Chapter 1
Prologue
5 May 2025, in the small hours, Rita, Julia, Chioma
Rita
János and I lie side by side, panting. It’s not as though we waited until our wedding night to have sex — far from it — but something about this night still feels different. Perhaps it’s the symbolism, or the fact that everything from here on carries a new kind of weight. This is my first marriage, and I intend it to be my last.
Without warning, I start to giggle.
János turns his head slightly, still catching his breath. “What’s so funny, Rita?”
“I was just thinking that my days of quickies in the doctors’ mess are over,” I reply, unable to suppress the grin that follows.
He gives me a puzzled look. “And that strikes you as amusing?”
“Well, yes,” I say. “You have to admit — those, what did you call them again? ‘Ambulant fucks’? They were chaotic, stressful, completely unprofessional... but also strangely energising.”
He raises an eyebrow, considering this. “So what are you saying — that we should continue the tradition? Are you suggesting we explore an open marriage?”
He delivers the line so neutrally that I turn to face him properly, studying his expression. To my dismay, I cannot tell whether he is joking or testing the waters. This is not a moment for ambiguity. We are at the beginning, and the beginning should be honest.
I want to be clear about this, János. My days as a promiscuous paediatrician are behind me. I have no wish to stray, now or in the future. What about you?
He looks at me without flinching. “I feel exactly the same. My adventures as a free-roaming traumatologist are over. I have no interest in open marriages.”
There is something in his tone that makes me believe him entirely.
“I am relieved we agree,” I say, resting my head on his chest. His heartbeat remains quick, and I realise mine is keeping pace.
Given what we have just shared, that comes as no surprise.
We married today — well, technically yesterday, 4 May 2025 — because János is a devoted Star Wars fan. Our guests found it charming to wish us May the Force be with you, and I smiled politely, though I have no intention of forcing anything on my husband. I can only hope the sentiment is mutual.
There was a brief but tense moment: the question of surnames. I insisted on keeping mine, and János was just as firm about holding on to his. For a moment, we toyed with the idea of hyphenating — Kovács-Silvercrest or Silvercrest-Kovács. There was something almost poetic about it. Kovács means Smith, and smiths forge crests, don’t they? But in the end, it felt awkward and artificial.
So we agreed to keep our names. However, our future children will carry mine — Silvercrest. That was also a compromise.
I don’t put much stock in astrology, but pairing a Taurus with a Capricorn is likely to lead to the occasional clash. Horns will lock — they always do. Still, bulls are bigger than goats, so I’m not too worried about who emerges victorious.
Come to think of it, he may have knocked me up the very first time we slept together. If that’s the case, the baby would be due in late December or early January—another Capricorn. One goat is manageable. Two might require strategy.
I do wonder whether it will be a boy or a girl. We made a solemn vow not to ask my gynaecologist, so I’m curious to see how long we can hold out. I secretly hope for a girl—growing up without brothers leaves you with that wish. János, raised alongside three sisters, is probably longing for a boy.
Either way, we’ll take what comes. That much we already agree on.
*
Julia
“Do you think they’re consummating their marriage?” I ask, unable to suppress the curiosity.
“Julia! What kind of question is that?” Gábor responds with feigned indignation. “Of course they are! Wouldn’t you?”
“Well, it’s been a long, exhausting day. They might be too tired,” I murmur, tracing slow circles around his nipple with my finger.
“Never,” he says firmly. “They’re in their early thirties. Just like us.”
“How dare you!” I exclaim, feigning outrage. “I am not middle-aged yet!”
“Oh yes, sorry, how could I forget?” he says with a boyish grin. “Which means we’ve still got energy for another round.”
“You’re insatiable, you know that?” I whisper as I straddle him.
“I’ve had no complaints so far,” he says, hands settling on my hips.
“I don’t doubt it. You’d make Casanova look like a clumsy apprentice,” I reply, moving my hips slowly, deliberately.
“I’m glad to hear you’re satisfied, dear. But easy on the compliments — too much praise might go to my head,” he murmurs, his hands drifting lower.
“Praise where praise is due,” I say, struggling to keep my voice steady. “You’re an accomplished lover, Lover. I have to give the devil his due.”
He doesn’t answer immediately. Instead, he watches me for a moment before saying, “I’ve been thinking.”
“You surprise me,” I tease, trying not to gasp. “Though I suppose it’s never too late to learn new skills. What were you thinking about?”
“I’ve decided to take you up on your offer,” he says, deadpan.
“What offer? I didn’t offer you anything,” I reply, increasing the rhythm.
“In that case, allow me to jog your memory. Last year, you asked me to marry you.”
“Right,” I moan, “I did.”
“Well, here’s my answer,” he says, pulling me down for a kiss. “Yes.”
In my joy, I ride him with renewed passion, as if the world might end before morning. As it so often does, we climax together. I collapse on his chest, breathless, and fall asleep to the steady beat of his heart.
*
Chioma
He claims his name is Kolawole. I question if that is truly his name. In Yoruba, it means bringer of wealth. He definitely looks the part—well-groomed and confident, with smooth hands and skin that suggests comfort and care.
