When they violate human rights and freedoms, they cannot expect respect

 For more times I wrote a critique towards free tekno, even if I leave aside the fact that their version of anarchy includes total freedom for all drugs, and the erosion of what once made a human being truly human…

Someone may invoke the idea of freedom, but through their actions, they actually occupy, destroy, or displace the freedom of others.

When you claim the right to disturb the peace, to take space, to be accountable to no one — while the people around you lose the ability to decide about their own environment, their own sleep, their own body — their right to rest, to health, to dignity — then you’re no longer fighting for freedom. You’re claiming the rights of others as if they were unguarded territory.

When someone says they live freely, yet completely ignores the consequences of their actions on others, they are not speaking of freedom — but of egocentrism. It’s not ethics — it’s convenient justification. And if this community is unwilling to reflect on the consequences of its presence, then it cannot expect respect, nor understanding from the outside world.

If the free tekno community in practice violates peace, dignity, safety, and the living space of others, then it is objectively in conflict with human rights and freedoms, no matter what it claims about itself.

That’s why this community does not have my respect — not because a music style, but because of its disregard, masked as freedom. Freedom without responsibility is not freedom. It is a denial of humanity.

In my view, this is an attempt — whether conscious or not — to convince or even pressure everyone to eventually accept their version of anarchy, a world where no one asks anymore, where people are no longer truly human, but have regressed into “animals”.

Much of what I’ve said here is also the reason why I support daytime events — often in the Netherlands — where even organizers themselves refuse during weekend’s to play music after midnight out of respect for others. 

Yet when I wrote multiple times that “Strictness is Freedom,” this is exactly what I meant — another example from the Netherlands. The strictness exists to support the understanding of human rights and freedoms as they truly are. To me, this reflects the idea that human rights and freedoms function better in Western societies, and because of that, these societies are better freer for everyone. 

 In short: European Free Tekno Scene

 In Britain, where free tekno originated, the free tekno scene was already broken in the 1990s by the Criminal Justice and Public Order Act 1994. In the Benelux—Luxembourg, the Netherlands, and Belgium, there is no identical law like the Criminal Justice and Public Order Act 1994, but authorities commonly classify these events as illegal raves and quickly disperse them—often seizing sound equipment, towing vehicles, and issuing fines.

The behavior of the free tekno community in these countries is considered socially unacceptable, disturbing public order and the lives of local residents. This is at the core of the concept of “anti-social behavior.” In Luxembourg, rapid interventions are also supported by nature protection laws.

Contrast with surrounding countries

 • While in Luxembourg or Belgium the police may arrive with dozens of vehicles, helicopters, and immediately seize equipment, in the Czech Republic monitoring and oversight are the standard response.

 • In the Netherlands or England, the mere fact of a free tekno gathering with music is enough to trigger inevitable intervention.

 • In the Czech Republic, events often last several days, and the police usually address related issues (traffic, drugs) rather than the music itself or another anti-social aspects. 

Result: 

While the scene in Britain practically disappeared after 1994, France and the Czech Republic became “safe havens” for exiled sound systems, where free tekno not only survived but grew into a mass phenomenon. From there, the culture spread further into Italy, Germany, Spain, Slovakia and Poland, but the main core remained in France and the Czech Republic. While it’s true that France (Bretagne, Occitanie, Marseille, for example) has the largest free tekno community in absolute numbers, when adjusted for population size, Czechia has the largest. It’s a central hub for the European sound system scene. 

Fear of Judgment as a Reflection of Marginalization: The exile existence of Ukrainian people in the Czechia

 Many Ukrainians in Czechia experience social exclusion, prejudice, or passive rejection — even if not openly hostile, there’s often a subtle message: “You’re here, but you’re not one of us.” When someone lives in an environment where they’re constantly “tolerated” rather than accepted, they can develop a deep fear of doing something “wrong” that would reinforce stereotypes or attract negative attention.

So when mother says her kids shouldn’t play in the garden because “others are working,” (although all kids in Czechia have summer holidays) it may be a way of saying:

“I don’t want to give anyone a reason to think we’re noisy, lazy, inconsiderate, or don’t respect Czech customs.”

It becomes self-censorship driven by fear of reinforcing the idea that Ukrainians don’t “belong.”

A Deeper Emotional Layer

For parents who already feel like outsiders, letting their children play freely can feel risky. What if someone complains? What if someone looks disapprovingly? What if the children speak Ukrainian too loudly, and that triggers xenophobic attitudes?

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In Short:

This mother’s fear likely has less to do with actual Czech laws or norms, and more to do with the invisible social walls she feels pressing in around her. It’s a psychological response to a society that tolerates her presence but does not fully embrace it.

This reflects a wider issue: integration without real acceptance. People can be physically safe and still live in emotional fear if they feel they’re constantly being judged or don’t belong. And this way of thinking speaks to a post-communist mentality still present in Czech society. It could be a strong starting point for a larger commentary towards post-socialist societies deal with personal freedom or joy. 

