courts, before the Taliban returned. Teaching was never supposed to be her life. Susan was one of the few who truly loved teaching. She studied mathematics and taught the Afghan curriculum, while I taught Oxford mathematics, which was slightly more advanced. But even Susan was easily replaceable.

Our headteacher often spoke of our students studying for their future, but all the time his teachers were learning how temporary they were. Sometimes the worry of losing this last remaining job reminded me of The Metamorphosis, where Gregor worries about work even after turning into an insect. When it comes down to it, people care less about who leaves than about who can still be useful.

Across the room one of our middle-aged teachers, Ustad Ziba, was struggling. She suffers from heart problems and finds it difficult to breathe while teaching in a mask. One of her hands constantly pulls the mask down and pushes it back up again as she gasps for air.

We thought we were lucky to be in a school where, after much discussion, women teachers were not required to wear the full burqa inside. Instead, we wear a hijab, a headscarf that covers a woman’s hair, neck, shoulders and sometimes the chest, so that not even a single strand of hair is visible. It is worn with a long, loose dress that covers the entire body. In addition, all teachers wear a medical face mask, which covers the nose and mouth. On hot days though, even this lighter face covering is restrictive.

Before these rules, long dresses were my favourite clothes. But after they became mandatory, my feelings changed. Whenever I wear them now, I feel as if I am tied with ropes. As I walk, I am constantly afraid of slipping because the long skirt sometimes gets stuck under my feet. When I move around the classroom while teaching, I often think, “What if I suddenly fall in front of my students?” Even simple movements no longer feel natural or comfortable.

I was eating a biscuit with a glass of green tea when our male headteacher, a man around 37 years old, came in. In school, he wears local Afghan clothes because in formal workplaces it has become compulsory for men as well as women. Today, he was wearing a long tunic (perahan), loose trousers (tunban) and a long outer coat. No face mask for him though. I could see his kind, anxious face.

Our headteacher is an educated man and has two daughters. From the time he started at our school he has always spoken to us in a calm and respectful way. Unlike many others, he did not seem happy about the restrictions placed on women.

I felt that he understood our struggles, even if he could not openly speak against the rules. He was part of the school administration, but always afraid that Taliban officials might suddenly arrive without warning to inspect the building. It was always a shocking event: dusty white pick-up trucks would roll up,  armed men sitting in the front. The back opened onto a space for carrying groups of fighters. Truckloads of dust and fear.

They would enter our school without even asking permission from the administration, park their vehicles outside the gates and step out with guns hanging from their shoulders. They’d walk through the corridors as if they were searching for a fugitive or someone who had committed a terrible crime. Their radios crackled in their hands while teachers and children lowered their eyes and became silent. Even before they spoke, terror spread through the building.

That day, the headteacher told us about something he had heard the day before. A woman walking beside her husband in the market had been stopped because her mask was not covering her face properly. As he spoke, I imagined the scene clearly in my mind. In many provinces, women are beaten with whips by the morality police. This time though he said there were also female workers with the Taliban patrol. They surrounded the woman in the crowded market while male officers stood nearby watching. The woman resisted, perhaps only by trying to protect herself or pull her veil closer around her face, and then the female officers were ordered to beat her. Afterward, they grabbed her by the arms and pulled her toward the waiting vehicle to take her away.

All the people watched silently, as if a film scene were unfolding in front of them, yet no one dared to speak. Fear held every voice down. I imagined the dirt roads of the market, the carriages and carts parked around the crowded streets, and the salesmen with tired faces standing helplessly behind their vegetables and goods. Dust hung in the hot air while the woman was dragged away, and everyone pretended not to see because in that moment even looking too long could be dangerous.

He lowered his gaze and looked down. There was a kind of silent shame on his face, a silence that many men in Afghanistan seem to carry when they witness these restrictions, but cannot openly oppose them.  The weight of it all bore down on the room.

We teachers looked at each other. Yalda pressed her mask tighter against her face, as if trying to disappear into it. Freshta looked down, as if she was searching on the floor for the lost sparkles in her eyes. I stopped eating my biscuit. For a few seconds, no one spoke. The silence was so deep that it felt like even breathing had become louder than usual.

The headteacher said: “Dear teachers, your dignity is more important than anything to us. We don’t want any of you to be beaten or arrested on the excuse that you are wearing makeup, using nail polish or not properly covering your face and body.”

After that, he left the room. But the heaviness of his words, and the heaviness of these rules, stayed in the room.

At that moment something inside me tightened. The room felt even smaller. I looked away and stayed silent.