When I tell him I’m a virgin, he smiles gently and says, “I know. I’ll be careful.”
I’m more than just nervous. My older sisters shared stories with me, and even my mother made a hesitant attempt to explain what goes where. But the idea that a stranger will soon insert a part of himself into my most private place is hard to comprehend.
I’ve observed our goats mating. The nanny goat always tries to run initially, but resists until she can’t anymore. Then she relents. She cries out bitterly when she gives birth, but later, I notice a kind of peace—and even joy—in her eyes. I wonder if I’ll be a good mother one day.
My thoughts disappear the moment Kolawole touches me there. A flicker of pleasure runs through me — something completely new, utterly strange. I could get used to this feeling.
My mother used to say that only whores make noise, but it feels so good I can’t help gasping. Kolawole smiles at me again, that same soft smile that somehow eases the fear.
He whispers gentle things while I cry out — a short, sharp pain as he enters me. It stings, but then it fades. In its place comes something deeper, stronger. Wave after wave of pleasure floods my body, until I tremble and struggle to keep my thoughts from slipping away completely.
Kolawole’s body stiffens, and he releases a cry—not harsh, but full of joy. A moment later, I feel a warm liquid spilling inside me, spreading, filling, radiating through me like a secret shared in silence.
I cling to him as if my life depended on it, even when he rolls off and lies beside me, exhausted.
I think… I’m in love.
Chapter 1
Julia, St Gallen, Switzerland
“Have you signed up for your Prime Minister’s new task force, Gábor?” my mother asks my fiancé, tone caught somewhere between curiosity and caution.
“New task force?” Gábor replies. “Ah — you mean the ‘Warriors’ Club’? Of course. Once Julia told me she’d read all the Warrior Cats books, I browsed through a few myself. Strangely enough, I spotted some clear parallels with Fidesz’s warrior codes — discipline, loyalty, the defence of one’s own. We believe deeply in sovereignty and self-determination. After centuries of Turkish, Austrian, German, and Soviet occupation, you’ll understand why we’re reluctant to let Brussels dictate terms we never agreed to. We are conservatives. We are Christians. And we will always choose peace over war.”
He delivers it with that familiar pompous flair — the kind I’ve grown to love. Gábor is a warrior for any cause he believes in, and he and I have fought more than a few battles together.
Mum shakes her head with a half-smile. “I thought as much. I won’t bother quoting the English saying ‘No good deed goes unpunished’ — you lived it last year, when the two of you nearly got yourselves killed investigating the WEF’s little games.”
Gábor and I exchange a look that says, if only she knew, but we let it pass before she grows suspicious. She’s already got enough on her plate, especially with my father being ill for months. I wish I could be more help, but nursing doesn’t seem to be in my blood.
“What are you planning to investigate next?” my mother asks Gábor.
I stiffen. I’m the investigative journalist — Gábor is, well… my assistant, for lack of a better word.
Gábor looks briefly puzzled, then glances at me for help.
I step in smoothly. “I haven’t decided yet. One thing’s certain: I’ll steer clear of politics and autocratic institutions for a while.”
“I do hope you mean that, child,” my mother says, placing her hand theatrically over her heart.
“Are you auditioning for a role in the local theatre, Mum?” Rita teases as she and her husband, János, enter the dining room.
“Hardly,” my mother replies dryly. Then, softening, she adds, “Good morning. Did you sleep well?”
“When we finally got to sleep, we were out like a light — weren’t we, darling?” Rita says, snuggling up to János with an impish grin.
My mother shoots her a disapproving look. “Yesterday was long — and the night even longer. So, we’re having brunch today, not breakfast.”
“How’s Dad?” I ask, a knot forming in my stomach.
Mum’s face falls. “No better than the past few weeks, I’m afraid. He sleeps most of the time now. I’m just grateful for every moment he wakes.”
An eerie silence settles over the table.
Mum dabs her eyes with a clean handkerchief and offers a faint smile. “Please — don’t let this spoil your mood. Your father wouldn’t want that.”
Rita sighs and straightens up, slipping into her best imitation of a country estate hostess.
Right then, let’s eat. Everything looks simply divine,” she says, gesturing grandly over the table. “Cook has outdone herself—again. We have smoked salmon delicately infused with lemon, scrambled eggs as golden as a Tuscan morning, and avocado on sourdough because, naturally, we refuse to live like savages. The spinach quiche, by some minor miracle, has actually held its shape this time.
She points toward the sideboard with mock ceremony.
“There’s fresh fruit arranged with almost frightening precision, Greek yoghurt drizzled with honey allegedly sourced from virgins in the Peloponnese, and—naturally—Julia’s beloved cinnamon rolls, which I have most certainly not already sampled. Twice, in fact.” She winks. “The tea is in the pot, the coffee is hot, and if anyone dares to mention they’re on a diet, I shall personally escort them out.”
Cook, quietly clearing a tray in the background, rolls her eyes without so much as glancing up. She’s known Rita since she was a toddler and has long since stopped reacting to her theatrics. But our mother, ever the arbiter of understated taste, voices her disapproval from across the room with a gentle sigh. “Really, darling. Must you carry on as if you were raised in Belgravia?”
