Hungary prepares to open communist informant records after decades of secrecy

Hungary’s new government plans to publish the names of tens of thousands of communist-era informants on Wednesday, 4 November, opening records that have remained largely beyond public reach for decades. The release is intended to help the country confront its history and restore public trust, while potentially bringing painful discoveries for families.

Between 1945 and 1989, Hungary’s state-security services used a sprawling network to watch the population and stifle opposition. Informants reported on colleagues, neighbours, friends and relatives. Some were pressured or blackmailed into cooperating, while others agreed in exchange for promised benefits. Their records were kept in the basement of the Historical Archives of the State Security services.

Péter Magyar pledged to open the files during his campaign before April’s parliamentary elections. His government passed legislation enabling their publication in September, with polls indicating support from more than two-thirds of Hungarians. Initially planned for the anniversary of the 1956 anti-Soviet revolution, the release was postponed until November. Access was previously limited to researchers and victims’ relatives. Researchers say the searchable online database will make Hungary’s former state-security service the most transparent in the former eastern bloc.

István Papp, a historian who heads the archives’ academic department, supports publication but recognises the distress it could cause people discovering their family’s involvement. Historians estimate that about 10% of the 50,000 to 60,000 people named are still alive. Other countries opened their records much earlier: the Bundestag opened East Germany’s Stasi files in 1992, the Czech Republic allowed public access in 2003, and Latvia published informant files in 2018.

Miklós Kiss, a forced labour camp survivor who leads an association for victims, believes Hungary should have followed Germany’s timetable. He expects revelations to reach families and neighbourhoods across the country, but questions what can now be done with them. Previous unofficial disclosures, including lists naming politicians and prominent artists since the 2000s, triggered political crises even when those accused denied involvement.

The surviving documents would extend three miles if placed side by side, yet substantial gaps remain. Records were destroyed during the 1956 uprising and disappeared during the largely peaceful transition in 1989. Many files cannot establish why someone cooperated or how extensively they reported. Detailed records, background checks and statements exist for only 9,000 of the 60,000 people mentioned. These are scheduled for release in February after information about victims and sensitive personal details have been removed under privacy laws.

For journalist and Anglican priest Alexander Faludy, reading his family’s records nearly two decades ago complicated his response to betrayal. His grandfather, György Faludy, spent more than three years in a labour camp on fabricated accusations. Alexander initially felt anger towards a woman who befriended his dying grandmother in London and reported on her. Finding details of the woman’s relatives in Hungary, including her elderly parents, prompted sympathy and made him more cautious about judging those who stayed.

Few former informants have publicly discussed their experiences. A July appeal by the independent religious journal Szemlélek has attracted no volunteers. Historian Domokos Szokolay, whose father was identified as an informant in an unofficial 2005 list, hopes publication will encourage understanding rather than humiliation. His father died in 2020, and Szokolay has yet to read every report. He wants open discussion of inherited trauma to help others confront similar discoveries without feeling alone.