Also, these people in Czechia are buying houses with adjoining land, sometimes ones that were damaged by the previous Czech family. They slowly repair the house and try to build a future. But Czechs are convinced that these people have no future in Czechia and that they should leave. But why should they leave when they are investing large sums of money into the country? Or does someone imagine that a person is supposed to live in the terrible, peripheral conditions of hostels, have menial work, and then—exhausted by Czech conditions—simply leave?

Yeah, and in another EU country, Ukrainian people have barbecues near Ahoy in Zuiderpark. No one questions them enjoying these summer days in a Dutch park, because everyone has the same right to enjoy them.

Mainly Dutch

  When I often mention that I have sympathy towards the Dutch culture, because the Dutch is cultured, cultivated, even elegant, I happened to come across an Instagram profile of someone who shows exactly that.  

Yes, the German-Dutch girl who now live in USA is there too — she even jokes about how the Netherlands can seem cultured towards countries like are some things even in current Germany. I apologize to German people for this one, because I saw support from you towards Sidney, I like Germany, but when I criticize approaches in another different Central European country, this is the one of the case why I have sympathy towards the Netherlands. 

And it’s not just about Dutch elegance. She also touches on other things why I have smile when I thinking about the Dutch culture. On other side, she also protect German values by many streams. 

Here are examples: 

1) Schat liever niet 🤷‍♀️🇳🇱🇩🇪🎀

2) Lekker Fietsen 🚴‍♀️

3) Get rid of your kartoffelbauch and have a comfortable ride experience with @tenways_ebike 🥔🚴‍♀️

Overdose: Why Gabbers in the ’90s Stepped Back from Drugs

  I still see attempts at drug use similar to the ’90s gabbers in some places. I’ve been researching the reasons — whether the gabbers gave up the unsustainable lifestyle on their own, or if it was political. 

Here’s the post about it…

 Step Back From The Overdose

  In the early ’90s, gabber in the Netherlands was a beast. What started in Rotterdam as a reaction against polished house music became a full-blown youth culture, complete with shaved heads, Air Max kicks, pounding 180 BPM kicks, and a no-holds-barred approach to partying.

At the center of it all was speed — lots of it. Amphetamines, MDMA, LSD (even combined together) weren’t just part of the experience; they were the experience. Ravers pushed themselves to the edge of physical and mental limits, weekend after weekend. As the scene exploded in popularity, tragedies followed — young ravers collapsed, overdosed, or ended up in hospitals after taking unknown pills or mixing too much too fast. 

But by the end of the decade, the scene had pulled back. What happened?

For many original gabbers, the lifestyle wasn’t sustainable. You can only run on speed and no sleep for so long before your body shuts down — and your mind with it. People started disappearing from the scene, not because they stopped loving the music, but because their nervous systems were wrecked. Panic attacks, depression, paranoia — these weren’t rare cases; they were common exits.

And to the main reason why drugs were pulled back, belong: 

 * Public health groups like Unity and Jellinek entered clubs, handing out honest info, offering drug testing, and educating ravers without judgment.

They distributed flyers, information cards, and offered drug testing at events, which helped reduce overdoses and raise awareness. The Dutch government adopted a pragmatic, non-punitive drug policy, which paradoxically made it easier to talk openly about drugs and their dangers.

 * Media panic over overdoses sparked fear — even if exaggerated — and forced clubs and promoters to take safety more seriously. 

A string of high-profile drug-related deaths, especially involving overdoses and bad batches, caused moral panic in the media. This created pressure on promoters to tighten safety rules and distance their events from the drug-fueled reputation.

 * Commercialization shifted gabber from underground rebellion to mainstream youth culture. As the music softened, so did the drug culture.

- Gabber, originally a raw underground movement, became more commercialized by the mid to late 90s. With this shift came a broader and younger audience who didn’t necessarily share the same “hardcore” drug culture. The music also changed — from the raw Rotterdam-style hardcore to happy hardcore, attracting more mainstream ravers, often teens.

 * Burnout hit hard. Many original gabbers couldn’t physically or mentally sustain the lifestyle and either quit or moved on.

- By the end of the 90s, many of the original gabbers aged out or experienced burnout from the intense lifestyle. Many simply couldn’t sustain the level of speed and MDMA use long-term without severe mental and physical consequences. Some moved on to techno, trance, or even dropped the scene entirely.

 * Local governments began regulating events, requiring safety measures that made chaotic drug excess harder to maintain.

- Although Dutch drug policy was tolerant, local governments and police cracked down on illegal raves and unsafe venues. Promoters were forced to meet safety standards, provide medical staff, and sometimes even allow on-site drug testing. More organized events meant less tolerance for chaotic, drug-fueled excess.

 Summary of the Shift: 

 The extreme drug use didn’t just vanish overnight — it lost its centrality. And the culture matured. And crucially, it did so without needing a full-scale moral panic or brutal crackdown. In that sense, the Netherlands did something rare: it trusted its youth enough to educate them, not punish them. And over time, it worked better than repression ever could.

Back in 90’s when I was a kid in Czechia, I was already listening to happy hardcore — I just didn’t know it had a name. In Czechia this was “disco” or “dance”. Faster beats, chipmunk vocals, melodies that made no sense about Gabba but made you feel everything. Just cassettes, and joy in their purest form. 

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. 

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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.