Rita only grinned. “I wasn’t. But I watched Downton Abbey twice.”
We all burst into laughter and indulge in a touch of theatrical mischief, mimicking the clipped accents and commanding mannerisms from that hilariously serious series, Downton Abbey.
Gábor raises an eyebrow and deadpans, “What is a weekend?” in an eerily accurate impression of Maggie Smith’s dowager countess, which makes us laugh again.
Rita, not to be outdone, adopts her most withering tone and declares, “Vulgarity is no substitute for wit,” before dissolving into giggles.
Mother shakes her head, feigning exasperation, but eventually joins in the innocent fun, though not before repositioning a cushion behind Gábor with a murmur, “Sit like a gentleman, at least.”
From the doorway, Cook mutters just loudly enough to be heard, “Aristocracy and their eggs—scrambled, poached, or soft-boiled, they’re all the same once you’ve cleared the plates.”
Julia lifts her teacup, eyes sparkling. “Careful, Cook. That’s dangerously close to socialism before noon—but if the aristocracy ever rises again, we’ll make sure you’re in charge of the revolution. Menu first, of course.”
Cook doesn’t miss a beat. “Naturally, miss. Someone’ll have to teach them which end of the knife to hold.”
There’s a collective gasp—half shock, half delight—followed by a ripple of laughter around the table. Even Mother lets out an unguarded chuckle, though she quickly hides it behind her napkin.
---
“Are you seriously telling me you don’t want to investigate sleazy politicians and overbearing organisations any longer?” Gábor asks, incredulous.
I stare at him, utterly flabbergasted.
“Did we go through a different trauma, or have you just developed selective amnesia? We almost got killed investigating the WEF — ring a bell? I was millimetres from death, Gábor—a fraction. And you? You only made it out alive because the Russians couldn’t tell which of the two unconscious, half-dead men was you and which was their actual target — David. They took you both, just to be sure. That’s not strategy. That’s dumb luck.
I pause, still seething. “So, to answer your spectacularly unnecessary question: yes, I’m serious. I don’t want to investigate venal politicians or autocratic power structures. Not right now. Not until I can sleep without checking for red dots on the wall and bugs in my flat.”
Gábor has the grace to appear genuinely chastened. He gives me those silly puppy eyes, and I have to turn away so he won’t notice the smile twitching at my lips.
I take a moment to compose myself, clear my throat, and then face him again.
“I never set out to do politics,” I say calmly. “I had a lucky break — you and your Prime Minister inviting me on that so-called peace mission. The WEF investigation? That was your idea.”
“I’m not saying this to blame you,” I add quickly, before he opens his mouth. “I just want the record straight.”
He nods warily.
“It was already draining, doing the paedophile ring research—”
“Where you got raped and almost killed,” he cuts in, voice low.
“Hmm, not quite the same thing, is it?” I reply evenly. “David was my ex. He wanted revenge because I left him. If I’d been reporting on the blooming habits of geraniums at the Mainau flower show, he still might’ve abducted and assaulted me. It wasn’t about the story. It was about me.”
Gábor presses his lips into a tight line and nods — reluctantly, but he knows I’m right.
“My thing is people. Real people. The downtrodden, the desperate, the helpless — victims of sleazy scumbags who profit from their misery. If I could pick one topic to sink my teeth into, it would be this so-called migration business that’s been simmering for over a decade. Your loathsome EU apparatchiks love throwing around phrases like ‘immigration quotas’ and ‘redistribution mechanisms’ as if they’re talking about cargo, not human beings. The member states are literally shipping people across Europe like unwanted parcels — just to get rid of them, and to make countries like yours, that refuse to play along, look heartless. It’s vile. And it reeks of something no one dares call by its name.”
Gábor’s face lights up. “That’s brilliant! I couldn’t have come up with a better topic myself. Let’s do it!”
I sigh. “I know why you’re so eager — it gives you the perfect excuse to unload all your venom on the EU. And that’s fine. But tell me, which reputable paper would actually publish our story? It’s anti-establishment, anti-EU, anti-everything most chief editors seek these days. Do you seriously think The Guardian, The New York Times, or any other broadsheet would let me tell their readers that their paymasters and puppeteers behave like autocrats, shuffling people around Europe like chess pieces?”
“You’ve got a point,” he concedes. “However... I assumed you didn’t choose topics based on what sells. Isn’t that the whole point of being financially independent?”
I pull a face, like I’ve just bitten into something sour and disappointing.
“Gotcha!” he says, grinning triumphantly.
“You needn’t sound so triumphant. It’s a grim state of affairs when an investigative journalist has to be financially independent just to take on corruption, overbearing billionaires, sleazy tycoons, and venal politicians. And even then, I could still end up dead—wrapped like a birthday gift for one of them, just like Anna Politkovskaya was in 2006.”
Gábor frowns. “Anna Politkovskaya… The name sounds familiar. Remind me?”
Julia nods, her voice calm and deliberate. “She was a fearless Russian investigative journalist. She reported on atrocities in Chechnya, corruption at the top, the kind of stories most people are too afraid to touch.”
“And what happens to her?”
“She got shot in the lift of her apartment block. On the president’s birthday.”
