BUDAPEST - The oldest rabbinical seminary in Europe stands just a few streets from the Danube in the heart of Budapest. It has survived empires, fascism and communism. It outlasted the Nazis, who turned it into Adolf Eichmann's headquarters for organizing the deportation of Hungarian Jews to the death camps. It endured four decades of communist rule as the only rabbinical seminary in Eastern Europe. Today, it remains a center of Jewish learning.
Its story encapsulates one of the great paradoxes of Jewish life in modern Europe.
Hungary is often described by Jews themselves as one of the safest countries on the continent in which to live openly as Jews. Religious Jews walk through Budapest without the levels of fear experienced in Paris, Brussels or parts of London. Jewish institutions generally require little visible security. Hebrew is frequently heard on the city's streets.
Yet Hungary also consistently ranks among the European countries with the highest levels of antisemitic attitudes.
How can both be true?
To understand that contradiction, one has to begin with the seminary itself.
On October 4, 1877, under the patronage of Emperor Franz Joseph, the institution opened its doors. Nearly 150 years later, the Jewish Theological Seminary – University of Jewish Studies remains the oldest continuously operating rabbinical seminary in Europe.
It closed only briefly after the German occupation of Hungary in March 1944 but reopened immediately after the war. Throughout communist rule, it remained the sole institution of its kind in Eastern Europe. Today it educates around 200 students from several countries.
For Professor Gábor Balázs, the university's rector and head of its rabbinical program, the institution's history mirrors his own family's experience.
His father survived the Holocaust in Budapest as a small child, hidden in shelters run by a local priest for Jewish children and war orphans. His mother was born shortly after the war.
"In communist times there was no open antisemitism in daily life," Balázs recalls. "But I remember the faces of my classmates when we were taught about the Shoah and I said that this was my family's story. They were astonished to find out that I was Jewish. They were not used to people admitting that they were Jewish. They heard about the Jews, but never met one.
"My family was a typical assimilating Jewish family during communism. I couldn't explain back then what a Jew is, though I knew that I was Jewish and should say that I am one. Around the fall of the communist regime, I started getting more interested in Judaism. There were more opportunities to connect with it. I became involved in religious life and in Zionist activities in Hungary. I went to Israel, where I finished all my academic titles and returned to Hungary and became very involved in Jewish education."
Today, Balázs oversees an institution where many students wear visible Jewish symbols without hesitation. The antisemitism they encounter, he says, is different from the forms familiar elsewhere in Europe.
"What we feel the least is the classical European popular antisemitism, people who hate Jews, and if they see a Jew they spit on him or shout at him," he says.
Balázs distinguishes between overt hostility and more subtle concerns surrounding historical memory.
At the same time, he acknowledges that successive governments supported Jewish communal life and efforts to combat antisemitism.
Surprisingly, given Hungary's close ties with Israel under Orbán, the newer form of antisemitism disguised as anti-Zionism has increasingly appeared within academic life.
"I must admit that one of the positive aspects of Orbán's government was that the antisemitism we witnessed in universities in Western Europe and North America was very rare in universities here. However, it exists."
He points to the experience of Israeli historian Dr. Alexander Yakobson of the Hebrew University, whose lectures at Budapest's Eötvös Loránd University were moved online after protests by pro-Palestinian activists.
"The same university refused to participate in the Orbán government's program against antisemitism on campuses, saying that it had no antisemitism problem," Balázs says.
"This antisemitism under the cover of anti-Zionism is felt very much.”
"The Christian universities are relatively pro-Israeli and friendly to Jews. But generally, among students, it has become a shallow intellectual fashion not really based on understanding the situation in the Middle East or the context.”
"It's the cheapest entry ticket allowing you to prove to your environment that you are a good person by hating Israel and being pro-Palestinian.”
"We feel it in human contacts, in reactions among students, in conferences. Still, you can't compare it to what happens in Western Europe."
The contrast between Hungary and its western neighbors becomes even more striking when viewed through the lens of statistics.
Hungary today is home to the European Union's fourth-largest Jewish community, after France, Britain and Germany. Around 45,000 people identify as Jewish or closely connected to Jewish life.
Before the Holocaust, more than 825,000 Jews lived within Hungary's wartime borders. More than half a million were murdered by the Nazis and their Hungarian collaborators.
Despite that history, many Hungarian Jews describe their country as one of Europe's safest environments for Jewish life.
Yet surveys reveal another reality.
