Lies that bind, from iron curtains to addictive chains

In 1987, I pedaled across a border few dared approach from the West. Hungary, then shackled behind the Iron Curtain, was a land of suspicion, scarcity, and silence. A forgotten outpost of Soviet collectivism. Now, in 2025, I’m back. And what I see—life, color, enterprise—is nothing short of miraculous.

Back then, we entered Hungary on bicycles from Vienna. The border crossing resembled not a gateway but a prison break in reverse—three successive fences, sanded infield paths to detect footprints, guard towers. Each layer screamed: No one leaves. The Iron Curtain wasn’t a metaphor. It was concrete, steel, and rifles.

The first town, Győr, brought another jolt. My bicycle’s pannier bolt had come loose. I needed a simple nut and bolt. The local hardware store was massive but nearly empty. Entire shelves were barren. The few items available? One type of bolt, absurdly long, wrong size. That was that. The system produced what it wanted, not what people needed. Scarcity wasn’t a flaw; it was the plan.

Eyes stayed down in public. No casual glances, no smiles. Clothing was uniform: worker-blue, shapeless. The streets—grand, ornate, and echoing the Austro-Hungarian glory days—were dead. Statues of lions and heroes stood over silent, crumbling plazas. The people moved, but the city slept.

Now? Budapest is awake. Neon restaurants. Crowded squares. Clothes of every color. Laughter. Buskers. Tourists. The same Danube flows past the Parliament, but everything else has changed. The gray pall has lifted.

At the Museum of History, I saw the cost. Budapest was once the co-capital of Europe’s most sophisticated empire. Then came the Nazis, then the Soviets. Each left scars. The Jews of Budapest—once a thriving intellectual class—were herded into ghettos. In one apartment, eight to ten people per room. No food. No water. Just waiting. The Dohány Synagogue still stands. The people it served—largely gone.

The Soviets didn’t kill with bullets. They starved motivation. Collectivism demanded loyalty to the abstraction of the state. The result? Broken systems. Empty shelves. Silence. And fear.

And yet, the Hungarians endured. In the face of Ottoman conquest, Nazi terror, and Soviet oppression, their sense of self remained. The language—utterly unique, indecipherable to outsiders—mirrors that identity. They don’t sound like anyone else. They don’t want to.

Today, Hungary stands somewhat defiantly against Western orthodoxy. Their prime minister, Viktor Orbán, holds fast to national sovereignty. The EU scolds him; he doesn’t blink. It’s not hard to see why. Hungarians remember what it’s like to be ruled by outsiders who promise utopia and deliver chains.

In my radio segment, I connected this return to another project—Withdraw to Freedom, my book on addiction. The link? Lies. Just as the Soviets lied about abundance, many modern addiction models lie about the nature of choice. Addiction is not cancer. It’s not destiny. It is a human struggle, and it can be overcome—not with eternal maintenance, but with truth and tapering.

A society that infantilizes its citizens cannot prosper. A patient told forever he is powerless will remain so. The lie of permanent dependence—be it political or pharmaceutical—is the same. And the antidote is the same: freedom.

Hungary withdrew. It didn’t collapse overnight. It reemerged. You can see it in every restaurant, every bustling street. Health is more than pulse and pressure. It’s liberty. It’s color. It’s being allowed to choose your shirt, your lunch, your path.

Let’s stop pretending chains are care. Whether political or personal, withdrawal to freedom is not only possible—it’s necessary.

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