Gábor exhales slowly, jaw tightening. “Subtle.”
Julia doesn’t flinch. “I wouldn’t call it subtle, but very much in the Russian style. It sent a clear message—don’t even think about picking up where she left off.”
“I don’t blame them,” Gábor says quietly.
“Let’s go for a walk,” I suggest, already heading for the door. “Something refreshing. These tedious subjects can wait for an hour.”
---
As we head for the door, we bump into Mum in the hallway.
“And where are you two off to?” she asks, eyebrow arched like a well-trained interrogator.
“We’re just going for a short walk,” Gábor replies with his most innocent tone.
“Make it short, please. You haven’t forgotten we’re sending Rita and János off on their honeymoon, have you?” Her eyes scan our faces for signs of guilt.
“Sorry, Mum,” I admit. “It completely slipped our minds.” There’s no point pretending otherwise — my mother can spot a lie faster than any top-tier polygraph machine.
“I thought as much,” she says, disapprovingly.
“Do you need any help?” Gábor offers, ever the gentleman.
“To make things worse? No, thank you, dear. Off you go!” She waves us away, then glances at the Margot watch on her wrist — a Christophe Claret piece worth £250,000, a gift from my father on their 25th anniversary. I know they’re loaded, but I still wouldn’t wear something that expensive just to check the time before lunch.
“Latest two hours,” she adds crisply. “Please.”
As soon as we step outside, a cold, unpleasant wind hits my face. I begin to shiver almost immediately.
Gábor wraps an arm around me. “Want to go back and ask your sister for a warmer coat?”
“No, I’ll manage. Let’s jog to my flat — I need to check the mailbox anyway, and I’ll grab a jumper and a muffler. I’m freezing my arse off!”
He grins, gently opens my coat, and peers inside. “Let me verify that,” he says, checking the obvious giveaway.
With a smug smile and a wink, he adds, “Confirmed. Let’s run — might even leave us time for… You know.”
I roll my eyes in mock exasperation and speed off at full tilt. I know he’ll catch me, but I enjoy feeling one step ahead of him.
Soon we’re running side by side, our breath visible in the cold air, and despite the temperature, we both begin to break into a sweat.
At my flat, we save time by showering together — and making love. Thoroughly.
Properly dressed for the wretched weather, we finally head back to my parents’ place.
“Listen,” Gábor begins, his tone uncharacteristically serious. “We’ve been together for quite some time, and we’ve never really discussed our families.”
“What would you like to know?” I ask, curious.
“Well… are your grandparents still alive? Any uncles or aunts? That sort of thing.”
I nod thoughtfully. “Let’s see. My grandfather on my mum’s side died before I was born. Mum and her mother — my grandmother — haven’t spoken in decades. Don’t ask me why. Mum treats it like a Cold War secret.”
He raises an eyebrow but doesn’t interrupt.
“My other grandparents — Dad’s side — are still in St. Moritz. Both are in their late eighties, but honestly? They’re unstoppable. Still go hiking in the mountains like they’re training for the Olympics.”
“Impressive,” Gábor says, and I can tell he means it.
“As for uncles and aunts… yes, a few from both sides. But we hardly keep in touch,” I admit, with a rare trace of sentiment.
“You mean you only see them at hatchings, matchings, and dispatchings?” he grins.
I chuckle. “Your English is truly remarkable. And yes, that about sums it up. Had you asked earlier, I could’ve introduced you to a few of them yesterday at Rita’s wedding.”
“No matter,” he says, stopping and turning to face me. “I’ll meet them at our wedding.”
Before I can react, he leans in and kisses me — slow, deep, and so full of meaning that I have to steady myself when he pulls away.
“Do you mean it?” I ask, breathless.
“Hardly any man jokes about wedlock,” he says with a grin and a wink.
“What about your relatives?” I ask, my heart leaping with quiet joy, that he’s accepted my marriage proposal. “I know about your sister, and I’ve met your parents — but do you have any uncles and aunts?”
“Innumerable, I’m afraid,” he replies, suppressing a mischievous grin.
“What’s so funny?” I ask, genuinely curious.
“Well,” he says, still grinning, “some of my male relatives only have to look at a woman to get her pregnant.”
I blink. “Really? I think it usually requires a bit more effort than a stare.”
“Not if you’re cock-eyed,” he quips, and bursts out laughing.
I laugh too — not because I find the joke particularly amusing, but because he does, and there’s something disarming about that.
“You men have such one-track minds,” I say, shaking my head with mock disapproval.
---
As we step through the front door of my parents’ house, Mum is already waiting in the entrance hall, tapping her foot like a metronome of disapproval.
“You’re late!” she snaps. “Rita and János are in the living room waiting for you. Their taxi will be here any minute!”
“Sorry, I had to change into something warmer,” I mumble, as Gábor and I hurry towards the living room.
Rita and János don’t seem at all worried. Rita is curled up in János’s lap, and they are whispering and giggling like teenagers. Mum pauses at the doorway, surprised. She mutters something under her breath about “the younger generation” and “decency,” shaking her head for emphasis.
Dad is nowhere in sight. I assume he’s still too weak to come downstairs.