A study by the European Union Agency for Fundamental Rights found that 65 percent of Hungarian Jews considered antisemitism a serious problem. Fifty-eight percent believed it had increased during the preceding five years. More than half avoided wearing Jewish symbols in public at least occasionally, while 41 percent had considered emigrating because of concerns linked to being Jewish.
How can Jews feel safer in Hungary than in much of Western Europe while simultaneously believing antisemitism remains deeply embedded in society?
The answer, according to one of Hungary's foremost scholars of antisemitism, lies in understanding prejudice not simply as political ideology, but as something far more enduring: a cultural code.
To understand Hungary's Jewish paradox, Professor András Kovács argues, one must first abandon the assumption that antisemitism is either present or absent.
"Antisemitism research in polls and studies is concentrated on antisemitic prejudices," explains Kovács, one of Hungary's leading sociologists and historians of contemporary antisemitism. "We measure the level of prejudice in public opinion and in the popular mind. But antisemitic prejudices, as we know from history, don't necessarily turn into antisemitic rhetoric or politics."
Kovács draws on the work of Israeli historian Shulamit Volkov, who famously described antisemitism as a "cultural code."
"There are three separate and independent dimensions of anti-Jewish prejudices and attitudes," he says. "The first dimension is prejudice. The next dimension is turning antisemitic prejudices into symbolic narratives. The third step would be antisemitic politics.
"Even if the level of prejudices is high within society, even if antisemitic rhetoric is used, if there are no political forces ready to transform these prejudices into policies, antisemitism will not appear on the political surface."
That distinction, he believes, explains modern Hungary.
"In Hungary, antisemitic prejudices are high," Kovács says. "Antisemitic narratives and rhetoric are from time to time present in the cultural field, especially when it has to do with historical memory and national responsibility for the Holocaust. However, antisemitic politics are very rare."
The data supports his argument.
Deeply troubling attitudes among Hungarians
A landmark study published by the Action and Protection League together with Ipsos and Inspira found deeply troubling attitudes among Hungarians. Fifteen percent strongly agreed that Jewish interests differ from those of the rest of the population. Twenty-one percent believed in a secret Jewish network influencing political and economic affairs around the world. Seventeen percent believed Jews have too much influence in Hungary.
Ten percent agreed it would be best if Jews left the country altogether. Twelve percent believed the number of Jews in certain professions should be limited. Nearly one in five thought the Holocaust should be removed from public discussion, while 20 percent believed Jews exploit Holocaust victimhood for their own purposes.
These are figures more commonly associated with openly hostile environments. Yet Hungary does not resemble France after the Hyper Cacher attack, nor Belgium after the Brussels Jewish Museum shooting.
"The Orbán governments were very friendly with the Israeli government and took positive steps towards Israel, which were important," Kovács notes.
At the same time, he acknowledges why many Hungarian Jews remained uneasy.
"In a way, they had to do it in order to clear themselves from accusations of antisemitism," he says.
Those accusations centered less on contemporary discrimination than on historical memory.
Critics pointed to the monument commemorating the German occupation of Hungary, which many argue portrays Hungary primarily as a victim rather than acknowledging its role in the Holocaust. Others highlighted the government's campaign against George Soros.
Dr. Balázs Berkowits, a philosopher and sociologist who teaches contemporary antisemitism at the University of Jewish Studies and is also affiliated with the University of Haifa, sees similar patterns.
"In Hungary today, you have traditional antisemitism," Berkowits says. "There are some newspapers and circles of the ultra-left that nourish the kind of anti-Israeli sentiment that you see everywhere in the West. In Hungary, it's very marginal.
"Most studies don't really measure anti-Zionist antisemitism but rather old, entrenched stereotypes on Jews spread among the population."
Yet, he argues, belief and behavior are not the same thing.
"The antisemitic attitudes still present in the population don't always appear in behavior," he says. "People don't act out as antisemites for several reasons. The level of violence within Hungarian society is very low. Generally, it's a safe country in terms of public safety.
"You may believe in stereotypes, but you will not say it out loud since you know that you will be penalized and such acts will disqualify you. One cannot be openly antisemitic. It's something shameful."
That distinction may be Hungary's defining characteristic: prejudice persists, but social norms, legal boundaries and political realities often prevent it from erupting into violence.
It also explains why Jews in Budapest can simultaneously report feeling physically secure while worrying about what many of their fellow citizens may privately believe.
