The Cult of Normal: On Dutch Modesty, Ritualised Joy, and the Loneliness of Belonging
In honour of celebrating King's Day from Amsterdam today, it feels only fitting to dedicate this week’s piece for our Culture column to the Dutch. They are a people who have perfected the art of throwing a nationwide party without ever quite surrendering their composure. (I must confess a certain affection for the Dutch; I even speak their language, though my former fluency has dwindled to a somewhat subpar level. As for the prospect of partying with my Dutch friends all day, let us simply say the invitation required very little persuasion.)
The city is a spectacle of orchestrated joy. The canals are lined with a tide of orange-drenched revelry, inflatable crowns bob above the crowds like cheerful buoys, and even the most reserved grandparents will consent to wearing a plastic lei for the sake of the monarchy. Yet beneath this temporary madness, something strangely controlled underpins the festivities — a kind of structured euphoria, reminiscent of a rave held in meticulous alphabetical order.
King's Day is chaos of a very tidy variety. The music blares from every bridge and boat, yet the bins for plastic and glass are neatly labelled and diligently used. Children set up stalls on the pavement, bartering over second-hand toys with the serious demeanour of miniature economists. Grown men drink beer from plastic cups, yet they do so conscientiously within the officially permitted zones. The entire nation transforms into a fluorescent orange spectacle for precisely twenty-four hours, and then, as if a collective switch is flipped, it returns to its characteristic state of greige. This is a celebration that contains itself with impressive civic discipline. It is a hangover managed with municipal order, a mess pre-approved by the local gemeente.
It is within this peculiar pairing of flamboyance and restraint, of spectacle and subtlety, that the essential character of Dutch culture begins to reveal itself. A quiet duality is constantly at play: humility and pride exist in a steady truce, collectivism is performed without intrusion, and joy itself never fully unbuttons its shirt. The Dutch will lose themselves in the collective passion of a football match, yet apologise profusely if their cheer erupts too loudly in a quiet café. They will celebrate their monarch with a visual fervour that outstrips any royalist state I have encountered, yet they visibly recoil from any display that smacks of personal grandeur.
This is a society masterful in its cultural poise, one that consistently refuses the comfort of extremes. It keeps one foot firmly planted in tradition and the other in unflinching practicality. One learns very quickly here that even the most ardent passion must dress itself in the modest clothing of normality. That in the Netherlands, exuberance itself must learn to follow the rules.
Doe Maar Gewoon: The Tyranny of the Ordinary
A certain phrase echoes through Dutch life, often delivered with a shrug that conveys a universe of meaning while pretending to convey none: Doe maar gewoon, dan doe je al gek genoeg. Just act normal; that is already crazy enough. Superficially, it appears benign, even charming. It suggests a philosophy of modesty, a cultural embrace of the everyday. Yet with prolonged exposure, one begins to feel its true weight. For beneath that quiet mantra operates a more demanding principle: a national, systemic allergy to standing out.
I recall an occasion, arriving at a dinner in Utrecht wearing an outfit I considered entirely reasonable. My personal standards, I should note, are unapologetically calibrated towards being overdressed; it is a point of pride woven into my very constitution. The reaction, however, suggested I had arrived on horseback wearing sequins, perhaps demanding foie gras in a strictly vegan establishment. The silence was impeccably polite, of course. It was the specific quality of silence that makes one hyper-aware of their own skeleton. One woman performed a slow, deliberate scan of my ensemble and remarked, “lekker opvallend, hè?” in a tone of such devastating neutrality it inflicted more damage than outright mockery ever could. It was not precisely an insult; it functioned more as a gentle cultural correction, a tap on the shoulder reminding me I had strayed from the approved script.
The Dutch script, as I have come to understand it, is rooted in a deep, almost sacred commitment to the unexceptional. This is not a passive state of affairs. Quite the opposite; it requires active effort. This normalcy requires a conscious discipline in keeping everything resolutely understated. You see it etched into the architecture: clean lines, flat roofs, windows left undressed as a statement of transparency that also suggests a certain enforced emotional nakedness. You see it encoded in the fashion: practical coats, sensible shoes, a colour palette that whispers rather than shouts. Dutch style is not opposed to beauty; it simply insists that beauty must be useful. It is beauty equipped with a sturdy bike lock and a reliable rain poncho.
Even the language itself is complicit in this conspiracy of understatement. Dutch possesses a remarkable lexicon for “fine,” “okay,” and “not bad,” all of which serve the same ultimate purpose: to discourage a fuss. Describe something as “geweldig” (amazing) and you will be met with a sceptical eyebrow; opt for “lekker” (tasty/nice/fine/a universal placeholder) and you will be welcomed into the fold. Enthusiasm is a carefully rationed commodity, metered out with precision to avoid disturbing the delicate cultural equilibrium. If British repression is delivered with a polite smile, the Dutch version arrives with disarming directness, and a firm conviction that feelings, like outerwear, should be appropriate for the forecast.
