Beginning with the soft and musing Picture a Vacuum, which thrusts the listener into a bird’s-eye view of the world, and ending with Tunnel Vision, a lament of the ability of individuals to shut themselves off from the sufferings of others, the album dissects the lives of ordinary young Londoners who each struggle with the weight of their past and their insecurities. We are present in Esther’s kitchen, a carer who works nights and finds herself worrying about the state of the world when she gets home from a double shift; we find ourselves on a night out with Pete who vows to change his ways but ends up oversharing with a stranger, and through honest characterisation we feel such an empathy for Bradley that the worries that keep him awake at night become our own.

While Tempest is unafraid to expose the inertia that governs our lives and so governs the world, her intervention is always benign. Let Them Eat Chaos is no ode to despair; rather it personifies her belief that ‘everything’s connected and even if I can’t see it right, everything’s a message’. The individual woes of her characters are weaved effortlessly into the greater griefs of the world in a vindication that ‘we are all sparks of a much bigger constellation’, an insight meant to provide hope and comfort in an insecure world. By that token, she chooses to end with a new and unreleased poem as an act of resolution. Having forced her audience to ponder the more difficult aspects of existence, she pacifies them with this: ‘I just see so much peace in people’s faces.’

The footprints of the displaced and dispossessed have long disturbed the land that connects Hungary to Austria. This border is, after all, the site of many a desperate traveller. Last year, with palpable echoes of the past, thousands of Syrians and other refugees were forced to take this route when rail travel was denied to them by the Hungarian authorities. Resourceless and armed only with the belief that the fate that propelled them to this precise point in their history would also deliver them from it, they trudged to the border where the thought of new land promised new hope.

Sixty years ago, almost to this day, my grandmother, Maria Śzalay, made the same journey. The Hungarian revolution, a violent uprising against Soviet rule, had produced a refugee crisis of its own. Budapest was awash with riots, molotov cocktails, toppled statues and confrontations between students and Russian soldiers in scenes my grandmother can recall all these years later. “Tanks started coming in over Freedom Bridge,” she remembers. “The revolutionaries stared and shouted as they approached. I saw a soldier come out and start shooting at the crowd indiscriminately.” Someone shoved her to the ground, where she felt a pile of bodies falling on her. “I was covered in blood.”

This was 1956, when the word “refugee” did not inspire the feelings of caution, hostility and fear that it does in some people today. Today, the country whose own sense of identity owes much to the experience of its refugees has overwhelmingly voted in a referendum against taking its quota of just 1,294 people. Barely a week passes in which the rightwing government of Viktor Orbán does not wage its ugly counterrevolution against liberal Europe. Migrants are denounced as “poison” who must be kept out by “massive” fences, prompting calls from Luxembourg that Hungary should be expelled from the EU. Out of the country’s 20,000 advertising boards, nearly 6,000 were used to tell people to vote against taking people in.

Europe is in crisis. The terrorism threat may cause some to bypass their instinctive compassion for hard-headed practicality. But the world of 1956 was not short of threats; the cold war was ongoing and a nuclear war was beckoning. The Suez crisis, largely regarded as Britain’s worst foreign policy disaster, was unravelling at a vicious speed. But the revolution nevertheless spawned a massive relief operation, one which, in being only a temporary organisation, the UNHCR was not all that well-equipped to deal with.

After bribing someone at the Austrian border with my grandfather’s motorbike, my grandmother was able to reach Britain where she settled in Gorebridge, a tiny village in Scotland. She was placed in a former children’s summer camp. Newspaper reports tell of the staff, who had disbanded for the winter months, returning to work so that they could accommodate her and her peers. She was soon given a job in textiles. After spending Christmas with a local family, she moved to London to begin making her life in Britain.

Hungary’s discourse against refugees and its fellow European states dishonours this significant and poignant part of its history. As George Szirtes, the poet and 1956 refugee remarks, Hungary seems to have indulged its isolation in Europe and forgotten the ties that saw it through one of its most painful and bloody moments: one where, in the space of two weeks, its people became refugees.

No time would be more pertinent than now for Hungary to remember Europe’s compassion while so many — with stories not dissimilar to those that characterised my grandmother and her contemporaries as heroes — are waiting at its border. Like today’s refugees, she came to Britain with no knowledge of the language or of how her life would progress. The recent referendum in Hungary, while outwardly disappointing, offers a glimmer of hope: a 40% turnout suggests a boycott of the government’s hate-filled dialogue, and means that the result has been ruled invalid. There remains the chance to uphold the memory of those who in 1956 sought the same freedom that so many are still seeking today.

Originally published at www.theguardian.com on October 24, 2016.