I thought about all the years I had spent studying and working for a future I believed in. I had worked so hard to become someone. Yet now, even the smallest choices, how I dressed, whether I covered my face with a mask on a hot afternoon, no longer belonged to me.

I realised that I wanted to scream.

Not just a sound, something deeper. I wanted to scream that I exist. That I am a human being. That I have thoughts and a heart and a voice.

But the scream did not come out. It stayed inside my throat like a stone that I could not swallow or remove.

I wiped my tears before anyone could notice. Outside, life continued as normal.

Inside us, something had already changed, even if nothing around us did.

I can still feel that scream now. I’m putting it here.

Rahmati is a 24-year-old and lives in Kabul, Afghanistan. She had been studying at Kabul University for two years, but her education was stopped. She currently works in education and writes under a pen name for her safety. Some personal details have been adjusted to protect her identity and her family.

This story is very personal to her. It reflects the emotional reality of living under restrictions and the silence experienced by many Afghan women. Writing has become her only way to express what cannot be safely spoken in daily life. She hopes that, through publication, these experiences will be seen and understood by a wider audience.

Read the full article here

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Hungary’s Sziget festival is known as a safe place to express yourself freely. Photo: Sandor Csudai/www.facebook.com/csudaisandor This article first appeared in the Spring 2026 issue of Index on Censorship, The monster unleashed: How Hungary’s illiberal vision is seducing the Western world published on 2 April 2026. Crossing Budapest’s brutalist K-Bridge across the Danube to Óbuda Island on a grey spring day feels like the last journey of a condemned prisoner. The steel truss bridge was built as a temporary measure in 1955, a year before the uprising in which university students and ordinary citizens took to the streets to protest against the Stalinist government of Mátyás Rákosi. The single set of railway tracks suggests a one-way journey. It was built to give access to Budapest’s great Ganz Danubius shipyard. The shipyard was finally closed in 2000, after years of decline. These days, the bridge acts more like a rabbit hole from Orbán’s Hungary into Wonderland. Every summer, hundreds of thousands of people young and old cross to the leafy island to be entertained by music, theatre and dance, and to be challenged by debate, art and film – the joyous week-long celebration of free expression that is the Sziget Festival. Sziget was born from the ashes of Communism. In 1993, four years after the fall of the Iron Curtain, Károly Gerendai was just 22. Thin and sporting a shock of long hair like a Hungarian David Gilmour, Gerendai had become interested in the music industry whilst in high school. As a student, he earned money fly-posting and as a tour manager. Later, he managed bands and worked for record labels. That year, he was in charge of Sziámi, one of the best-known alt-rock bands in the Hungarian underground scene. On the tour bus after a concert, he fell into conversation with Péter Müller, the band’s frontman. “We talked about how, after the political transition, the big youth events had disappeared,” Gerendai told Index. “Before the political transition of 1989–90, there were state-organised youth events, but we quickly realised that they mainly served as a way for the state to control young people. Although we could meet and have fun together, we always felt the state’s watchful eye on us.” State control extended beyond the audience and on to the stage. “In the music industry, strong state selection was also in place: there were supported, tolerated, and banned bands, so not everyone was allowed to be heard.” This is where the seed of something new was born. Post Iron Curtain Co-founder Károly Gerendai. Photo: Sziget Festival “We thought it would be great to organise a multi-day event where young people could be together – something like a holiday combined with concerts, various cultural programmes, and community activities,” he said. Gerendai and Müller approached Gábor Demszky, mayor of Budapest at the time and first of the post-Communist era, for help. “He supported the concept but told us to organise it ourselves,” Gerendai told Index. “Even though we had no experience with anything like this, we boldly jumped into the organisation.” This make-it-up-as-you-go-along approach was typical in post-Soviet eastern Europe. The mayor suggested three possible venues for the festival, one of which was Óbuda Island. The island punctuates the Danube like a giant green exclamation mark between the city’s two halves, Buda and Pest. “Two iconic music events had previously been held there, both attracting huge interest,” said Gerendai. “One was the 1980 Black Sheep concert, a rare occasion when both tolerated and banned bands were allowed to perform. Then in 1991, it was one of the venues for the ‘Goodbye, Ivan!’ event celebrating the withdrawal of Soviet troops. I had worked on that event, which is how I got to know the subcontractors we later invited to help organise our festival.” Hungary’s youth were ready for a party. After only a few months’ preparation, the festival – initially called Diáksziget, Student Island in Hungarian – attracted 43,000 visitors over seven