I learned this lesson through direct experience. I once complimented a Dutch acquaintance’s artwork with what I considered appropriate admiration, describing it as brilliant and emotionally arresting. She laughed, a note of alarm in her voice, and replied, “It’s just a hobby.” That word, “just,” hung in the air like a curtain being decisively drawn. The art was hers, yet she would rather disown its merit entirely than be perceived as someone who believed in her own brilliance. Here, modesty is less a virtue and more a civic duty.
I should clarify that I do not recount this with scorn. This system offers its own peculiar comfort. There is a certain safety in knowing the rules so explicitly. In a global culture that demands we perpetually market ourselves, the Dutch refusal to self-aggrandise can feel curiously liberating. There is no desperate clamour for external validation. No one is desperately trying to become a brand. The entire social atmosphere is quieter, and that quiet can be deeply soothing. That is, until you feel something loud stirring within yourself.
It is in those moments that you confront the tyranny of the ordinary most acutely. When a laugh escapes too heartily, or words tumble out too quickly, or an outfit expresses a surplus of joy, you realise you have violated the unspoken social contract. Here, normal is not merely a baseline; it operates as a ceiling. A glass one, smooth and virtually invisible, positioned just low enough to deliver a humiliating bump to the head whenever you attempt to rise. The impact is never violent, merely gently corrective.
One must admit, there is a strange poetry to it all. It is a culture that believes so devoutly in the collective that it instinctively frowns upon any individual caught glowing too brightly alone. It is a society where being ‘just normal’ is not a state of mediocrity, but a moral achievement. And yet, in my more theatrical moments, usually induced by a third stroopwafel and a failed attempt to express emotion in a group setting, I wonder what we sacrifice when we prize sameness with such devotion. What becomes of a spark perpetually asked to dim its light? What do we become when the fear of standing out is so potent that we willingly disappear into one another?
And so, we all comply. We queue obediently for patat met, we utter “gezellig” with ritualistic frequency, and we exchange polite nods in the supermarket as if we have all collectively agreed to keep the volume of our lives set to a tasteful, unassuming level three. There is a distinct beauty in this harmony. But make no mistake; it is a beauty that does not wish to be admired.
Polished Directness: Brutal Honesty with a Neat Edge
The Dutch possess a peculiar superpower, one that leaves most foreigners hovering in a state between disarmed admiration and mild psychological trauma. It is the ability to deliver an absolute truth with such calm efficiency that you find yourself almost wanting to thank them for it. Dutch directness is never loud, cruel, or even truly confrontational. It simply exists, standing in the room like a glass of still water that, upon tasting, reveals itself to be pure, unadulterated vodka.
My first proper encounter with this phenomenon occurred during a lunch. I had been speaking, perhaps with excessive enthusiasm, about a philosophical concept I was exploring in my writing. I remember feeling rather elated by the exchange, until my friend, a born-and-bred Amsterdammer, tilted her head and observed, “But you’ve said that already, haven’t you?” Her tone carried no rudeness, no unkindness. It was purely factual, as if she were pointing out that I had left the door ajar or had a stray piece of spinach lodged in my teeth. The intention was not to wound, yet the statement landed with the clean, bloodless finality of a small intellectual guillotine. To my own surprise, I was utterly captivated.
The essential quality of Dutch honesty is its lack of personal challenge. It is neither performative nor designed to score social points. In fact, it operates on a disarmingly democratic principle: truth is treated as a basic courtesy, equivalent to arriving punctually or settling your share of a bill. To withhold it would be considered the genuine insult. “Why would I lie to you?” they inquire, their confusion entirely authentic when you flinch at their bluntness. In that moment, you realise the discomfort stems not from the truth itself, but from the sheer shock of encountering it in broad daylight, stripped of its usual decorative packaging.
This national commitment to bluntness extends far beyond casual conversation. In professional settings, it functions as an architectural principle. Meetings are not meandering thought-clouds; they are blueprints for decisive action. Individuals say precisely what they think, and you are expected to reciprocate. There is no theatre of passive aggression, no protracted pleasantries, no elaborate political choreography. If your idea lacks strength, someone will state so plainly, calmly, and likely supported by a bullet-pointed rationale. I once presented a draft project to a Dutch client, who reviewed it, nodded, and declared, “No, this doesn’t work, let’s try again.” The experience was oddly refreshing and mildly terrifying in equal measure. Once again, I found myself admiring its sheer efficiency.
