Milan Tresch Stories
THE TRESCH ESSAY – THE VOICE OF THREE GENERATIONS
At the center of the Tresch Essays stands Milan Tresch.
He writes these texts with the instincts of his own generation - yet behind him stands his father’s experience and all the knowledge inherited from his grandfather. The grandfather is no longer with us, but his way of thinking, his relationship to work, and his sharp sense of what matters are still part of how Milan sees the world today.
There is someone else who must be named here: Tresch Edo, Milan’s mother.
She gave him the emotional grounding and human direction without which this voice would not sound the way it does now. Her quiet presence is still part of this story.
This is why the Tresch Essay is born from the distilled knowledge of three generations, yet speaks in a single voice. The sentences are fast, direct, and honest; no ornamentation, no detours, no unnecessary softness. The texts often rely on strong metaphors - the hungry predator, the smell of poverty, the exotica of helping - because these reveal how the world really works in its raw, unfiltered truth.
The purpose of the Tresch Essays is simple: to say out loud what others only think.
A young voice, backed by the lived experience of a family shaped over three generations.
This is the Tresch Essay: reality, survival, and clarity - spoken in a human voice.
Tresch texts are born from a shared story — Milán writes, Csaba narrates, Edó holds it together, and the grandfather watches from between the lines.
The Smell of Poverty
There’s a point where the “exotic charm” of helping comes to an end.
Where the enthusiasm of “we’ll help you, don’t worry” slowly turns into something else:
the smell of poverty.
The thing that tightens people’s gaze, changes their voice,
and suddenly makes everyone very, very busy.
When someone falls into trouble - real, deep, unavoidable trouble -
at first, many stand by them.
Honestly. Out of love. They give hope from the palm of their hand.
But as the months pass, and it becomes clear that the trouble is bigger
than anyone first thought, they quietly disappear.
I don’t blame them.
Most people help as long as helping is easy.
As long as it doesn’t take too much time, too much emotion,
too much confrontation.
As long as there’s still something exotic about it.
And then, one day, it evaporates.
And what remains is the “smell of poverty.”
The weight.
The fear of “what if it sticks to me?”
And that’s when most people step back.
Not out of malice - simply human weakness.
Because very few can carry long-term loyalty.
Hope takes strength.
Perseverance takes endurance.
And to watch someone struggle day after day toward the surface -
fighting the current - you need to be the kind of person who has been down there too.
Where the darkness isn’t exotic - just familiar.
That’s why the ones who stay… stay.
Because they’ve had that smell themselves.
Because they recognize their own past in someone else’s movements.
Because they know what they’re seeing now isn’t the end -
it’s swimming.
Upward.
Slow, messy, sometimes gasping - but upward.
And one day the moment comes when you break the surface.
First you just breathe.
Then you look around.
And you realize that those who turned away back then are not bad people.
They’re just not your people.
And that’s exactly how it should be.
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