Delivered at the Budapest Court on February 4, 2026

Fellow human beings, esteemed Court,

I would like to share a few words before these criminal proceedings reach their preliminary conclusion.

A fundamental point first: I have never questioned the principle or the legitimacy of a criminal trial, nor have I questioned a state that functions as a constitutional state for all. No – I simply warned of the injustices and dangers that this specific trial, here in Hungary, harbours. I would have acted no differently in Germany. A democracy must allow such opposition to every form of authoritarianism and oppression. Every verdict handed down here will also be measured by whether and how my speech and my conduct are punished. Over the last few months, however, the impression has solidified that the Hungarian state does not permit these very contradictions. Demonstrations and rallies are banned, and the expression of solidarity accompanying this trial is obstructed. A climate of intimidation is being built, designed to make people fear, being treated as terrorists. Are protest and solidarity – may come from our own parents or from strangers – truly what endangers our society? Are you afraid of me? Afraid of my dad when he picks up a microphone, or of a friend simply shouting a slogan?

Twenty-five months of pre-trial detention lie behind me. After the first six months of imprisonment in Germany, I was extradited here unlawfully. I petitioned the Federal Constitutional Court of Germany to prevent this extradition, and indeed, Germany’s highest court ruled – first in an emergency injunction and later in a final decision – that the extradition order was unlawful and unconstitutional because queer people are marginalized by the Hungarian state. Yes, we were erased from the constitution; our words and our speech are criminalized; our very existence is meant to be made invisible. Me, having escaped binary gender constraints, found myself as Maja. But the Federal Constitutional Court’s injunction came too late. The Saxon State Criminal Police (LKA) abducted me under the cover of darkness, flew me out of Germany, and threw me headlong into solitary confinement.

Long-term solitary confinement, with less than two hours of meaningful human contact a day, is
considered “white torture.” I have endured it for 18 months. The justification for it is grotesque. At first, it was claimed, everyone else had to be protected from me because I was “brutal and
dangerous.” After a year, a sudden change declared to protect me from the hatred others toward
queer people. This isolation is accompanied by daily humiliating coercive measures and a special
security decree, the justification for which remains classified secret to the present day. Long-term solitary confinement, sleep deprivation, humiliation, violence – these all are practices used to extort confessions. They are meant to wear you down and destroy souls, to rob a person of their dignity, and to make them lose hope and self-respect. If you were to put your beloved houseplant in the cellar, you would understand what is intended for us prisoners.

I have known this courtroom for a year now. For sixteen days of trial, I sat shackled on the wooden bench behind me, listening intently, as my life was negotiated in these proceedings. Regarding the allegations, I remained silent. It was little more than two weeks of trial days. But when I look in the mirror, it feels like years must have passed. In my first attempt to find a “last word” for these proceedings, I described my current self as a “wilting flower.” For a human being equally needs sunlight – but above all, proximity, security, and community to survive. All of this is withheld from us, the incarcerated of society.

Esteemed prosecution, in my case, it failed. Yes, even if I tremble today, even if I am haunted by
restlessness and nightmares, even if I am abandoned from all emotion after days of loneliness, even if it tightens my throat to see how many others have to suffer under these political proceedings akind smile has remained with me, as has a sense of morality, a universal morality. Whenever I lose breath in my cell, I look up at the strip of sky, where I saw the wild geese in autumn, and I hold fast to the belief that solidarity resists violence.

After a year and a half of imprisonment, I used my hunger strike to denounce all the human rights
violations we, the incarcerated, experience. I let my life balance on the edge of the abyss to move
those who bear responsibility to act. Certainly, it was an expression of despair. Certainly, the time of hunger was also a quiet and wordless time. But above all, my hunger strike was an expression of hope – a fragile hope, as fragile as the small flower I planted in the cracks of the wall between the window and the bars. My hunger strike was an expression of my desire to live and to create. It was a cry for love that found a thousand echoes, and it was an indictment against those who deny me relationships, education, and work in prison.

The little flower no longer blooms. Months of anxiety and waiting – entire seasons have passed.
People I love, have died. Grief waits while I fight against loneliness and hope to return home. And I will return, as an active subject. You will never be able to degrade me into a manageable object. For every day, I experience the warming solidarity of many people and find among them role models who give me courage. They show me that we have a choice, however painful it may be. And they also show me that a more just, more peaceful way of living together is possible. No, I am not naive. I see the power for it in the shimmer and glint of your eyes. I am so grateful for all your arms that wrap tightly around me when it becomes dark and cold.

Yes, I demand and long for freedom. I permit myself to fight for my freedom and the freedom of all. For that, I do not need the power to lock lives in or out. For that, I do not need to pass final
judgment on other people. The prosecution is welcome to do that. To me, freedom is something
else. It flourishes in the belief that together we can create something more just than prisons, camps, and deportation centers; that we can create something more peaceful than handcuffs, weapons, and tank divisions. For me, this means seeking what can endure for those who come after us, preserving the freedoms already won, and allowing a new venture to arise from every doubt. And I speak out of hope, because there are so many people who do not obey contempt, who feel neither the right nor the duty to do so.

This trial, like those in Munich, Düsseldorf, and Dresden, is a political trial. The state claims that it
is being threatened, that it is the victim of violence. We all know what verdict the Prime Minister of this country desires. The prosecution offered me 14 years in prison in exchange for a confession, and I face up to 24 years. This sentence is intended to bolster their narrative of the “murderous Antifa” out on a “manhunt.” And I am aware of the concerns that this sentence is to be abused to banish me from society for half a life (or a whole one?) as a deterrent to all. In spite of this, the indictment prompted me to write a trial statement and to explain how anti-fascism aims to be the foundation of my actions and the prerequisite for my universal claim to justice. Anti-fascism is the necessary self-defense of democratic societies against totalitarianism, authoritarianism, destruction, and contempt. Not only in the indictment, but repeatedly beyond this trial, the emancipatory, anti-fascist lessons left to us after war, fascism, and colonialism have been portrayed as terror. Nothing in me longs for violence. There is no desire to hurt or to kill; indeed, my mind recoils from it. I want to be neither a tyrant nor a hero. In the first draft of my last word, I wrote that I want to remain a “flower child,” roaming the human gardens with tenderness, always mindful, curious, and affectionate. I know I was and am that person; I promise myself every day to remain so, and I never forget the wish to do this together.

However, I think, this alone does not grasp the political dimension of these trials. They go far
beyond my personal experience. I must ask myself what it means when peaceful demonstrations are banned, but not the demonstrations of fascists who throw feces at us; when there is censorship and defamation; when the fundamental idea of “defensive democracy” ends up on a terror list; when we are all declared enemies of the state; when banks close the accounts of solidarity organizations; when legal counsel is criminalised; when human dignity belongs only to some; when civil society isdeclared an enemy by state representatives. We do not know where this ends. We can only promise, not to stop protecting and defending life.

In my first draft, I wanted to write about three dried flowers as symbols of love, friendship, and diversity. They are three small, delicate flowers that I received pressed in a green card and that I have held in my hands again and again over the last 25 months. I am determined to preserve all of this and to give back as much as I am able. Thanks to you, I understand that it is worth staying, it is worth hoping, and I feel safety where I stand by your side – where it becomes necessary, where no hesitation remains. And I know there is a place, as magnificent and vibrant as a meadow of wild flowers; there is a place beyond the dungeons and far away from all the violence, where you and I may be human among humans.

Thank you for your attention, and thank you that during these two years, on these 16 days, so many of you were always by my side, whether near or far. I love you. Una promessa rimane ancora, ci faremo vivi! (One promise remains: we will make ourselves heard/we will survive!)