After Ákos Hadházy staged his liberal–sorosista jamboree outside the paternal farmstead of the esteemed General Doctor Prime Minister’s illustrious father, Telex.hu has now sunk its teeth into the same carcass. One of the liberal online media dreadnought’s unnamed readers — presumably with a passing disregard for aviation laws (link in the comments) — sent up a drone to film the estate.
Tasteless, really, to peer into someone else’s house and garden from above, not to mention that the footage clearly shows the drone frightening the zebras. Yes, zebras. As this aerial photograph I’ve obtained shows, Hatvanpuszta is (or at least was) a dusty, muddy, rather dilapidated farm. Someone seems to live in the old servants’ quarters, there’s a white Lada Niva parked by the stables, and the place in general looks messy and neglected (Photo 1 – taken 11 April 1988).
Google Earth’s timeline tells its own little rags-to-riches story. In 2008, the estate was largely abandoned; the servants’ wing already being reclaimed by nature. By 2011 one roof was missing entirely. In 2013 renovations began, the roof was replaced, others tidied up. Real construction, the satellites tell us, began in 2019 and carried on until 2023. By 2024 the forecourt was neatly arranged, and “Pusztaversailles” — as everyone calls it — had achieved its present glory. Minister Gergely Gulyás was right: this is, indeed, a textbook case of heritage conservation! The Prime Ministerial family rescued Hatvanpuszta from oblivion: transforming a property without an owner into a property with a very rich one.
Pusztaversailles is the family jewel — a monumental gesture, a self-portrait laid across the landscape. These are not “houses,” my friends. They are not homes. They have no real function. The building is a sculpture. Look at the video! See that horizon? That’s not the Vértes hills, nor the surrounding fields. That’s the line of power. The façade is not just a wall: it’s a political manifesto, frozen in limestone, declaring that time and space can be concentrated in a single ruling hand. The roof’s gentle curve bends us more than it bends to its owner. Symmetry here is not a matter of proportion — it’s a military formation, disciplining space itself. And the cladding! That blindingly white stone, as if Versailles had been dropped wholesale onto the Hungarian plain. The environment doesn’t embrace it; the environment must adapt. This is not integration. This is dominance. The estate is a conceptual performance, the audience role played by the entire nation. Architecture here is not about “where we sleep” or “where we hang our coats.” The space itself is the statement of power. The building does not serve its occupants — the country serves the occupants, and the occupants serve the building. And so it should be! Because if it’s not a sculpture, what is it? A “house”? How dreadfully banal. No — this is Hungarian history carved in stone, which the future will one day read aloud before either breaking into applause or bolting for the exits, chairs and all.
Not bad, eh? Gulyás Gergely might want to take notes. Speaking of history, the 20th century offers no shortage of leaders who surrounded themselves with grandiose residences meant to project their power, wealth, and “historic greatness.” And what became of them?
Benito Mussolini – Villa Torlonia (Rome, Italy): Construction began in the 19th century; Mussolini moved in 1925 and converted it into a luxury residence. After 1943 the Allies used it as HQ, and post-1945 it stood derelict for decades. Today it’s a museum and public park. Compared with Hatvanpuszta, frankly, it’s a bit feeble — but the palm trees do look nice. Ancsa could always plant a few.
Adolf Hitler – Berghof (Obersalzberg, near Berchtesgaden, Germany): Originally an Alpine holiday home, it was transformed by Hitler in the 1930s into a vast mountain retreat. Bombed by the Allies at the end of the war, the Bavarian government blew up the remains in 1952 to prevent it becoming a neo-Nazi shrine. Today only moss-covered fragments remain among the trees, the site part of a national park. Even in its heyday, Berghof was a bit drab compared to Pusztaversailles.
Francisco Franco – Pazo de Meirás (Galicia, Spain): A 19th-century neo-revivalist castle (think Big Ben with crenellations) built on the ruins of a fortress. Gifted to Franco in 1938 by the “generosity” of the local populace, it became his summer residence. After his death it stayed in the family until 2020, when the Spanish state reclaimed it. Now a museum.