“Shouldn’t you be waiting by the door if you want to leave on time?” Mum asks sharply.
Rita stretches like a cat and rises gracefully from János’s lap. “Of course, Mum. We wouldn’t want to miss our flight to Bali, would we, darling?”
János, momentarily immobilised by the strain on his thighs, fails to rise on his first attempt. “Could you give your old hubby a hand, dear wife?”
Rita laughs and offers her hand. “Did I already wear you out, darling?”
“Not at all,” János replies, rising to his feet with her assistance. “It’s just been a while since my lap hosted a female bum for that long.”
Rita fixes him with a steady stare. “Careful, János. Comments like that are how care homes mysteriously lose your paperwork.”
János adjusts his jacket with mock gravity. “Duly noted. I shall aim for discretion in future.”
Mother, watching from the sideboard, lifts her teacup with a faint smile. “I can see your marriage will last. You’re already bickering like an old couple.”
Rita and János exchange a glance—dry, amused, and unexpectedly tender.
“I hope so,” they say at the same time, and then both smile.
Right then, the doorbell rings.
“That’ll be your taxi,” Mum announces.
We all file out of the living room to see the newlyweds off.
---
“So, now that we’re free as birds and officially off duty with the family, what shall we do?” I ask.
“Let’s pick up where we left off — your next investigation. You said you’re drawn to victims of crime or injustice. Does that spark any new ideas?” he asks, looking hopeful.
“I thought we’d already agreed on the migration crisis?” I say, puzzled.
“Right — if you’re still good with that, let’s go for it,” he says, reaching for his laptop.
“Great. While you consult the oracle — Google, Gemini, or whatever else you fancy — I’ll fetch us a pot of tea,” I reply, heading for the kitchen.
When I return with the tray, Gábor is kneading his lips—a sign of deep thought or total mental time travel. I place the tray down and pour tea for both of us.
“Found anything we can really sink our teeth into?” I ask, watching him snap back to the room.
“We could recycle the article I found on migration and WEF/UN”, Gábor says.
“Remind me, please.”
Gábor starts to read.
The Quiet Tyranny of the Man in Suits: Managed Migration
In the twentieth century, radical political ideologies aimed to reshape humanity. The Soviets spoke of the “New Soviet Man,” a being forged through collectivism, stripped of private ambition, and devoted to the Party. Nazi Germany, in parallel, envisioned the “Aryan” — racially pure, obedient to the Reich, and charged with a historical mission. Both movements were characterised by totalitarian control, mass surveillance, and open brutality. Both failed — partly because their ambitions were made explicit.
A stark reminder of these failed projects is seen in Budapest’s House of Terror, a museum located in the very building once used by the fascist Arrow Cross Party and later by the Communist State Security services. As you walk its corridors, the ideologies are not mere theoretical ideas — they’re carved into the walls, etched in faces, and recorded in personal tragedies. The Aryan and the New Soviet Man aren’t just academic concepts here; they’re embodied blueprints for fear. It’s all on display — what happens when utopian dreams prioritise collective visions over individual lives.
Fast-forward to the twenty-first century, and the vision of remaking society has not disappeared — it has merely changed its attire.
Today’s version doesn’t wear a uniform or stomp around in jackboots. It wears a tailored suit at the World Economic Forum, writes policy papers at the United Nations, or supports humanitarian initiatives through foundations like Open Society. Its slogans have changed. Gone are the martial declarations of racial superiority or class struggle. Instead, there are: “sustainability,” “inclusivity,” “resilience,” “climate justice,” “managed migration.”
The language has become more gentle, but the urge to overhaul societies from the top remains strong.
When Open Declarations Failed
History is a valuable teacher, even for aspiring technocrats. It has been shown that radical social engineering is ineffective when openly proclaimed. People, it seems, do not appreciate being told they must relinquish their autonomy, identity, and tradition for an abstract collective future. As a result, today’s social architects have learned to pursue the same objectives through subtler methods: bureaucratic creep, policy inertia, and moral pressure.
Consider the UN’s 2000 paper on “Replacement Migration” (ESA/P/WP.160). Framed as a technical demographic study, it proposed large-scale immigration as a means to stabilise ageing populations in Europe, Japan, and elsewhere. It does not mention race or culture, nor does it advocate coercion. However, its title alone — replacement migration — is revealing. It presents population change not as a result of complex trends but as a problem to be managed.
Similarly, George Soros publicly suggested in 2015 that the European Union accept one million asylum seekers each year “for the foreseeable future.” This was not a marginal proposal. It was openly published and presented as necessary, compassionate, and unavoidable. No provisions were made for how such an influx might impact cohesion, identity, or consent because raising such concerns could be labelled xenophobic.
The Language of Power Has Evolved
Modern technocratic projects no longer emphasise force; they focus on necessity.
They no longer state what must happen. They describe what is already occurring and then pathologise resistance. Dissent becomes “populism.” Criticism turns into “disinformation.” Cultural defence is labelled “extremism.”
Under this regime of soft persuasion:
Mass migration is described not as policy but as “the result of global trends.”National concerns are “nativist fears.”Loss of cultural cohesion is “the price of progress.”