days. “We organised the first festival with the slogan ‘We need a week together’, referring to a carefree, shared community experience. Another slogan was ‘Everything is allowed, but nothing is mandatory’, which was meant to help us leave the past behind, celebrate freedom in every sense, and express that we never again wanted to live in a dictatorship,” said Gerendai. A wobbly start The line-up for the first festival was largely made up of Hungarian artists, such as alt-rock band Kispál és a Borz, punk band Tankcsapda, and singer János Bródy. In all, 200 bands performed on the festival’s two stages, alongside open-air movies and theatre productions. Yet, as was often the case after the fall of Communism, things didn’t work out as planned. Despite receiving sponsorship from Pepsi, the country’s Nagykanizsa brewery, and some support from the city of Budapest, the festival lost money. Lots of it. “It didn’t go smoothly,” admitted Gerendai. “We faced numerous problems during the process and made serious financial miscalculations.” By the end of the festival, it had run up a huge deficit, and only survived thanks to a bailout by the city council. But after this first turbulent year, Sziget not only survived but thrived. The following year saw the number of festivalgoers – or Szitizens as they are usually known – increase to 143,000. International acts like Jethro Tull, The Birds, and Jefferson Starship started to appear on the line-up. “Sziget outgrew Hungary’s borders early on, and we consciously developed the programme lineup, services, and visual identity so that we would be seen as a unique festival on the international scene as well,” said Gerendai. A beacon of light Chappell Roan on stage at Sziget. Photo: Sziget Festival By 2019, the festival was attracting more than half a million visitors to the Hungarian capital every year. The festival’s reputation was such that it was bringing in some of the world’s biggest music acts, including Arctic Monkeys, Kendrick Lamar, Kings of Leon, P!nk, Rihanna, Muse and David Guetta. Óbuda Island has remained the home of the festival. “It’s a great location: close to downtown Budapest, yet also a green, nature-filled area. It’s also symbolic – an island surrounded by a river, where once you cross the bridge, you can leave everyday problems behind,” Gerendai told Index. “It’s the origin of the nickname given by visitors: the Island of Freedom.” This nickname comes from the festival’s commitment to allowing artists and festival goers to speak their views – and was easy to pull off in a liberal city like Budapest keen to attract to hordes of young foreign tourists to boost the economy. In Gerendai’s opinion, freedom of expression was one of the major achievements of Hungary’s political transition in the 1990s. “I believe freedom of expression is a broader concept than simply who we agree or disagree with; it’s not fundamentally our role to judge other people’s views. At Sziget, we have always provided space for differences of opinion and we respect artistic freedom of expression on stage as well. At the same time, we do set limits: we do not allow hate-inciting or human-dignity violating expressions, and we also do not give space to extremist productions whose audiences could potentially endanger the safety of festival visitors.” As well as music, the festival is a thriving forum for circus, street theatre, film, visual arts and cabaret. At the heart of the festival is an area called Think for Tomorrow. The zone addresses pressing social issues that have an impact on the lives of young people, from their own perspective. “NGOs and organisations that play an important role in social and cultural life have also had their own dedicated space at Sziget since the early days,” said Gerendai. “These groups are worth introducing to the festival audience, and their work aligns with Sziget’s core values, such as sustainability, the protection of human rights, and acceptance.” Stepping back Magic Mirror at Sziget. Photo: Kristóf Hölvényi /Rockstar Photographers www.instagram.com/kristofholvenyi/ Eight years ago, after running 25 Sziget festivals, Gerendai decided to step back and sell his interest in the festival to promoter Superstruct, owned by American private equity company KKR. “I decided to pass the baton and from then on followed the festival only as a guest,” he said. During his time at its helm, the values of the Sziget festival had grown increasingly at odds with those of Viktor Orbán’s Fidesz government. There is a huge LGBTQ+ presence at Sziget, both in visitors and artists, with the Magic Mirror venue on the site hosting themed content exploring the LGBTQ+ experience. After the Orbán government introduced anti-LGBTQ+ legislation in 2021, the festival’s new organisers came under pressure over its stance, and there were calls for them to ban under-18s from Magic Mirror. The organisers refused. Sziget’s audience has made itself heard on [former Hungarian prime minister] Orbán over the past few years. At the 2023 festival, during Hungarian rapper Krúbi’s performance the audience started chanting Mocskos Fidesz (Filthy Fidesz). This chant has since become popular common at the festival and at other music events. The Kneecap ban Friction between the festival and Orbán burst into the open in 2025 after Irish rappers Kneecap, who were due to perform at the festival that summer, were banned from the country for being a national security threat. Kneecap are outspoken critics of right-wing political ideology