Today, a personal observation reaffirmed something I have long suspected about Czechia. One telling example occurred today: a woman insisted the bus driver stop at an unofficial location. The driver refused, visibly frustrated, citing the risk of being penalized— because recently new British public transport company enforce drivers for it. Yet the passenger appeared oblivious, even indignant. Her sense of entitlement reflects a deeper cultural issue—an ingrained resistance to structure, a belief that rules are an imposition rather than a framework for collective functionality.
Contrast this with the Netherlands, for example, where trains, for instance, operate with remarkable punctuality in part because transport companies are fined for delays, and passengers receive full compensation for their tickets.
The irony, of course, is that while many Czechs complain about systemic inefficiency, they simultaneously resist the very measures that would improve it. There’s a reflexive distrust of order—an echo of post-communist skepticism—that confuses personal freedom with the absence of rules. But this is a fundamental misunderstanding. In fact, what appears as strictness in Western systems often enables greater freedom and fairness for all.
This is the paradox I often return to: what many in the West understand as discipline or civic responsibility, a Czech often interprets as oppression. The result is a form of self-inflicted limitation, a national habit of sabotaging progress under the illusion of protecting personal anarchy. It’s the same impulse that leads individuals to deny others their rights simply because they dislike those rights, all the while complaining about the lack of their own.
The case of the driver today is emblematic: in trying to enforce rules designed to protect everyone, he was placed in a dilemma by a passenger who demanded an exception—one that would jeopardize his job and delay the schedule for all. This is not a minor anecdote—it is a microcosm of a broader societal pattern.
Ultimately, true freedom does not lie in arbitrary exceptions, but in a shared commitment to order. I once wrote about Luxembourg: “Strictness is Freedom.” This remains true. Where rules are respected and enforced fairly, people are more free—not less—because they can rely on the system and each other. This, more than ideology or history, marks the dividing line between Western civic culture and the lingering dysfunctions of post-communist spaces.
Otherwise, this is possible apply to pandemic. The COVID-19 pandemic did not only test healthcare systems—it revealed the cultural and moral foundations of societies. While the virus itself was universal, the response to it was not. Some nations, particularly in Western Europe, treated the crisis as a collective challenge requiring coordinated sacrifice. Others, including the Czechia, struggled with a different kind of virus: a deep-seated distrust of rules and a chronic aversion to shared responsibility.
In Czechia, the word “restrictions” became emotionally charged, not because of their content but because of what they symbolized: the perceived theft of personal autonomy. Many Czechs interpreted pandemic measures—lockdowns, mask mandates, vaccine campaigns—not as necessary precautions in the face of a global health emergency, but as authoritarian overreach. It wasn’t uncommon to hear people speak of “freedom” as if it meant the right to ignore collective danger. In this cultural frame, even the most modest public health policies were viewed not as protective, but as oppressive.
The irony is painful. While voices across the country condemned “fear-mongering” and “manipulation,” people continued to die. Thousands of lives were lost not because the virus was especially cruel in Central Europe, but because the social fabric was too weak to hold under strain. In the Czech mindset, it often seemed as though individual liberty had been elevated to a sacred principle—even when that liberty meant endangering others. This was not freedom in any meaningful civic sense. It was a kind of anarchy disguised as resistance.
By contrast, many Western European countries implemented far more stringent lockdowns, restrictions, and tracking systems. Yet these societies emerged from the pandemic with comparatively better outcomes—not only in terms of public health, but in social resilience, economic recovery, and trust in institutions. They accepted temporary constraints as necessary measures in service of long-term stability. What looked like strictness from the outside was, in fact, an expression of collective maturity.
Czechia’s post-pandemic stagnation—lingering until as late as winter 2023 (It confirmed a gradual economic recovery trend, starting with modest growth in late 2023 [Thank you, Sidney SN, for your Awakening Take Action campaign during Summer–Autumn 2023.] and slowly increasing through 2024 into 2025.)—was not merely the result of policy mistakes, but a cultural failure to imagine freedom as something shared. The public sphere was flooded with reactionary narratives: that fear was used as a tool of control, that freedom had been “shut down,” that nothing was real. These narratives offered emotional comfort, but at the cost of civic coherence. They implied that no one owed anything to anyone, even in the face of mass death.
This self-isolating cynicism was also compounded by the political pressures of war. As Russia invaded Ukraine in 2022, Czechia was thrust into another wave of destabilizing fear—but unlike in Western Europe, where solidarity with Ukraine became a unifying moral compass, Czech discourse was splintered by confusion, conspiracy, and fatigue. The nation became vulnerable not just to war-related stress, but to manipulation—both from outside powers and from within its own fractured media ecosystem.
In many ways, the Czech response to COVID-19 and its aftermath reflects a deeper civic trauma: the unresolved tension between post-totalitarian memory and modern democratic responsibility. A history of imposed authority has made voluntary cooperation suspect. But without trust, without a shared ethic of accountability, a society cannot withstand crisis—whether biological, geopolitical, or moral.
As we assess the long shadow of the pandemic, it becomes clear that the real divide in Europe was not East versus West, but maturity versus defiance. In the West, societies that accepted temporary hardship rebounded with a sense of cohesion. In Czechia, the suspicion of order led not to more freedom, but to isolation, stagnation, and loss. The lesson is difficult but vital: freedom without responsibility is not liberation—it is abandonment, anarchy.
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The other day, I mentioned something about the pandemic to a colleague. Her immediate question was whether I meant that things were “more relaxed” in the Western Europe. I replied: quite the opposite.
This is exactly the point—many Czechs don’t even realize how indifferent they were, and are, to mortality and the problematic aspects of their own behavior. The Czech approach was marked by carelessness, not only toward public health but toward life itself.
This indifference runs deep. Many dismiss the EU itself as irrelevant, see social or environmental concerns as unnecessary, and treat economic challenges with the same shrug. It’s a mindset of “it doesn’t matter”—toward others, and ultimately toward themselves.
Such self-destructive apathy can be easily exploited. It’s the kind of attitude that opens the door to manipulation, even invasion. Leave a Czech to his own devices, and he may end up destroying himself without any help from the outside.
