A Czech test of judgment by Gabriele Schmitt

The first real decision of any incoming prime minister is never just about policy, it’s about judgment. It’s a signal to the nation, to allies abroad, and to critics at home about what kind of leadership they can expect. For Andrej Babiš, that test has arrived almost immediately, and it comes wrapped in the smiling, reckless persona of Filip Turek.

Turek, the brash leader of the right-wing Motorists for Themselves party, was until this week considered a near certainty to become foreign minister in Babiš’s incoming government. His nomination was meant to symbolize outreach, an olive branch to the populist fringes that helped propel Babiš back toward power. Instead, it has turned into a trap of his own making, one that threatens to undermine whatever credibility the new administration hoped to start with.

It’s hard to imagine a worse candidate for the job that represents the Czech Republic to the world. A foreign minister is, by definition, the face of the nation abroad. The job demands tact, judgment, and the ability to understand how words and tone ripple far beyond domestic borders. And yet, here we are, debating whether someone who once invoked “daddy” Hitler on social media and used a racial slur to describe then-U.S. President Barack Obama should hold the portfolio of international diplomacy.

The revelations from the news outlet Deník N, a string of racist, sexist, and homophobic comments Turek made years ago, are not youthful indiscretions or slips of the tongue. They reveal a worldview steeped in contempt and mockery. They betray an instinct to provoke rather than persuade, to divide rather than build. That might make for entertaining social media fodder, but it is poison in diplomacy.

In one post, Turek referred to Barack Obama using a racist epithet, saying the American leader should be selling “hashish at the train station.” In another, he affectionately referenced “daddy” Hitler, a grotesque and chilling turn of phrase that no serious public servant could ever justify. He peppered his timeline with sneering jokes about women and gay people. These are not the casual off-colour jokes of a naïve youth. They are deliberate signals of ideology. They tell us exactly who he is.

Andrej Babiš must understand that to appoint such a man to one of the most visible positions in government would not be an act of populist defiance—it would be a national embarrassment. The Czech Republic, a proud democracy built on the ashes of totalitarianism, cannot afford to project moral carelessness. It would not just taint the government’s image; it would stain the country’s credibility in Brussels, Berlin, and Washington.

Diplomacy is built on trust. Trust, in turn, rests on the idea that one’s words are measured and one’s principles are clear. What would it say to allies, especially those already wary of Central Europe’s growing flirtation with illiberalism, if Prague’s emissary were someone who once romanticized Hitler online? What would it say to communities within the Czech Republic who expect their leaders to defend dignity and decency, not mock them for sport?

Supporters of Turek have already begun the predictable defence: that the comments are “old,” that people can change, that social media was a “different world” back then. True enough, people can change. But if Turek has, he has not shown it. There has been no credible apology, no sense of reflection or remorse, no attempt to explain what led him to such vile expressions in the first place. Silence in this case is not maturity; it’s evasion.

And this is where Babiš’s own test comes into play. Leaders are often judged not by their scandals, but by how they respond to those of their associates. The temptation to stand by a political ally is strong, especially one whose populist appeal helped secure your own return to power. But political convenience cannot come before moral clarity. Keeping Turek in line for foreign minister would be the equivalent of saying that prejudice, if it’s old enough, is forgivable. It would tell Czechs that the country’s international image can be bartered away for coalition arithmetic.

There’s also a more pragmatic layer. Every new government begins with a small reservoir of goodwill, at home and abroad. Babiš, a polarizing figure with a history of conflicts over corruption and EU funds, cannot afford to squander his. If he starts his tenure defending an indefensible appointment, the narrative will write itself: a leader returning to power already hostage to extremism and poor judgment.

Scrapping the nomination would not only be the right thing to do, it would be the politically smart thing. It would show that Babiš understands the difference between courting populist anger and governing responsibly. It would demonstrate that his government intends to serve a modern Czech Republic, not one trapped in the resentments and fears of the past.

The foreign ministry is no place for a man whose humour flirts with fascism. Nor is it a platform for someone who sees minority groups as punchlines. The post demands a diplomat who can walk into a meeting in Brussels or Washington and command respect, not awkward silence. The Czech Republic deserves someone who understands that words matter that history, especially in this part of Europe, is not a toy to be handled carelessly.

If Andrej Babiš truly wants to show he can lead, this decision is not complicated. He must draw a line, not just for his coalition, but for the moral compass of his government. Filip Turek’s online record disqualifies him from representing anyone but himself. The moment demands statesmanship, not stubborn loyalty.

The world is watching, and so are Czechs who still believe that decency should count for something in politics. Babiš has a chance to prove that leadership is not merely about winning elections, it’s about knowing when to say no, even to your own allies.

This is that moment.