In this climate, open debate is seen as a threat, and consent is assumed rather than requested. After all, who could truly object to diversity, justice, or saving the planet?
The End of the Old World, Administered Kindly
There is no need for a heavy hand when a data dashboard will do. The WEF does not need to dictate — it “coordinates.” The UN does not issue commands — it “recommends frameworks.” Foundations don’t propagandise — they “support civic engagement.” Yet the net result is a familiar one: societies reshaped without the people’s mandate.
And when ordinary citizens raise objections — through ballots, protests, or even cautious public questioning — they are not truly engaged. Instead, they are managed.
The Soviet Union and the Third Reich failed, in part, because they overplayed their hand. Their visions were too loud, too brutal, and too proud. Today’s utopianism differs; it progresses through ambiguity, morality, and bureaucratic certainty.
It asks for no permission. It merely offers a gentle nudge and a ream of paperwork.
Conclusion: The Soft Utopia Is Still a Utopia
Let’s not be naïve. No modern policy paper will declare, “We intend to erase traditional identities.” No philanthropist will write, “We aim to dissolve national sovereignty.” Those who would redesign society have learned to avoid saying the quiet part out loud.
However, if the result remains the same—centralised control, managed populations, cultural dilution, and the erosion of democratic accountability—then silence should not reassure us but instead alert us.
The New Man still walks among us. He works in Geneva and flies business class.
“Hmm… it’s a bit too strong, too over the top, don’t you think?” I say, standing behind him with my hands resting lightly on his shoulders.
“Agreed,” Gábor replies. “It’s far too emotional — doesn’t quite align with your motto: Today, Alex Invites Irene For A Refreshing Picnic, Maintaining Hope. There’s little truth, accuracy, or impartiality in that, is there?”
“You’re right,” I admit. “Still, there’s something in the tone we might salvage — or at least use as a starting point for a more measured version.”
I move to sit beside him. “Have you found anything on what the EU actually did—or still does—in terms of migration policy?”
Without a word, Gábor scrolls back to the top of his screen and begins reading aloud.
European Union (EU) member states have adopted various measures to manage migration, including external processing agreements and tighter border controls. Here is an overview of notable initiatives:
Italy – Albania Offshore Processing Agreement
In 2023, Italy and Albania signed a protocol allowing Italy to handle asylum applications in Albania. The agreement involves setting up two centres in Albania: one for registering asylum requests and another for housing individuals pending repatriation. Italy remains legally responsible for the asylum seekers, and the facilities operate under Italian jurisdiction. The agreement lasts for five years, with Italy providing financial support to Albania for running the centres.
United Kingdom – Rwanda Asylum Partnership (now abandoned)
The UK government proposed relocating asylum seekers to Rwanda for processing and possible resettlement. The plan encountered legal challenges and was ultimately dropped in 2024 after a change in government. Only a few individuals were moved under the scheme, and the UK spent considerable funds on the initiative.
Denmark – External Processing Discussions
Denmark has considered the possibility of transferring asylum seekers to third countries for processing, including discussions with Rwanda. Although no formal agreement has been reached, Denmark continues to explore options for externalising asylum processing.
Germany – Enhanced Border Controls
Germany has strengthened border controls to tackle irregular migration, including increased checks and digital surveillance. The measures seek to uphold the EU’s Dublin Regulation, which mandates that asylum seekers must apply in the first EU country they arrive in. However, German police have warned that the system may be unsustainable due to resource limitations.
Poland – Border Security Measures
Poland has implemented strict border controls, including building barriers and increasing patrols, to prevent irregular crossings, especially along its border with Belarus. These steps are part of a wider effort to strengthen national security and control migration flows.
EU-Wide Initiatives
New Pact on Migration and Asylum
·The EU adopted the New Pact on Migration and Asylum in 2024, aiming to streamline asylum procedures and enhance solidarity among member states. Key components include:
·• Fast-tracking asylum applications from countries with low acceptance rates.
·• A mandatory solidarity mechanism, allowing countries to choose between accepting asylum seekers or providing financial contributions.
·• The establishment of return border procedures for the rapid deportation of rejected applicants.
Deportation to Safe Third Countries
The EU is exploring policies to deport migrants to “safe third countries” with which they have no direct link. This strategy aims to ease the pressure on EU asylum systems but has faced criticism from human rights organisations.
“Nothing about Hungary?” I ask. – “Wait for it,” Gábor says and starts reading.
Viktor Orbán was among the first European leaders to support offshore asylum processing centres during the 2015 migration crisis. His proposal sought to manage migration flows by establishing facilities outside the European Union where asylum seekers could submit their applications before entering EU territory.
In a 2015 statement, Orbán emphasised the need for migrants to seek asylum outside the EU’s borders, suggesting that those wishing to enter Europe should wait in external “hotspots” until their applications are processed. He argued that this method would help control migration and uphold the EU’s stability.
This idea of external processing has gained support among other EU member states. For example, Italy has reached an agreement with Albania to handle asylum seekers outside its borders, reflecting a wider shift towards more restrictive migration policies within the EU.