The Dutch take a deep pride in the functional efficiency this directness enables. Conversations, much like bicycles, are expected to move forward quickly, follow the most direct route, and avoid unnecessary wobbling. Small talk exists, but only in carefully measured doses. Should you attempt to over-explain a point already considered clear, you will be interrupted — not with rudeness, but with a sense of economic necessity. Time, in this context, is considered far too valuable to waste on emotional embroidery.
The situation becomes particularly intriguing when this honesty intersects with politeness. The Dutch do not abandon social grace; they somehow fuse it with their uncompromising need for factual clarity. You might hear observations such as “That shirt is really… interesting on you” or “You look tired, are you sleeping enough?” delivered with a warm tone and a smile so gentle it feels like a compliment. It is only in the subsequent quiet of your own thoughts that the penny drops with a soft thud. You have just been the recipient of a polite, yet unmistakable, verbal slap.
Yet this directness is rarely malicious. There exists, believe it or not, a form of tenderness within it. It is underpinned by a belief that honesty constitutes a fundamental form of respect. The idea that telling you your cooking is bland or that your argument is structurally unsound is, in fact, a sign of trust. The underlying logic suggests that if they did not care, they would simply nod and move on. Consequently, this honesty transforms into a strange form of intimacy, one that communicates, “I consider you mature enough to handle the truth, so I will not waste our time with pretence.”
For someone like myself, raised by Asian parents who also prize honesty — though often lace it with layers of familial duty or strategically timed silence — the Dutch method feels both oddly familiar and jarringly exposed. We share a cultural bluntness, a mutual belief in not mincing words. However, where my upbringing wrapped hard truths in layers of implicit care and expectation, the Dutch deliver them raw, at room temperature, and without ceremonial pause. The experience is akin to being rinsed in cold water: clean, certainly, and undeniably bracing, but wholly without preamble. You are left alert, blinking, and uncertain whether to offer thanks or beat a quiet retreat.
Over time, however, one adapts. You learn to read the nuance not in what is said, but in the absence of softening language. You begin to appreciate the distinct gift of not having to decode multiple layers of implication. There is a profound freedom in the certainty that people mean exactly what they say. Always. You also learn to reciprocate this practice, gently yet firmly. Because in this social landscape of clean lines and honest sentences, vagueness is not considered kindness; it is viewed as sheer inefficiency.
And in the end, there is something deeply enviable about this entire approach. In a world saturated with smoke and mirrors, the Dutch offer you a mirror entirely free of smoke. One must simply be prepared for the clarity of the reflection. And perhaps, consider wearing a more flattering shirt next time.
Orange Nation: A Temporary Permission to Feel
There exists a strange, paradoxical beauty within Dutch national celebrations. The country, so often a paradigm of measured restraint, transforms into a living canvas for an explosion of unapologetic colour and noise. King’s Day stands as the most glaring example, a twenty-four-hour period where the entire nation dons orange as if a primal, collective switch has been flipped.
Suddenly, the typically reserved and emotionally temperate Dutch become almost unrecognisable, their voices raised in joyful shouts that echo across the canal-lined streets. The spectacle carries a surreal quality. These are not the boisterous, organic displays familiar from cultures where passion is a daily staple. This is something far more deliberate: a temporary, state-sanctioned permission to feel, a scheduled intermission from the strictures of ordinary life.
King’s Day — or Koningsdag, to embrace the full rhythmic cadence of the language — functions as a great communal exhalation. It is as if the nation collectively holds its breath for the entire year, maintaining a steady emotional temperature, only to release it all in a single, orange-hued torrent. This annual catharsis is curiously controlled, reminiscent of the meticulously planned riot of a professional dancer who understands precisely when to release the tension in their limbs. The streets drown in neon hues, music blares from every conceivable corner, and children hawk second-hand goods with an entrepreneurial zeal that defies the customary calm. The Dutch, so famed for their emotional restraint, appear possessed by a temporary, collective madness. It is a bewildering spectacle, even for someone like myself, raised within cultures where collective celebration is woven into the everyday fabric.
Yet, this very spectacle is deeply telling. When these moments of joy erupt from the Dutch, they lack the raw, uncontained quality of celebrations in more demonstrative cultures. The Dutch possess an innate understanding of the boundaries of their permission. They comprehend that the chaos must remain contained, even at the zenith of celebration. A brief, electric feeling of liberation fills the air, yet just as swiftly, the familiar veneer of order begins its return. The royal family provides a symbolic focal point, yet the joy speaks to something more elemental: the affirmation of a shared national identity, one that binds the seemingly disparate threads of a complex culture. The Dutch may seldom express their emotions in ordinary moments, but they possess a masterful understanding of how to embrace collective unity when the occasion demands it.
