Hungary to unmask communist-era informants as agent files go public

From 1945 to 1989, Hungary’s communist state-security services relied on an extensive network of informants to monitor society and suppress dissent. Some informants were blackmailed or coerced into reporting on neighbours, friends, colleagues and even family members; others were recruited through promises of advantage. The release was originally scheduled for the anniversary of the 1956 anti-Soviet revolution but was pushed back to 4 November.

Zoltán Tarr, the minister of social relations and culture, wrote on Facebook: “A democratic society has the right to know its past.” “We are opening wide a door that was left ajar,” said István Papp, a historian and head of the academic department of the archives. “As a historian, I agree with the release of the files. But on a personal level, I feel for those who will face their family’s history for the first time.”

Historians estimate that about 10 percent of the 50,000 to 60,000 people named in the files are alive today. Placed side by side, the documents would stretch three miles, roughly the perimeter of London’s Hyde Park, though Papp said the collection is small compared with those of the Polish or Romanian secret services. Many files were destroyed during the 1956 uprising or disappeared during the 1989 transition, so many records will be incomplete and an agent’s motivation or the extent of reporting will remain unknown. Detailed files, background checks and statements exist for only 9,000 of the people mentioned; those will be released in February after personal information, including details of health, addictions and sexuality, and information about victims, has been redacted.

Miklós Kiss, a survivor of a Hungarian forced labour camp and president of a victims’ association, would have preferred Hungary to follow Germany, which opened Stasi files in 1992, and act years ago. “If that would have happened, everything would be done and dusted by now,” he said. “People will learn that there were traitors in every family, in every neighbourhood and street. But what are we supposed to do with that now?” The Czech Republic opened its files in 2003 and Latvia published its informant files in 2018.

Alexander Faludy, a freelance journalist and Anglican priest, read those on his family almost two decades ago. His grandfather, György Faludy, spent more than three years in a labour camp on fabricated accusations and later wrote My Happy Days in Hell. One report, by a Hungarian woman in London who befriended his grandmother as she was dying of cancer, made Faludy angry until he read the informant’s file and saw she had elderly parents and other relatives still in Hungary. “Suddenly, my anger evaporated. I just felt very sorry for her,” he said. “Exile was very painful for my family, but it also conferred certain moral luxuries. And that makes me hesitant in terms of passing judgment on people for what they did if they had to stay in Hungary.”

The identities of former agents have long fascinated Hungarians. Since the 2000s, several partial lists have named politicians and prominent artists; many denied involvement, but the allegations alone have been enough to plunge governments into crisis. Few agents have spoken publicly, and the subject remains taboo. In July, Szemlélek, an independent religious online journal, called on former agents to come forward. Religious figures were a known target of the state services and were often blackmailed into reporting on their congregations; according to some estimates, 7 to 10 percent cooperated with the state. So far, no one has volunteered. “I think many people feel that there isn’t really much to speak about,” said the journal’s editor-in-chief, Szilárd Szőnyi, “or they think that their story is so complex that they cannot, do not want to, or are not ready to tell it.”

Domokos Szokolay, a historian whose father, the poet and politician Zoltán Szokolay, was outed as an informant in an unofficial list published in 2005 and died in 2020, has yet to read all the reports on him. He said he hoped the release would not turn into public shaming, and that by speaking openly about trauma passed down through generations he could reassure others who discover their loved ones were agents that they are not alone. “There are so many family secrets or traumas that we can already talk about: if someone’s parent is an alcoholic, or a gambling addict. But people worry that they will be judged based on the agent files,” he said. “I know confronting one’s family history can be scary or even painful. But learning about it is always better.”