Orbán’s early support for offshore asylum centres has notably influenced the EU’s migration policy discourse, indicating a move towards externalising asylum procedures to handle migration more efficiently.
“Oh my God! It took the EU apparatchiks — as you like to call them — ten years to see reason and finally accept Orbán’s proposal?!” I exclaim, genuinely stunned.
“Yep,” Gábor responds, his tone tinged with bitterness. “And that’s not even the worst part. They’re now claiming it as if it were their own idea. Only those who’ve been paying close attention to the migration crisis realise that Orbán suggested offshore asylum centres right from the start.”
“Well, that certainly doesn’t make it any easier for me to write a balanced article on the topic,” I say, my voice tight with frustration. “I have to admit — I see things far more clearly now, ever since you started opening my eyes to how unfairly your country, and your Prime Minister, are treated by EU bureaucrats.”
“And hey,” Gábor adds with a smile and a wink, “at least it didn’t take you ten years to cotton on.”
“I love your charm, Gábor. You just told me I’d been an ignoramus before I met you,” I tease, holding up both hands in mock surrender before he can fire back.
“I’m joking—well, partly,” I continue. “It’s true. Like most people in the West, I thought your Prime Minister was a troublemaker and a rabble-rouser. So yes, my gratitude goes to you for opening my eyes.”
I melt a little as I say it, affection softening every word.
“It was less about opening your eyes and more about prising open your thick head with a jemmy,” he says with a wicked grin. “Which is jammy for you, if I may coin a pun.”
My affection vanishes like steam off a skillet.
“I’ll give you thick head!” I snap and slap his bicep with a satisfying thwack.
He laughs, pulls me into a warm, unrepentant hug, and kisses me with such tenderness that resistance becomes futile.
Yes, I am jammy. Jammy beyond words, for bumping into him that day in the Abbey of St. Gallen.
It was warm that day — sun-baked stone, birdsong in the distance beyond the cloister walls, and the gentle rustle of tourist pamphlets. I wore a light spaghetti-strap dress, which my mother said was “borderline improper for a church.” Naturally, I disagreed.
She was a few steps ahead, half-listening to the guide drone on about Carolingian scripts, while I lagged behind, drawn toward a quieter alcove.
That’s when I noticed him.
Tall and lean, dressed unlike the typical tourist. He stood beside a carved stone arch, inspecting the wall as if it had just insulted his intelligence.
“You look like you lost something,” I said without thinking.
He turned. Brown eyes, a serious mouth — and a brief pause, as if evaluating whether I was worth replying to.
“Not lost,” he said. “Searching.”
“For?”
“The inscription. A sagittis Hungarorum libera nos, Domine.”
He glanced at the wall again. “From the arrows of the Hungarians, deliver us, O Lord. It’s one of the oldest Western written records about us. Naturally, I had to see it for myself.”
“You’re Hungarian, then?” I asked.
He gave a brief smile. “Guilty as charged.”
I nodded, unsure what else to say. I was in a serious relationship, on a cultural outing with my mother, and definitely not seeking strange encounters with brooding strangers in former monasteries.
He extended a hand, formally. “Gábor.”
“Julia,” I replied. I didn’t offer a last name.
“Well, Julia,” he said, glancing again at the inscription, “you’ve just caught me in the middle of an identity crisis disguised as cultural sightseeing.”
“Good thing I’m not the judgmental type,” I said, already half-smiling despite myself.
My mother called me then — “Come along, Julia, they’re starting the organ demonstration!” — and I turned to go. But I looked back once. He was still standing there, still frowning at the wall, as if it owed him something.
I didn’t think much of it at the time. He didn’t look like a tourist — more like someone with an axe to grind and too much time on his hands. I assumed I’d never see him again.
Naturally, I was wrong.
About two hours later, after enduring my mother’s unsolicited monologue on organ pipes, baroque symmetry, and the superiority of Swiss desserts, I slipped away, claiming I needed some air. I found myself near the market square, half-searching for coffee, half-hoping not to bump into anyone chatty.
And there he was.
Same unruly hair, same unreadable expression — now directed at his phone, which he was prodding with visible annoyance.
He looked up, spotted me, and raised an eyebrow. “You again.”
“You say that like it’s a bad omen,” I replied.
“Depends. Are you still travelling with parental supervision?”
“Sadly, yes. She’s currently lecturing a Swiss pensioner about artificial vanilla.”
That drew a laugh, brief but genuine. He gestured towards the empty chair opposite him. “You want to hide for a while?”
I glanced over my shoulder, then sat. “I’ve got twenty minutes before I’m declared missing.”
We talked about nothing in particular— the weather, overpriced coffee, and politics, of course. It’s what Hungarians do when they’re trying not to flirt. I liked how blunt he was, and he liked how much I pretended not to be impressed.
My phone interrupted his monologue. I apologised, answered my mother’s call, and told her I was busy — I’d see her later at the hairdresser’s. When I hung up, Gábor’s face brightened. He completely dropped politics and began flirting with me earnestly, as if my availability had just been made official.
After five minutes of rapid-fire flirting, he said, as if it naturally followed the flow of conversation, ‘My hotel room’s just around the corner.’
I could’ve said no.