The most disorienting aspect, for an outsider, is the sheer fleetingness of it all. To witness a culture so steadfast in its composure willingly embrace chaos, only to have that chaos neatly folded away by evening, feels like observing a controlled demolition of emotional restraint. The joy is as regulated as the quiet that precedes and follows it. This transient explosion never constitutes a rebellion; instead, it serves as a vivid reminder of a core Dutch value: balance. The fact that they surrender to it so infrequently lends the act a greater, more concentrated weight. For me, this represents the ultimate paradox of Dutch life — a culture that measures every gesture and modulates every expression, momentarily dissolving into a public, collective outburst. In the end, the Orange Nation celebrates both its monarchy on King’s Day and the beautiful, intricate complexity of its own contradiction.
Football fits seamlessly into this same tapestry of licensed emotion. A match, particularly one involving the national team, creates another sanctioned space where the Dutch seem to temporarily forget their emotional coolness. Watching the team play is akin to witnessing a dam break. A flood of emotion, louder and more intense than anything permitted in the quiet humdrum of daily life, surges through the crowd. I have found myself caught in this collective fever, swept along by the raw energy of a crowd roaring in unified triumph or shared despair. It is a momentary departure from the norm, yet in its sheer intensity, it reveals a fundamental truth of the Dutch psyche: they only permit themselves to feel with absolute abandon when the collective stakes are at their highest.
This is a societal permission slip, a collective release valve for a culture that otherwise demands emotional precision. I have often pondered why they maintain such reserve throughout the rest of the year, why such effort is expended on control when the capacity for passionate release is so clearly present. Perhaps the immense value of these national rituals resides in this very contrast. They are more than mere scheduled events; they are the necessary pause that sustains the quietude of the other 364 days. And that brief, glorious permission to be loud might just be the true object of celebration. Not the pomp of monarchy, nor the elation of a winning goal, but the simple, exhilarating joy of being allowed to feel, for one fleeting moment, without the usual reservation.
Gezellig, But Guarded
Gezelligheid. The word itself seems to dance on the tongue, evoking a warmth that promises comfort and an almost tangible sense of communal embrace. It conjures images of cosiness, the snug familiarity of a shared space, the easy rhythm of friendly conversation, and the soft, welcoming glow of a room filled with good company. It is the very atmosphere of a café on a rainy afternoon, where patrons gather in tight circles, steaming cups of coffee before them. It is the sound of laughter spilling over the edges of a family dinner table, the enveloping warmth of a home illuminated by candlelight. To an outsider, it presents as the quintessential essence of Dutch social life: a seemingly effortless, universal inclusivity.
The curious thing about gezelligheid, like the most evocative words, is its near-impenetrability to direct translation. A peculiar intimacy defines it, one that can feel all-encompassing: the low hum of chatter in a bruin café, the gentle lighting in a well-appointed living room, the soft clink of glasses during a shared meal. These are the moments that radiate warmth, creating the illusion of being part of something meaningful. Yet, beneath this surface-level conviviality flows a distinct undercurrent of something else: a subtle, yet persistent, exclusion. The very elements that render a space gezellig are the same ones that can make an individual feel acutely like an outsider. For all the apparent laughter and easy camaraderie, an almost invisible line demarcates the ‘insiders’ from the ‘newcomers’. It is as though a shared history and a complex set of unspoken codes bind the group together in a manner that seldom accommodates someone still deciphering the rhythms of Dutch conversation, or worse, someone unable to navigate the delicate interplay of silence and speech with the characteristically Dutch effortlessness. In this sense, gezelligheid functions as the Dutch answer to the human need for belonging, yet true to form, it is a concept furnished with distinct, if unstated, boundaries.
I have experienced this quiet alienation firsthand. My initial dinner with a circle of Dutch friends quickly revealed how their effortless familiarity and comfort in shared silences made me feel as though I had missed a crucial briefing. The conversation flowed like water over smooth stones, punctuated by laughter and thoughtful pauses, yet I remained perched on its periphery. I smiled, I nodded, but a constant undercurrent of uncertainty plagued me: when to speak, when to interject, when to offer an opinion. The gezelligheid was palpable, woven into the shared glances and the small, cryptic jokes that clearly predated my arrival. I was present, yet not truly within the circle; a guest observing a language of camaraderie I had not yet learned to speak.
