Anarchy: The Illusion of Freedom

 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. 

Between Statistics and Reality

   On this blogpost recently I discussed the difference between poverty on paper and real poverty. Based on my own experiences, I’d like to add another example that shows how statistics on paper don’t always reflect reality. Every word can be verified—not only through personal experience, but also through deep research into statistics about safer countries. And here are examples, we could to discuss another statistics and realities. 

Why I write it…? I am pretty angry when stats are not reality. 

 So on paper, Czechia appears to be one of the safer countries in Europe. Eurostat data places it low in terms of violent crime and homicide rates. However, statistics don’t always capture the full reality of public life. 

While Czechia may look safe numerically, the everyday experience of safety—particularly in cities—can tell a different story. In contrast, the Netherlands not only ranks high in terms of quality of life and urban development, but also feels more secure and organized, from public transportation to nightlife, and from festival culture to the visibility of social issues.

 ⸻ Street Crime: A Telling Daily Reality 

 One major difference is the visibility of street-level criminality, especially petty theft, pickpocketing, shoplifting, and public disorder. While neither country is plagued by high levels of violent crime, street crime is noticeably more visible in Czechia, especially in crowded tourist areas, train stations, and nightlife zones. In Czech cities not just like Prague, pickpocketing and minor theft are common enough to shape locals’ and tourists’ behaviors—keeping backpacks locked, phones out of sight, and extra caution in nightlife districts. In Dutch cities, by contrast, street-level criminality tends to be more discreet or well-managed. Public transport is monitored, streets are well-lit and designed for visibility, and community policing is more embedded in urban planning. Tourists and residents alike tend to report a higher baseline feeling of safety, even in larger cities like Amsterdam or Rotterdam. Public conflicts are more visible especially in Czech urban areas. Common hotspots include nightlife zones, transport hubs, and housing estates. Alcohol, drug abuse and social tensions often play a role. Bystander intervention is rare, and response can feel passive unless violence escalates. Harassment, particularly targeting women or minorities, remains a concern with limited legal protection. Street conflict in the Netherlands is far less common. Dutch culture encourages bystander action, and public aggression is culturally discouraged, and laws against street harassment are stronger and more enforced — for example, catcalling bans in cities like Rotterdam. 

+ Smart Surveillance & Active Deterrence — Cities like Rotterdam have extensive CCTV networks, often integrated with AI-based monitoring and real-time alert systems. Often acoustic sensors and wireless alerts can notify nearby authorities or even warn individuals when they engage in unlawful behavior — for instance, loitering, vandalism, or public harassment. These systems are often part of broader “smart city” initiatives, aiming to deter crime before it escalates. While major cities like Prague have CCTV, the systems are less integrated, and real-time intervention is rare. Cameras mostly serve as post-incident evidence tools, and there’s little immediate feedback or deterrence. Also, public trust in police tech and surveillance tends to be lower, so these systems are often underused or limited in reach.

 ⸻ Nightlife and Events: Regulation Over Ambiguity 

  Nightlife in the Netherlands is generally seen as well-structured and safe. Events benefit from strong partnerships between organizers, municipalities, and health services. Zero-tolerance drug policies, medical teams, and crowd safety protocols are standard. Czech nightlife often suffers from weaker oversight. Security varies widely by venue, and drug use—particularly in underground or semi-legal spaces—is more visible. This lack of structure can lead to a greater feeling of vulnerability, especially for young people and visitors.   

⸻ Drugs and Public Perception 

  Despite the Netherlands’ liberal global reputation, hard drugs are less visible in public life. Cannabis may be sold legally in coffeeshops, but open drug use is generally confined to controlled environments. Public drug use or signs of addiction in the streets are less common and more swiftly addressed by local services. In Czechia, drug use is more openly visible in urban spaces, particularly in Prague’s inner districts and some regional towns. Decriminalization without adequate social infrastructure or harm reduction has led to a normalization of public drug scenes, which undermines perceptions of safety and cohesion.

⸻ Sustainability, Poverty, and Social Trust 

  The Netherlands also excels in areas beyond policing and regulation. Sustainability is a lived value—seen in efficient public transport, clean urban environments, renewable energy initiatives, and social housing policy. Meanwhile, Czechia struggles with visible poverty, especially outside tourist zones. From neglected public infrastructure to rising homelessness in cities, there’s a tangible sense that social care is less prioritized. 

⸻ Civic Identity: Embracing or Resisting Europe  

 

 Culturally, the Netherlands leans confidently into its European identity. EU values—human rights, inclusivity, environmental responsibility—are integrated into daily life and education. Czechia, by contrast, retains a skeptical post-communist stance toward the EU, with segments of society (including parts of youth culture) increasingly tolerant of authoritarian rhetoric, nationalism, and social apathy. These trends point to a deeper tension in how civic life is imagined and practiced. 

⸻ Urban Safety and Livability: A Dutch Advantage 

 Cities like Amsterdam, Utrecht, Groningen, The Hague, Rotterdam and Eindhoven frequently appear in rankings of Europe’s most livable and safest cities. These rankings take into account factors like public transport reliability, healthcare access, environmental quality, digital infrastructure, and civic participation. Czech cities, including Prague, are notably absent from these top rankings. 

⸻ Conclusion: Safer on Paper, Not Always in Practice 

  While Czechia may rank highly in safety statistics, the Netherlands provides a more consistent, functional, and secure public environment. From street crime to nightlife safety, from drug visibility to urban design, the difference is clear in lived experience. Statistics show Czechia is overall “safer” than the Netherlands (likely referring to general crime rates or homicide data). However, they point out that in practical, urban contexts, the safest cities in Europe tend to be in the Netherlands—suggesting that daily life may feel safer in Dutch cities due to infrastructure, social trust, or better governance.

⸻ Murders (Homicides)

 In 2023, the Netherlands recorded 125 homicides among a population of 17.9 million. That’s just 0.00070% of the population — less than 1 murder per 100,000 people. Czechia, meanwhile, saw 157 homicides in a smaller population of 10.8 million, it’s 0.00145% of the population.

A real story of Leucanthemum

 Towards Leucanthemum (Leontyne)—a Sidney SN mix—I once had words for real things that happened. But in the shadow of this mix, something entirely different can exist than the happiness someone felt at a Dutch festival. The inspiration for this Sidney SN mix could lie in different realities. 

Leontyne can be a girl who lives in a space between realities. She can visit the human world as a ghost, but she cannot exist in the world as a physical being. Her deepest desire is to share a relationship with one person. Yet she cannot realize this longing, because she has no physical form. 

She is like a prisoner, living as a leucanthemum. She is as beautiful as a leucanthemum, as peaceful as a leucanthemum, she sways gracefully in the wind like a leucanthemum— but like the flower, she cannot move of her own will. 

And the one, maybe the one can just observe this beautiful flower: the way her hair moves with the wind in the stillness of a sorrow. But a quiet truth burns within the one’s heart: The one searching for a way to set their desires to be possible.