I’m glad I didn’t.
---
Shipping Humans Like Cargo: The EU’s Shameful Migration Policy - By Dr Julia A. Silvercrest - Draft
Europe’s migration debate has long swung between moral duty and political danger. Since the crisis began in 2015, the continent has struggled to balance compassion with control, legality with logistics, and unity with national sovereignty. As a result, the past decade has seen a patchwork of reactive policies, escalating rhetoric, and institutional denial — only now are we starting to recognise what some leaders stated from the very beginning.
Hungarian Prime Minister Viktor Orbán is a name that often polarises opinion. In the corridors of Brussels, he is labelled as a populist strongman; across much of Hungary, he is seen as a patriot with a stubborn streak — though support in the capital, Budapest, has always been lukewarm at best. In the broader migration debate, however, one fact remains largely unacknowledged: Orbán was one of the first European leaders to advocate for offshore asylum processing centres — a measure widely derided at the time as un-European, inhumane, even xenophobic.
Fast-forward ten years, and the European Union is now openly discussing—and in some cases implementing—exactly that. Italy has signed a deal with Albania to process asylum seekers outside its borders. Denmark has explored similar arrangements with Rwanda. Even the European Commission’s New Pact on Migration and Asylum now includes elements that suggest a more ‘remote’ approach to border control and deportation.
One need not agree with Orbán’s tone or politics to acknowledge he was early in identifying a key issue: the EU lacked both the infrastructure and the consensus to manage mass, uncontrolled migration. While others clung to the ideal of open borders, Hungary — a small country with limited capacity — raised the uncomfortable question: What happens when goodwill collides with demographic pressure?
Of course, not all of Orbán’s migration rhetoric can be justified. National security concerns should not be used as a cover for widespread suspicion. The rights of asylum seekers, many of whom are fleeing war and persecution, remain essential. However, so does the EU’s duty to enforceable, coordinated, and fair policies — a duty it has neglected for far too long.
Today, migrants are still being moved between countries like unwanted cargo. ‘Redistribution mechanisms’ may sound technical, but to many European citizens—and migrants themselves—these processes are unclear, random, and often ineffective. The humanitarian disaster continues, albeit more quietly and with better spreadsheets.
If we are serious about addressing the root of the migration crisis, we must go beyond slogans and scapegoats. Offshore processing, when combined with legal oversight and international cooperation, could be one part of a broader, more effective policy. History provides a precedent: between 1892 and 1954, migrants to the United States were processed through Ellis Island before being allowed entry — a system that, although not perfect, operated with clarity, control, and fairness for everyone involved. It is time to recognise that some ideas previously dismissed due to political dislike may actually be essential to the long-overdue rethink that Europe needs. If that truth is uncomfortable, perhaps it should be. After all, discomfort is the birthplace of clarity.
What is perhaps most damning, however, is the way human lives are now being treated as logistical variables. EU member states — under the guise of “solidarity” and “burden sharing” — are literally shipping human beings across Europe as if they were unwanted cargo. These are men, women, and children who have risked everything, often fleeing war, persecution, or environmental collapse, only to be caught in a bureaucratic relay race between nations that are more concerned with quotas than compassion.
It is nothing less than inhuman.
Migrants are transported between countries, confined in makeshift camps, subjected to constant delays, and left in legal limbo as officials debate responsibility. Many endure squalid conditions, degrading treatment, and psychological trauma that rarely appear in official reports. The cold, technocratic language of “redistribution mechanisms” and “relocation procedures” masks a deeper failure of conscience — a European project that promised dignity but results in degradation.
The bureaucrats who created these systems should be ashamed of themselves. Their policies do not reflect the values they readily mention in speeches and summit communiqués. Behind every statistic is a story — and far too many of those stories end in silence, suffering, or despair.
Europe must recognise that this is not simply a migration crisis; it is a moral one.
“Yep! That’s a good one,” Gábor says with genuine admiration. “Even your over-critical mother couldn’t say that one would go down with your readers like cold sick.”
I’m so thrilled by the compliment that I throw my arms around his neck and kiss him passionately. We neck for several long minutes until we’re both out of breath. When we finally part, I manage to say, “Right. What’s next on the agenda?”
“Dinner, followed by a walk in the park,” Gábor suggests smoothly.
“Oops! Completely forgot — it’s Mum’s evening out. We’ll have to stay in and look after Dad. Sorry!” I say, biting my lower lip.
“No problem, Julia. What shall Just Eat bring us for dinner?” he asks, phone already in hand.
“You forget, darling — Cook will fix us whatever we want. She’s cooking for Dad anyway,” I remind him.
“I beg to differ,” Gábor says, lowering his phone. “She had a rough day yesterday. Let’s give her the evening off and ask your father what he’d like instead.”
“It won’t be what the doctor ordered, I can promise you that,” I reply with a grin.
“Even better. Your mother’s far too Prussian with her discipline — it’ll be a welcome change for the old man.”
“Mum’s going to have your head on a pole for this. You know that, right?” I warn him.
“I like living dangerously,” he says with a wink. “Just watch — your father will be over the moon.”
I sigh, shrug, and mutter, “It’s your head.”