I came to understand that gezelligheid is not a spontaneous occurrence. It is meticulously constructed over time, forged in the crucible of shared experiences and moments of vulnerability rarely extended to strangers. This is not to suggest the Dutch are unfriendly; they are not. Their friendliness, however, possesses a protective guard, a barrier that only those who have crossed a specific, intangible threshold are permitted to pass. This quality is what makes gezelligheid so potent, and in equal measure, so elusive. It is an invitation, certainly, though seldom an inclusive one. It resembles a private club, its doors opening only for those who have internalised its rules of conduct: those who know how to inhabit a silence comfortably, how to share a laugh without dominating the exchange, how to communicate acceptance through gestures almost imperceptible to the uninitiated.
And yet, there is a compelling depth to this quiet, guarded hospitality. Once you do secure your place within a group, once you have been genuinely accepted into the fold, the resulting sense of belonging is unspoken yet immensely powerful. It eliminates any need for overt declarations of affection or loud proclamations of friendship. Instead, the bond is woven through the subtlety of a shared space, a mutual respect for silence as much as for speech. It manifests in the simple act of pouring the wine, of ensuring every glass remains full, of quietly offering someone a better seat to view the sunset.
However, consistent with the broader Dutch societal framework, gezelligheid operates within fine parameters. It has no relation to loud, boisterous celebrations or grand displays of emotion. It is fundamentally about quietude, restraint, and the delicate equilibrium between communion and solitude. For those long-accustomed to its nuances, an easy familiarity defines the experience. For the newcomer, however, for the individual still learning the intricate steps of this subtle social dance, gezelligheid can feel distant, even quietly frustrating.
This duality encapsulates the Dutch way of life with remarkable precision. It is a society where emotional distance and genuine warmth coexist, two sides of the same polished coin. In a world where silence carries as much weight as conversation, and where a presence can be felt without a single word being spoken, gezelligheid operates as both an invitation and a gentle test. It is a space that feels comfortable precisely because it is familiar, yet it remains carefully curated, shaped by the very unspoken boundaries that constitute its core. Perhaps the true genius of gezelligheid resides in this intricate balance. It is about possessing the cultivated knowledge of how to be together, mastering the art of balancing closeness with a deep-seated respect for individual space.
Samenleven: The Social Contract Without the Clinginess
Samenleven. The Dutch concept of living together within a society. It describes a quietly sophisticated way of life that depends less on emotional closeness and more on an unspoken, almost contractual understanding between the individual and the collective. The foundation of this social contract is a faith in structure over sentiment. This faith extends from the personal sphere into the public realm, fundamentally shaping how the Dutch engage with social housing, healthcare, and taxation. These systems are not built on the tight-knit, familial camaraderie characteristic of Southern Europe, nor do they embody the cold, detached bureaucracy sometimes associated with Nordic countries. Instead, they reflect something inherently Dutch: a community that operates with reliability, dependability, and a surprising degree of restraint. It is as though society is held together not by overt emotional bonds, but by an invisible thread of mutual respect and shared responsibility.
From an external viewpoint, one might perceive the Dutch as a nation of meticulous social engineers, as if their model of community were drafted in a laboratory rather than emerging organically from the cobbled streets of Amsterdam. This is not to suggest a lack of empathy; rather, its expression avoids grand gestures or loud declarations of togetherness. The strength of their social fabric reveals itself in the quietly efficient administration of communal affairs. Public services — the healthcare system, social housing, and public transport — all function with a precision that in other nations might be misconstrued as impersonal. For the Dutch, however, these structures represent a direct extension of a value system that prioritises steadfast dependability over complex emotional entanglements.
Consider the undeniable pragmatism of the Dutch approach to housing. The objective transcends personal enrichment or extravagant luxury, focusing instead on the fundamental assurance that every individual has a roof overhead. The system is robust, yet it is entirely devoid of excess or ostentation. It embodies that characteristically Dutch sense of fairness — the principle that no one should be left behind. Even within this framework of generosity, there exists no expectation of deep emotional engagement. The purpose is to provide a reliable, functional base from which life can be built, rather than a canvas for personal expression or sentimental attachment. This is especially evident in social housing, where a home is understood as a place to live and rest, not an object for pouring out one’s soul. The emphasis remains fixed on efficiency, structure, and above all, a societal balance. While people’s homes are their own private domains, the underlying assumption is that collective stability ultimately outweighs individual self-expression.
A similar philosophy underpins the Dutch healthcare system. Eschewing both the chaotic market-driven model of American private healthcare and the idealism of a fully centralised state system, the Dutch approach is rooted in a firm belief in individual responsibility working in concert with communal well-being. This system functions effectively because, much like the housing model, it is built upon reliability and shared contribution instead of emotional engagement. The Dutch do not celebrate their healthcare with jubilant pride; they simply expect it to function without fail. A quiet, pervasive trust in the system — and in each other — prevails, a confidence that resources will be available when needed, coupled with a clear understanding of the obligation to contribute. It operates as a contract, not a gift, and its success stems from a cultural preference for dependability over sentimentality. You may never know your doctor on a personal level, but you know with certainty they will be there when required, and that assurance is what truly matters.
