We arrive at the Szeged courthouse with cramps in our stomachs – we don’t have much experience in attending trials, plus we’re not even sure we’ll be allowed in, after all as we know today will be the continued hearing of an especially dangerous man, Ahmed H., charged with terrorist activity.
But after a quick security check we’re in the building. Nobody asks for our personal identification; people seem satisfied when we explain that we are merely taking part in the proceedings as private individuals. We head to the first floor, in front of the courtroom, where people are already waiting – the atmosphere is visibly tense. The judge and her colleagues arrive, then a security officer asks us to clear the corridor. A police officer then steps up to an iron door and opens it – two, two-metre-tall, masked police officers armed from head-to-toe lead the “dangerous man” out, his hands are cuffed. A tall, gaunt man, with a startled look he searches for a familiar face and shyly gives us a nod. We file into the courtroom – the room is stifling and small, but there aren’t many of us, among the crowd besides the representatives of the right-wing media there are barely one or two civilians interested in the “terrorist” case. In the first row sit the accused, his customary guards, and the interpreter; the second and the third rows are taken by police witnesses – brawny, bald boys in elegant shirts, a tightly-knit group who dip into banter and jovial conversation from time to time during the hearing.
But after a quick security check we’re in the building. Nobody asks for our personal identification; people seem satisfied when we explain that we are merely taking part in the proceedings as private individuals. We head to the first floor, in front of the courtroom, where people are already waiting – the atmosphere is visibly tense. The judge and her colleagues arrive, then a security officer asks us to clear the corridor. A police officer then steps up to an iron door and opens it – two, two-metre-tall, masked police officers armed from head-to-toe lead the “dangerous man” out, his hands are cuffed. A tall, gaunt man, with a startled look he searches for a familiar face and shyly gives us a nod. We file into the courtroom – the room is stifling and small, but there aren’t many of us, among the crowd besides the representatives of the right-wing media there are barely one or two civilians interested in the “terrorist” case. In the first row sit the accused, his customary guards, and the interpreter; the second and the third rows are taken by police witnesses – brawny, bald boys in elegant shirts, a tightly-knit group who dip into banter and jovial conversation from time to time during the hearing.
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