Joseph Stalin – Kuntsovo Dacha (near Moscow, Soviet Union): Built in the 1930s, heavily guarded, and luxuriously fitted out. Stalin spent his final years here. Today it’s state-owned, officially closed to the public, partly used as a government retreat. Painted a bilious green, it looks like a cross between a barracks and a bad dream.
Saddam Hussein – Al-Salam Palace (Iraq): In the 1980s and ’90s Saddam built dozens of palaces across Iraq, many with artificial lakes and gold-plated interiors. After the US invasion, looters gutted several; some became American bases, others were left in ruins. Al-Salam, with its 200 rooms, was the most famous and was considered Saddam’s own residence. Damaged in Desert Storm, later serving as “Camp Prosperity” for US forces. The 2007 photo shows an American football match in progress. After the US withdrawal in 2012, the Iraqi government moved in.
Mobutu Sese Seko – Gbadolite Palace Complex (Zaire, now DR Congo): Built in the 1970s–80s deep in the jungle, complete with its own airport and luxury swimming pools. After Mobutu’s fall it was looted; now it’s a crumbling ruin smothered in vegetation.
Idi Amin – Kabaka Palace (Mengo, Kampala, Uganda): Built in 1885 by Daniel Mwanga XI, king of the Buganda people, in the style of a European royal palace. It sits 40 km from Entebbe International Airport and 11 km from Lake Victoria. Under Amin’s reign it was lavishly remodelled; an underground military barracks and torture chambers were built next door. More than 200,000 people died in the facility. After Amin’s fall it became state property and now functions as both a government building and a museum — its purpose being to acquaint tourists with Amin’s brand of terror.
Enver Hoxha – Blloku Villa (Albania): Under Hoxha’s rule in the 1970s–80s, Albania acquired an array of luxury villas and underground bunkers. Some are now museums (such as Bunk’Art in Tirana), others are derelict. The dictator’s official Tirana residence was a simple three-storey villa in Ish-Blloku, the family home for decades. After his death in 1985, his wife stayed on for years. During the communist era, ordinary Albanians were barred from Blloku, the enclave of the elite. Though Albanian leaders lived more modestly than, say, their Romanian comrades, when the area finally opened to the public in 1991 people were still shocked at the relative opulence. Today Ish-Blloku is the “playground of the young Albanian elite,” dotted with boutiques, restaurants, fashionable bars, pubs and cafés. Hoxha’s villa still stands empty, off limits, guarded by soldiers.
Putin’s Palace (near Gelendzhik, Krasnodar Krai, Russia): This Italianate palace complex on the Black Sea coast looks like an oddity in this list — Vladimir Putin is, after all, still in power. Construction began in 2005 but wasn’t public knowledge until 2010. It gained wider attention in 2021 when opposition leader Alexei Navalny (later imprisoned in a Siberian penal colony, then dead) made a documentary about it. Built for the president’s personal use, it reportedly included a casino, strip club, hookah lounge and even a miniature railway.
In 2024 the independent investigative outlet Proekt reported that the palace had been remodelled, with the pole-dancing hall replaced by a chapel dedicated to Saint Vladimir (more on him in a moment*). While I personally believe Putin is immortal (the current Putin — the one who once played with Gyurcsány’s dog — died long ago), the building already has problems. In February 2021, BBC News Russian reported that the entire structure was mould-ridden. Apparently, the Versailles-on-the-Black-Sea fantasy had been constructed shoddily from cheap materials: waterproofing skimped, walls covered in plasterboard before frescoes and gold leaf were slapped on top. The mould spread in the cavity between plasterboard and wall, throughout the building.