Taxation, too, operates according to this same logical framework. The Dutch perspective views taxes less as a financial imposition and more as an integral component of civic duty — a crucial cog in the machine that ensures everyone has the necessary foundation to live independently, without becoming a burden on others. Consequently, taxes are a source of acceptance rather than resentment. In the Dutch mindset, contributing to society is a shared privilege. This form of collectivism thrives on balance, efficiency, and shared purpose, rather than on emotional closeness or displays of gratitude. The system aims not to uplift specific individuals, but to guarantee that everyone operates from the same basic foundation. It is a pragmatic exchange, not an emotional relationship, and within that distinction resides its unique beauty.
Crucially, this social contract operates free from emotional strings. There is no expectation of a personal connection with the healthcare worker who treats you, or with the tax authority that processes your contribution. The need for small talk or effusive expressions of gratitude is absent. Instead, a tacit agreement prevails: everyone plays their part, and in return, everyone receives what they need to function. This represents a form of trust that relies not on emotional warmth, but on the inherent satisfaction derived from a system that simply works. While this might sound clinical to an outsider, there is a deeply human quality to it. What, after all, is a social contract if not a shared understanding that we are all in this together, even when we feel no need to constantly verbalise it?
In this manner, Dutch society prioritises the creation of a system where individual needs are met without the necessity for constant negotiation or exhausting emotional labour, rather than bonding over shared experiences or a common history. It is as though the Dutch have extracted the most effective elements of individualism and collectivism, fusing them into a pragmatic and highly effective system of governance. The nation’s social structure may lack the emotional intensity found in other cultures, but it offers a compensation of equal importance: unwavering reliability. You will not find grand displays of emotional intimacy or overt expressions of solidarity, but you will encounter a profound and steadfast sense of dependability. In the Dutch world, community has little to do with feeling; it is about structure, responsibility, and shared purpose. It is a social contract without the clinginess, a system that demands no emotional investment to function effectively. It works simply because it was built to, and because everyone consents to play their part. It stands as a quiet yet potent manifestation of what it means to live together in a society — achieved not through sentiment, but through sheer, unshakeable dependability.
The Loneliness of Belonging
In the Netherlands, community thrives on codes that prize fairness and efficiency, yet a subtle shadow lingers just beneath this well-ordered surface: the loneliness of belonging. This is a loneliness devoid of tragedy, arriving without the fanfare of great loss. It more closely resembles the delicate, almost imperceptible shift between silence and stillness. We feel silence; we only notice stillness in hindsight, when the movement of time has slowed sufficiently for it to seep into the edges of our awareness. This particular form of loneliness does not stem from a scarcity of people; it flourishes within the spaces between individuals, in those quiet moments where we acknowledge that even within a society celebrated for its fairness, something fundamental remains perpetually unspoken.
The Dutch way of life, with its steadfast commitment to individual responsibility and collective function, undoubtedly fosters a deep, structural sense of belonging. There is a distinct comfort in knowing that everyone plays their part, that robust systems exist to ensure support and equity. However, the very strength of these systems can simultaneously cultivate a pervasive sense of emotional distance. It is a community where individuals understand their place within the structure, yet often remain uncertain of their position in relation to one another. The formality of social contracts or the curated gezelligheid of a shared dinner may offer warmth, yet it is a warmth that functions more as a layer of insulation than an open flame. The room itself may be warm, but the people within it often maintain a reserve that belies true closeness. The gap between their physical presence and their emotional connection can be quietly, deeply unsettling.
Language serves as a significant architect of this emotional distance. Dutch is a tongue that champions precision, efficiency, and directness. It values unambiguous meaning over ornate expression, frequently leaving the softer, more nuanced edges of human emotion unexplored. Within a culture that prizes understatement, where the effort to articulate deeper feelings can seem almost excessive, a kind of emotional minimalism takes root. Conversations tend to bypass the complexities of internal states, focusing instead on practical necessities and actionable items. There is an undeniable beauty in this simplicity, a practicality that streamlines daily existence. Yet, there is also something disquieting in the unspoken consensus that emotional expression is a resource to be deployed only when strictly necessary. Deeper sharing is reserved for a trusted few or for moments of rare vulnerability. It is precisely within these quiet, unarticulated spaces that loneliness finds its most fertile ground.
