The Man of Colorful Poses –
A Portrait Interview with Gergely Csoma

"They didn't know that what is called Ungaria in Romanian is actually Hungary. The Romanian assimilation policy did not inform them of this. It was surprising for them to discover that there is a country where Hungarians feel at home," says Gergely Csoma, who has been researching the lives of our Csángó relatives in Moldavia for nearly half a century, in an interview with Lugas. The "man of colorful poses," who tricked the Ceaușescu regime by changing his name and using decoy films, recently celebrated his 70th birthday.

Photo: István Mirkó
Text: László Szőcs

– You trained as a cabinetmaker and later graduated as a sculptor. How did a young man from Budapest, interested in plastic arts, become a researcher of the Moldavian Csángó Hungarians in 1970s Romania?
Very simply. I come from a noble Székely family, and my relatives still live in Transylvania. Since childhood, I visited them during summer and winter breaks. As a young adult, I ventured further: to Kalotaszeg, Mezőség, and then into the world of the Gyimes Csángós. It was from them that I first heard that there were Csángós living on the other side of the border—beyond Transylvania—but they said they couldn’t be understood, that they spoke Romanian and dressed in Romanian attire. So much bad was said about them that it piqued my interest. Since it was difficult to access ethnographic literature during the Kádár era, I took refuge in the National Széchényi Library and read the works of Pál Péter Domokos, whom I later considered my mentor and second father. The following summer, in 1977, I began my “fieldwork” in Moldavia. I first explored the southern area, then traveled north, reaching Szabófalva, the birthplace of Csángó Hungarian poet Demeter Lakatos, who had passed away in 1974. I did so rather naively, with a framed backpack, shorts, and a camera hanging around my neck.

– What was naive about this?

It was evident from miles away that a stranger had appeared in the rough Moldavian world. I saw immense poverty around me. But I also saw people dressed in wonderful traditional attire, living on stamped brownish clay floors, lighting their homes with kerosene lamps and candles. Despite the poverty, a captivating, magical world unfolded before me. The evenings were filled with joking, storytelling, and riddles among the Csángós. I realized over time that if I visited in winter, they had more time to spend with a guest. I learned to disguise myself with the most worn-out clothes and dirty bags to blend into the environment. This was also to avoid being detected by informers or the police.

– How did you manage to gain acceptance among the locals?
First, I felt it was my duty to bring developed photos to those I had photographed during my research the following year. That’s how I became the “man of colorful poses,” who brings the beautiful, colorful pictures, which I sometimes saw proudly displayed in their homes. I also brought gifts from home: “good-smelling” soap, food seasonings, spices. After a while, they got used to my presence. And I kept returning regularly; I still do. I expanded my circle of acquaintances and never wanted to settle in one place. I conducted ethnographic research in thirty villages for my 680-page book Bound Words. I documented their daily lives and folk customs, including women who read cards, practiced divination, and used herbs for healing, along with their superstitious and magical beliefs. Over forty-five years, I recorded every Csángó custom, and after a while, they started inviting me when there was a confirmation or baptism. A certain Aunt Rózsi, from her deathbed, requested that they call Gergely, and I should go and—as they say—“take beautiful pictures” of her in her open coffin. I still give lectures about my research today, and I created a one-and-a-half-hour memorial program from the poems of Demeter Lakatos, interwoven with folk songs. I have performed this in schools in Transylvania and Moldavian Csángó communities, and once even in Hungary. Lakatos wrote in an archaic Hungarian language from seven hundred years ago, but with Romanian spelling at times. His poetry deeply moved me, and I spent months in his home village. Just to give you a taste, in his poem Sunset—written in the hissing dialect typical of the region—he wrote: “The shadows towards evening flame / Even the snows blaze in red fire / As if golden waves fall from the sky / And the shepherds stand gazing in awe...” Right now, on the 50th anniversary of Lakatos’s death, we are erecting his tombstone made of granite with two of my friends—using our own money, without any state support. Even during my research trips, I funded my travels from my own pocket and that of my family, while working as a freelance artist.

– How closely are the Moldavian Csángó Hungarians connected to the motherland?
They live outside of historical Hungary. They didn’t know that what is called Ungaria in Romanian is the same as Hungary. The Romanian assimilation policy did not inform them of this. When I explained that I came from Hungary, it was difficult to make them understand that I wasn’t from Transylvania. They know Transylvania, as they have been going to the Csíksomlyó pilgrimage for centuries. It was surprising for them to learn that there is a country where Hungarians feel at home. Their example is frightening to the Székelys, who fear assimilation and that they might experience the same level of Romanianization as the Csángós. Péter Trunki and Csanád Bodó document in their work The School Inspector Reports how the authorities enforced Romanian assimilation policies in the Moldavian school system, even with beatings if a child spoke Hungarian. In Magyarfalu, I rented a peasant house and moved there for a year. Together with the village carpenter, we made benches and established a Hungarian school. Within a year, the children learned to read and write in Hungarian. Knowing Hungarian prayers, we went to the Csíksomlyó pilgrimage. One girl had a great experience learning to confess in her mother tongue. The Hungarian language education continues there to this day. I have also created public statues in five villages, though this was not to the Romanians’ liking. I managed to somewhat deepen the Csángós' sense of identity.

– You mentioned informers and the authorities. How did the Romanian authorities react to your research work?
Before 1990, they weren’t supposed to know about me. They didn’t tolerate visitors from Hungary, not even from Transylvania. They hunted for foreigners in the Csángó villages. I had to move and behave as if I were an ordinary Csángó worker. Once, my son and I were involved in a car chase by the Securitate in Külsőrekecsin, Bacău County, after a confirmation ceremony. We hid in the forest. Such experiences made the work difficult, and it was advisable to leave the scene as soon as possible after any pilgrimage.

– There are legendary stories of how you sometimes tricked the Romanian authorities...
You had to be prepared for terrible inspections at the border. I had decoy films ready. Photos that an ordinary Hungarian tourist might take in Transylvania: Székely gates, and the like. Then I would let the Romanian border guard triumphantly confiscate these, not realizing that the Moldavian film rolls were hidden in my socks or taped under my pants. And when my first book was published in 1988, I was banned from Romania. So, I officially changed my name in Hungary, lying that my father had become unworthy of the family name, so I wanted to take my mother’s surname. That’s how my passport came to read as Forgács G. Balázs, a name not on the Romanians' blacklist among those trying to smuggle in works by Mikszáth or Jókai, historical books on Transylvania, or Hungarian-language Bibles.

– How would you summarize the state of the Moldavian Csángó Hungarians over the past half-century?
Unfortunately, it’s not a success story. When I first connected with the Csángó Catholic community there, out of a population of 295,000, a hundred thousand spoke Hungarian. Now, despite all the help from the Hungarian state, perhaps half of that number remains. Many want to assimilate to escape the stigma of being called bozgor. Few young people proudly embrace their roots. In Demeter Lakatos’s birthplace, not a single child knows Hungarian anymore, and neither do most of the young people. Only the eighty- or ninety-year-olds still do. Since I’ve been visiting Moldavia, five northern Csángó villages have lost their language while the village populations have remained. Only the Hungarian speakers have died out. According to the Romanian view, there’s only one way to get rid of minorities: assimilate them by fire and iron. The methods are more subtle now, but the goal is the same. The process seems unstoppable. I am glad that I was able to change the lives of a few people.