Renovations began in 2021. Later, Putin’s friend Arkady Rotenberg claimed he’d bought the place and was planning a luxury apartment hotel. In late October 2024, Le Monde and The Sun reported that GPS data from the Strava fitness app — used by Putin’s bodyguards — suggested the president had been there several times between 2019 and 2024. The truth is, the palace is too big, too gaudy, too unliveable and too shoddy. Stalin actually lived in his Kuntsovo dacha; Putin is merely a guest in his own palace — and even denies it’s his. Which is precisely why it fits so neatly on this list.
(*For the record: Saint Vladimir was a member of the Rurik dynasty — in other words, a Viking, birth name Valdamarr — and in the 10th century served as Grand Prince of Kievan Rus. He converted the pagan Slavs to Christianity in 986, inviting missionaries from various faiths to Kiev to audition for the role of state religion. He dismissed the Jews on the grounds that a “chosen people” constantly persecuted could hardly be God’s favourites; rejected Islam because of the alcohol ban; found Roman Christianity too expensive with all its churches, monasteries and ritual garb. That left the Byzantines — and so it remains. In return Valdamarr was made a saint. One can imagine why Putin might latch onto the name — the aspiration to godhood is a private matter, depending entirely on one’s definition of God. But the desire to be a saint is far worse: it imposes expectations on the entire community.)
I asked ChatGPT what, given the fate of dictators’ residences, Hatvanpuszta might look like in thirty years’ time. Here’s what it told me:
“Looking at the patterns of history, the future of the Hatvanpuszta estate in 30 years could fit one of three broad scenarios:
1. The ‘Mobutu–Hoxha–Saddam’ scenario
Political collapse leads to looting; anything portable vanishes, valuable materials are stripped away. The park grows wild, plaster peels, the stone façade sprouts green moss. Locals tell ghost stories, and the place enjoys years of tabloid fame as a haunted mansion. Later, an enthusiastic but penniless civic group tries to save it — only for the restoration to stall halfway.2. The ‘Ceaușescu Museum’ scenario
The building is far too large and conspicuous to remain quietly in private hands. A change of regime or political upheaval puts it in state ownership, and it reopens as ‘Hungary in the 2010s–20s,’ complete with permanent exhibition. Children are treated to a zebra-petting enclosure.3. The ‘Franco–Villa Torlonia’ scenario
The next ruling power finds it comfortable and prestigious enough to keep, using it as an official guesthouse or for state receptions. The original owner’s name fades from public memory, but locals still call it ‘you know, Pusztaversailles.’ In time, the political overtones fade, yet the luxury, scale and symbolism ensure it remains a slightly alien presence in the neighbourhood.Most likely?
Based on the history of dictators’ residences, option one is the favourite. Political winds change, and such buildings often become awkward burdens for the new regime — and are left to rot.”
To which I’d add: Pusztaversailles isn’t just kitsch — it’s probably also stuffed with items of national importance, perhaps even paintings (and I wouldn’t be shocked if the original Holy Crown ended up there). It’s worth defending from looters. May I draw Péter Magyar’s attention to the fact that Lenin once defended the Winter Palace in St Petersburg. And not in the Selmeczi Gabriella “protect the pension funds” way — Lenin simply had anyone who touched anything shot on the spot.
And so, dear reader, Hatvanpuszta now joins a long, dubious tradition — the architecture of hubris. Whether it ends in mould and moss, in a zebra-themed tourist attraction, or as a discreet guesthouse for the next occupant of the high seat, is almost beside the point. Buildings like this are not meant to last for their own sake; they are meant to last as long as the myth they serve.
The trouble with myths is that they are only as durable as the political weather. The moment the storm shifts, what was once a symbol of permanence becomes a rather awkward reminder of a past best forgotten — or buried under ivy. One day, perhaps, Pusztaversailles will be just another curiosity in a list of dictators’ playgrounds: looted, redeveloped, or quietly mouldering away, its limestone façade still insisting on its own importance while the world moves on.
And when that happens, I hope someone keeps the zebras.