Friendship in the Netherlands often germinates from shared purpose rather than shared sentiment. The Dutch generally do not burden one another with excessive emotional weight, a restraint that can be a gift in many contexts. There is no expectation of constant validation, no pressing need for repeated reassurance of affection or care. In its place, however, a quiet emptiness can emerge; not one of neglect, but of absence. It is the absence of those small, unscripted rituals of care that make a person feel truly seen. It is the absence of the expressive warmth that characterises relationships in more demonstrative cultures. Here, friendship is defined less by emotional depth and more by mutual respect and a quiet, functional understanding. While there is something inherently noble in this arrangement, there is also an undeniable loneliness. One can be entirely surrounded by people, securely embedded within a system that values connection, and still feel like a perpetual outsider, observing as others navigate the structures of community without ever being invited into their emotional core.
This pervasive emotional distance often manifests as a sense of personal failing rather than a recognised cultural norm. In a society that values stoicism and self-sufficiency, the softer edges of one’s emotions — the quiet yearning for connection, the desire for deeper engagement — can feel misplaced. It can make an individual feel ‘too much,’ excessively soft in a culture that prizes resilience over vulnerability. For someone like myself, raised in an environment where emotional expression was a carefully guarded currency, this creates a distinct dissonance. Dutch directness, while refreshing in its clarity, can feel jarring in its unvarnished delivery. Yet it also reflects a culture that consciously refuses to overcomplicate the human experience. In a world where individuals are expected to be self-contained, the cultivated vulnerability nurtured in other societies can appear unwarranted, even out of place.
Importantly, this emotional distance should not be mistaken for coldness. It is, instead, a reflection of a national temperament that guards its internal life with meticulous care. The Dutch may demonstrate more reserve than their Mediterranean counterparts, but their particular form of warmth is embedded in the very structure of their society, rather than in effusive social interactions. You may seldom hear a Dutch person express love overtly, but you will experience it in the seamless operation of a public system, in the space quietly made for everyone, in the notable absence of emotional fuss. This is a community that demonstrates its care through unwavering reliability. Yet it is also a community that, for all its dependability, can leave one wishing for a little more. A little more softness at the edges. A little more room for emotional ebb and flow. A little more genuine connection.
In the final analysis, the loneliness of belonging has little to do with being alone. It is about the quiet, pervasive sense of not quite being seen, not quite being known, even as you stand shoulder to shoulder with others in a well-ordered queue. The Dutch way of life prioritises functionality over intimacy, and within that impeccable functionality, the fundamental human desire for emotional depth can sometimes vanish into the cracks. It is a loneliness that never clamours for attention, but instead hums persistently beneath the surface, a gentle yet constant reminder that even in the most meticulously organised of societies, the most essential things are often left unsaid.
Between Canals and Curtainless Windows
A stroll along the Amsterdam canals unfolds as a quiet, perpetual performance. The streets are meticulously composed, a staged set where each house is perfectly framed by the water’s edge, its façade crisp and clean, as though freshly rendered on an artist’s easel. It is a beauty that commands a pause, not through any demand for attention, but through its unassuming and effortless composition. Yet, behind the perfectly aligned windows and the immaculate gardens, there persists a peculiar sensation of being kept at a distance, of an invitation extended only as a formality.
Each residence reveals itself in a manner that feels curiously impersonal, as if the permission to observe were granted by cultural decree rather than by any genuine desire for connection. The windows, those clear portals into the private sphere, offer not the warmth of familiarity, but a sensation suspended between a glimpse and a deliberate withholding. Inside, one discerns the soft glow of lamps, the polished corners of living rooms, the orderly arrangement of furniture all carefully curated yet devoid of anything unrefined. There exists a distinct openness, a transparency, yet it is an openness that remains firmly behind a door locked with impeccable politeness.
In the Netherlands, openness is a practised mantra. The Dutch cherish their transparency; their homes are visibly accessible, their rules explicitly clear, their systems ruthlessly efficient. However, this very openness possesses the curious effect of creating distance instead of fostering connection. It is less a lack of privacy than its presentation in a conspicuously public form. The outside world may observe every possession, yet none of it is offered freely. The curtains are indeed often drawn wide, yet the rooms within remain as tidy and impersonal as a postcard — poised, perfect, and utterly remote. A certain coolness pervades this domestic transparency, as though the home, while not concealed, is nonetheless vigilantly guarded. The physical walls may be invisible, but the emotions residing within them are held firmly, resolutely in place.
The gardens, too, participate in this delicate choreography of public privacy. One finds no wildness here, no untamed edges or flowers spilling rebelliously over fences. Lawns are shorn to millimetrical precision, hedges sculpted into severe formations, and flowers arranged with geometric exactness. Every element occupies its designated place. Despite the undeniable beauty of this outward display, an air of profound restraint lingers. These gardens are for viewing, never for exploring. It is as though the wild heart of nature has been subdued into polite submission. You may walk past, you may admire the composition, but you are forbidden from touch. In a curious way, this mirrors the emotional landscape of Dutch society itself: you may witness it, you may move alongside it, but to truly enter requires a permission that may never be granted.