If Professor András Kovács provides the intellectual framework for understanding antisemitism in Hungary, and Dr. Balázs Berkowits offers its historical context, then Zsuzsanna Toronyi represents something else entirely: the possibility that it can be challenged.
Toronyi, 55, is the director of the Hungarian Jewish Museum and Archives, located within the complex of Budapest's magnificent Dohány Street Synagogue. Unlike many Jewish institutions elsewhere in Europe, the museum has experienced relatively little disruption since October 7, 2023.
"It might be connected to the fact that we have a very strong educational department at the museum," she says. "We host many pupils, teaching them about Jewish tradition, culture, holidays, history and the contribution of Jews to Hungarian society.
"The visitors must know that this is a country which was built by Jews and non-Jews together. Many of the innovations in different fields in Hungary came from Jewish entrepreneurs. They contributed as well to literature, culture and music.
"It's very important to show the common things that connect us. We also have to show that we are a living community and culture, open to everyone. We are not a Holocaust remembrance institution, even though we have a memory garden in the compound of the museum."
The museum's philosophy is rooted not in condemnation but engagement.
Toronyi recalls a teenage visitor who arrived wearing Nazi insignia.
"Recently we had only one incident with a kid who wore a Nazi insignia while visiting the museum," she says. "The security men asked him to leave the compound, but later we invited him again.
"We tried to explain to him the problem with this insignia and his behaviour. His whole family was invited for a free visit at the Jewish Museum. Later it became clear that his family hadn't supported his behavior."
What emerged from that encounter reinforced her conviction that ignorance, rather than hatred alone, often fuels prejudice.
"My experience shows that if you speak personally with problematic pupils, you can influence them."
She tells another story.
"Some years ago, there was a group of youngsters who peed on the walls of our compound after they went for a drink. Their act was recorded by the security cameras, and they were interrogated by the police.
"The president of the community invited them for a free tour of the museum. I led them and we had a very good discussion.
"They were clever guys who weren't really aware of what they did. It was like a common gesture of people who see a synagogue or something related to Jewish culture. They were not educated about the Holocaust and knew nothing about the history of the Jewish community.
"After our discussion and free exchange, they invited their schoolmates to the museum to make them understand the role of the Jewish community in Hungarian society."
For Toronyi, these experiences illustrate both the challenge and the opportunity facing Hungary.
"I truly believe in education," she insists.
"The young generations are not getting enough knowledge about the Holocaust in schools. The current curriculum might contain some information on it, but there is no proper education system in Hungary.
"It's not only about the content but about the methodology. It's better to let them ask questions than to lecture them.
"The Hungarian educational system is very conservative and not open to such a method. We have to open it to discussions and debates, which is a very Jewish way of teaching and learning.
"It will be better than speeches coming from the state or the teachers."
The museum now welcomes around 3,000 pupils each semester through national programmes supporting visits to Jewish sites.
"I think it's very important," Toronyi says. "It's actually 3,000 families, because the kids go back home and tell about what they saw and learnt."
That image of children carrying conversations back to their families offers a fitting conclusion to Hungary's Jewish paradox.
This is not a country where antisemitism has disappeared. The polling data make that impossible to argue. Ancient stereotypes persist, and historical memory remains contested. Anti-Zionist narratives have begun to emerge within some intellectual circles, echoing trends elsewhere in Europe.
Yet neither is Hungary a place where antisemitism dominates public life. Jews often enjoy a degree of physical security that many communities in Western Europe can only envy. Open hatred is socially unacceptable. Political antisemitism remains largely marginal.
The contradiction is unsettling precisely because both realities are true at once.
Nearly a century after the Holocaust devastated one of Europe's most vibrant Jewish communities, antisemitism in Hungary survives less as an organized political movement than as what Shulamit Volkov called a "cultural code": a set of inherited assumptions, prejudices and narratives that endure beneath the surface of society.
Codes, however, are not immutable.
They can be transmitted from one generation to the next, but they can also be rewritten.
The question facing Hungary is which inheritance it chooses.
Will it allow old myths and resentments to shape the future, waiting for circumstances in which prejudice once again finds political expression? Or will it invest in the harder work of education, honest reckoning and dialogue?
Inside Budapest's historic rabbinical seminary, which survived Eichmann, the Arrow Cross and communism, the answer remains unwritten.
For now, Hungary stands as both a warning and a possibility: proof that Jews can feel safe even where prejudice endures, and a reminder that the deepest battles against antisemitism are often fought not on the streets or in parliament, but in classrooms, museums and the stories societies choose to tell about themselves.