In Budapest, the Hungarian parliament has passed a bill that curbs Viktor Orbán's emergency powers, a move that has been hailed as a rare check on the prime minister's decade-long consolidation of authority. For British observers, this is not merely a foreign news story, but a mirror held up to our own constitutional arrangements. The contrast is stark: while Hungary's democratic institutions have been gradually hollowed out, the United Kingdom's unwritten constitution, for all its idiosyncrasies, has proven remarkably resilient.
The Hungarian bill, introduced by Orbán's own Fidesz party, limits the government's ability to rule by decree, a power granted during the pandemic. It is a small but significant step, born from internal party dissent and pressure from European Union institutions. Yet it serves as a reminder of how fragile such checks can be when not embedded in a robust legal and cultural framework. Here in Britain, we take for granted the oversight of Parliament, the independence of the judiciary, and a free press that scrutinises power without fear. These are not abstract concepts, but the daily fabric of our governance.
The human cost of weak institutions is visible in Hungary: a captured media landscape, a judiciary packed with loyalists, and a civil society starved of funds. On the streets of Budapest, citizens have grown accustomed to a government that blurs the line between party and state. The recent legislative change, while welcome, does not undo years of democratic erosion. In contrast, British citizens rarely think about their constitutional safeguards until a crisis emerges. They trust that the system will hold, and so far, it has.
What does this mean for the average person in Britain? It means that when a prime minister overreaches, as Boris Johnson did during the Partygate scandal, the mechanisms of accountability ultimately kick in. It means that when the government attempts to bypass Parliament over Brexit, the Supreme Court steps in. These moments define our constitutional strength, not as a written document but as a living practice. The Hungarian example shows that without such deeply rooted traditions, even a well-intentioned reform can be a bandage on a deeper wound.
The cultural shift here is subtle but profound. In Britain, we have a social psychology that values due process and fair play. We may grumble about bureaucracy, but we instinctively reject autocratic shortcuts. This is not mere smugness, but a recognition that our rights are only as strong as the institutions that defend them. The Orbán episode should remind us to cherish and protect those institutions, precisely because they are not guaranteed. They require constant vigilance, from the voting booth to the pub conversation.
As a society columnist, I am often drawn to the human element of political stories. The Hungarian people, weary from years of political turbulence, now see a glimmer of hope. But the real lesson for Britain is about the quiet, unspectacular work of democratic maintenance. Our constitution may be unwritten, but it is written in our habits, our laws, and our expectations. That is a strength no emergency decree can erase.
In the end, the Orbán story is not just about Hungary, but about the fragile architecture of liberty everywhere. It is a reminder that power must always be checked, and that the mundane procedures of Westminster are, in fact, the bulwarks of freedom. For British readers, it should prompt a moment of reflection: our constitutional strength is not a given, but a precious inheritance we must actively sustain.