This very tension between visibility and inaccessibility defines the Dutch conception of privacy. The transparency of the windows, the fastidiousness of the gardens, even the codes of public conduct, all point toward a culture that appears to offer itself freely, yet does so exclusively on its own terms. The Dutch, much like their homes, are curated to an exacting standard — composed, elegant, and entirely in control of what they reveal and when. The personal becomes a commodity that is shared, but never one you are permitted to handle.
It is a delicate equilibrium, this offering of openness without the accompanying warmth. One might describe it as a form of emotional architecture, a precise calibration of how much can be seen while ensuring nothing can be touched. The windows are thrown wide, the vista through them flawless, yet the implicit message is not an invitation to enter. It is a space where privacy is both displayed and defended, a paradox where the absence of curtains functions as a boundary.
In this manner, such openness transforms into a kind of performance, one staged not for an audience, but for the self. Dutch culture, in its insistence on privacy within transparency, positions the emotional landscape at a deliberate remove. This is not about secrecy, nor is it about concealment; it is about the controlled release of the self. Like the canals that wind through the city, the Dutch have mastered the art of allowing life to flow visibly before you, while ensuring its depths remain untouched. You may look, you may admire, but you cannot enter. The homes lining the canals are more than mere buildings; they are metaphors for a way of living, a way of being: perpetually visible, yet always, decisively, out of reach.
Walking past these quiet façades, I cannot help but feel a perpetual visitor in a place that invites my gaze without ever offering a seat at the table. It is a strange dissonance, this feeling of being part of a scene while remaining entirely removed from its essence. The streets, the houses, the gardens — all exist within this paradox. They present their beauty, their design, their rhythm to the world, yet they never ask for anything in return. It is a particular form of loneliness, meticulously wrapped in clarity. And within this, I discern a strange and compelling beauty. The kind that can be seen, acknowledged, but never, ever touched.
The Dutch way constitutes an invitation devoid of the comfort of closeness. It is a culture that permits you to stand on the outside and look in, yet makes the act of crossing the threshold a complex negotiation. It is openness, certainly. But it is also an emotional distance that, much like the flawlessly polished windows of a Dutch home, leaves one perpetually wondering what truly resides behind the glass.
What the Dutch Teach Us (And What They Risk Losing)
The lessons the Dutch offer the world are far from trivial. There is a remarkable grace in a culture that refuses to obsess over external validation. In a global climate increasingly intoxicated by spectacle, the Dutch present a compelling counterpoint: systems that function with reliability, streets governed by a foundation of mutual trust, and neighbours who respect boundaries yet will unfailingly offer practical aid when a roof begins to leak. Their society is architected with a quiet, formidable intelligence — functional, equitable, and unpretentious, all underpinned by a commitment to decency that requires no public applause to feel authentic. There is a distinct dignity in the Dutch manner of moving through life without the compulsion to be seen as exceptional. Furthermore, there is a deep emotional wisdom in their capacity to feel without theatrical display, to disagree without manufactured drama, and to contribute to the collective without needing to personally claim the result.
However, a critical question emerges when the celebration of normalcy solidifies into an unyielding ceiling. What occurs when humility hardens into a rigid cultural orthodoxy? The inherent risk is not an explosion of flamboyance or chaos; such excesses rarely take root in such meticulously ordered soil. The genuine peril is that in the zealous protection of modesty, a society might inadvertently forget the essential value of intensity. Passion, unbridled ambition, and creative eccentricity are not inherent flaws in a healthy social fabric; they are the very oxygen that allows a culture to evolve and adapt. The philosophy of doe maar gewoon, while noble in its intent, can transform into a softly-spoken gatekeeper — one that excludes not danger, but the very depth that gives life its richness. It repels the kind of generative difference that historically propels culture forward.
It is a beautiful thing, undoubtedly, to belong to a place that operates with such seamless efficiency, where one need not shout to be heard or perpetually market their own worth. Yet even the most perfect beauty requires movement, lest it begin to stagnate under the weight of its own stillness. Thus, the pressing question remains, pertinent not only to the Dutch but to any society built upon a foundation of quiet competence: is there sufficient room within this calm, this correctness, these curated windows and silent dinners, for those whose internal fires burn a little brighter? Does the architecture of the Dutch normal possess the flexibility to accommodate, and even celebrate, those who are, by their very nature, a little extraordinary?
S xoxo
Written in Amsterdam, Netherlands
26th April 2025