Hundreds gathered this week in Prague’s Malostranské náměstí, holding signs and chanting under a banner that read "How many times will this happen?" Organizers say the protest was sparked by a familiar pattern: another case of sexualized violence, another lenient sentence, another failure of the Czech justice system to protect victims.
The protest was the most publically visible in a week when Czechia was forced to confront uncomfortable truths about how deeply violence against women runs through its institutions, homes, and cultural blind spots. But it was no isolated outcry.
In the span of just a few days, several separate yet strikingly connected events unfolded. Former MP Dominik Feri, already serving time for multiple rapes and attempted rape, was charged with another serious count—this time based on a previously dismissed case involving a 17-year-old girl.
The Constitutional Court had overturned the decision to drop the case last year, sharply criticizing the police for failing to investigate properly, ignoring key witnesses, and failing to gather digital evidence. It was a rare rebuke, not to mention a damning indictment of how the system treats victims.
At the same time, new data revealed how poorly equipped Czech society is to confront violence against women.
A nationwide survey released by the Pod svicnem (“Under the Candlestick”) initiative found that half of all Czech adults cannot recognize the signs of domestic abuse. A similar proportion admitted they wouldn’t know how to help a victim. And yet, a flicker of hope: more than 60 percent of people said they wanted to help, if only they knew how.
That gap between will and knowledge is exactly what a new awareness campaign, launched this week under the name "Lend A Hand," seeks to close.
Backed by emotional TV spots, billboards, and a easy-to-remember acronym RUKA (Recognize, Assure, Consult, Assist), the campaign is aimed not just at victims, but at their neighbors, friends, and family—the people most likely to notice something is wrong. “Seventy percent of victims never get help,” said campaign organizer Michaela Studená. “We want to change that.”
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But while public awareness grows, the legal system continues to lag behind. The protest in Prague was fueled not only by the Feri case, but by an especially egregious ruling in another one: a stepfather convicted of raping his underage stepdaughter over the course of more than a year received a suspended sentence.
The Constitutional Court later admitted the punishment violated the victim’s rights—but still allowed the sentence to stand. Protesters called it a symbol of “systemic failure,” and demanded that the Czech Republic ratify the Istanbul Convention, a key international treaty on combating violence against women that the country has so far refused to adopt.
Though the country signed the Convention in 2016, it has yet to ratify it, with opponents claiming it undermines traditional family values or imposes “foreign” definitions of gender. Supporters argue that such resistance is both ideological and misplaced—and that full ratification would not only improve legal protections but signal a clear political commitment to ending gender-based violence.
For too long, women have been told that their pain is private, their stories unprovable, their abusers untouchable.
The reckoning now underway is not just about changing laws or imposing harsher sentences. It’s about dismantling a culture of silence, disbelief, and indifference. For too long, women have been told that their pain is private, their stories unprovable, their abusers untouchable. This week, that narrative was challenged in courtrooms, in surveys, and on the streets.
Whether it marks a turning point depends on what comes next. Will policy makers and institutions listen to what this week has revealed? Will public outrage translate into policy, support services, and education? Will the courts apply justice with seriousness and empathy?
For now, there is movement and momentum. But as one of the protest banners asked: “If not now, when?”