and are particularly scathing about the Israel-Gaza War. Kneecap (along with Bob Vylan) had performed inflammatory sets at Glastonbury the month before and Orbán, for his part, has been strengthening his strategic alliance with Israel, going so far as to declare that “Jewish communities are safer in Budapest than anywhere else in Europe”. Orbán told state broadcaster Kossuth Radio that he was angry that the band had been invited to play at Sziget. He claimed that the organisers’ decision was motivated by financial gain. “Is this damn money really that important?” Orbán asked the radio presenter. Even though they were unable to perform, Kneecap shared a message with festivalgoers gathering at the stage on which they were due to perform. The message read: “We wish we could be there with you at one of the best festivals in the world and the first European festival Kneecap ever played,” the message read. “We can’t because of one hate filled man. Viktor Orbán.” When this part of the message was displayed, a huge crowd who had been told on social media to expect something from the band started booing and chanting “Fuck Orbán”. The message continued: “We have been convicted of zero crimes in any country ever. But we will call out oppression. For calling out Israel’s genocidal campaign Viktor has banned us from your beautiful country for three years. Israel is committing a genocide against the Palestinian people. Viktor Orbán and his government support it. Viktor Orbán and his government tried to shut down Pride in Budapest. They failed. We must stand together. Oppose Orbán. Oppose Israel. Oppose genocide.” The festival’s robust stance in favour of LGBTQ+ rights has won it the European Festival Awards Take a Stand prize twice, in 2023 and 2026 (for 2025). The award recognises festivals that stand up for peaceful dialogue, humanism, tolerance, and mutual understanding – activities that do not necessarily chime with the profit imperative. Stepping forward again It is true, though, that since the Covid pandemic money has been a big problem for the Sziget festival. Like many other European music festivals, Sziget had struggled thanks to two years of cancellations, the spiralling cost of living, and sharply rising artist fees. The festival lost $5.6 million in 2023, and almost $12 million in 2024. In 2025, the company running the festival (without Gerendai) sent a letter to Budapest mayor Gergely Karácsony calling for the agreement between the festival and the city, as the island’s landowner, to be terminated. The festival seemed to be doomed. But the return of a familiar figure saved it at the last minute – its co-founder, Gerendai. “The new owner decided that they no longer wished to finance the festival, which had found itself in a difficult situation in the post-pandemic years due to economic conditions and, in my view, certain conceptual decisions as well,” said Gerendai. “They offered that if I took Sziget back, we could continue organising it under my leadership. So it was either I return – or there would be no Sziget.” “It caused me several sleepless nights, since in the meantime I had been working on completely different things,” Gerendai told Index. “But in the end, I felt that a festival that has become a cultural institution in Hungary and is also significant on the international scene simply cannot end abruptly. Besides, this is my child – I couldn’t abandon it.” Superstruct has come under huge pressure from activists and artists since its acquisition by KKR in June 2024. KKR has significant investments in Israeli companies, including some operating in the West Bank. In May 2025, a number of artists pulled out of the UK’s Field Day festival because of its Superstruct ownership. The transfer of the licence from Superstruct back to Gerendai almost didn’t happen. Budapest City Council initially blocked the transfer, with councillors from Fidesz and Péter Magyar’s opposition Tisza party abstaining from the vote. However, Hungary’s Index newspaper reports that Magyar, reacting to negative sentiment from potential voters over the news that Sziget might fold, quickly arranged a meeting with Gerendai. On 30 October, Magyar posted a picture of himself and Gerendai on Facebook, announcing that the pair would meet again at the 2026 festival after agreeing on two amendments to the proposals: first, that the costs of using the island would be paid back to the city by 2030 rather than 2035, and second, that all Hungarians under the age of 25 would get discounted tickets to the festival – a potential vote-winner among this demographic. Gerendai himself won’t be drawn on his politics. The 2026 Sziget festival is now set to go ahead from 11 to 15 August 2026, featuring Florence + The Machine, Lewis Capaldi, Sombr, Twenty One Pilots, Biffy Clyro and Underworld as well as hundreds of others including Hungarian rapper Sisi on the line-up. Gerendai said, “Many large music festivals operate primarily as business ventures focused on who is performing. In recent years, Sziget had also started to move in this direction, but I believe a festival should stand for more than that. Cultural diversity must be emphasised, as well as a commitment to core values. Reaffirming this ambition can be the key to long-term success – and this is what we aim for in the future.” The future for music festivals remains uncertain but, for now, the legendary island of freedom looks safe back in Gerendai’s hands. READ MORE

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