Photo by Noppasin Wongchum/Shutterstock
Amsterdam is famous for its canals that come alive with tulips during springtime.
AFAR chose a destination at random and sent CNN political commentator Sally Kohn on 24 hours’ notice to a city renowned for its “coffee shops” but where tolerance has its limits.
This story is part of Travel Tales, a series of life-changing adventures on afar.com. Read more stories of transformative trips on the Travel Tales home page—and be sure to subscribe to the podcast! And, though COVID-19 has stalled many travel plans, we hope our stories can offer inspiration for your future adventures—and a bit of hope.
“Did you know the coffee shops are technically illegal?”
I’m in Amsterdam sitting in a café—not a coffee shop, a very important difference, one quickly learns—having lunch with a friend of a friend. She points at a coffee shop across the street.
“Technically they can’t sell marijuana, but they’re allowed to anyway.” She shrugs. “It’s tolerated.”
The Dutch, I will be told repeatedly throughout my five days in Amsterdam, take great pride in being tolerant. Five minutes later, my very liberal and enlightened coffee date is verbally bashing Muslims.
When I first found out I was going to Amsterdam, I thought I had been there before, even though I hadn’t, because I’m not very good at geography, and I thought Amsterdam was in Belgium. It’s not. It’s in the Netherlands and, according to some hasty Internet research before my departure, is mostly known for two things—bicycles and cheese.
“There’s a whole town in the Netherlands called Gouda,” I told friends the evening before I left. “Maybe I’ll go there.” I read the Dutch pronounce it more like how-duh. I wondered how they pronounced it in Belgium.
A friend who had just visited Amsterdam offered a string of museum and restaurant recommendations, and then wrote, “Also, be ready to see lots of blackface, because Black Pete is one of their Christmas characters and he is everywhere. It’s very uncomfortable.” Come again?
As though niceness, the desire to be tolerant, could wash away history.
I should say here that one of the reasons I was excited to be going to Amsterdam was that I remembered going to Brussels—in Belgium!—in college, during the same pre-Christmas window, and drowning in the awesomeness of the city’s Christmas market. OK, so Amsterdam isn’t in Belgium, but it must still have a Christmas market, right? Fried dough and hot beverages, here I come! Or not. The week before Christmas, flailing through Amsterdam on two wheels, I was the Jewish schmuck riding around waving and saying “Merry Christmas” to quizzical-looking Dutch folk. According to my guidebook, 60 percent of Amsterdam’s citizenry identifies as nonreligious, and apparently practitioners of Islam outnumber those of other faiths. In other words, no Christmas market.
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This makes Zwarte Piet all the more shocking. In this Dutch tradition, a few weeks before Christmas, a Santa character visits kids all over the country, accompanied by a group of Black Petes—helpers portrayed by white people in blackface with kinky black wigs and bright red lips. Zwarte Piet has been around for more than a century but has become more and more controversial in recent years, inspiring protests and chants of “Zwarte Piet is racisme.” Yet this supposedly very liberal and nonreligious country, with a deeply troubled history on race, continues to cling with a viselike grip to a holiday tradition of blackface minstrels. Why?
Back home, the United States was embroiled in a deep and sadly divisive debate about racial justice—prompted specifically by the multiple killings of unarmed young black men by police officers, and, more broadly, highlighting disparities of opportunity and basic dignity. I left my home in New York as the death of Eric Garner, and the subsequent failure to indict the officer whose choke hold caused his demise, sparked mass protests and demonstrations all over the city. What a relief, a white friend half guiltily suggested, to go to über-tolerant Amsterdam, where they’ve already solved “that stuff.”
Except for the blackface part.
In the misty rain that fell during most of my December trip, I pedaled to Noorderkerk, a stunning, 17th-century octagonal church that I imagine now sees more congregants for its Saturday organic market and classical music concerts than for its Protestant worship services. I attached my bike to a guardrail along the Prinsengracht and, my hands slippery from the rain, almost lost my bike keys to the canal. I wondered if it was this rainy in Belgium.
At the market, I met up with another friend of a friend, a white Franco-American expat named Olivier. He bought me a glass of buttermilk, which was just as lumpy and sour as buttermilk always is, insisting that Dutch people drink it like soda pop. I find this very hard to believe. I choked down as much as I could manage before returning my glass either half full or half empty, depending on your perspective, to the less-than-impressed-looking farm woman working the dairy stand. In between bites of the fried herring and pea soup that I was also talked into, the expat tried to explain Zwarte Piet to me.
“Of course it’s racist to us,” Olivier said, since we were both Americans, “but it’s hard to label the Dutch racist, because they don’t have the same understanding of race.” In fact, he explained, many Dutch people think of racism as an American invention. During my trip, I did meet a few Amsterdammers who, when they were students, had learned about their country’s significant role in the slave trade—as the primary country shipping human beings from West Africa to Brazil, Suriname, Guyana, and several Spanish colonies—during the 17th, 18th, and 19th centuries. In all, this tiny country was responsible for an estimated 5 to 7 percent of the entire Atlantic slave trade. Yet some Dutch told me that this history is just not taught in the schools.
Tolerance a few yards from its opposite. The contradictions of Amsterdam, captured in a few turns of the wheels on my bike.
A few blocks away, Olivier showed me a playground where someone had spray-painted Zwarte Piet is racisme; someone else had crossed out the word racisme and written nice. As though niceness, the desire to be tolerant, could wash away history—or hurt—like so much rain.
Exploring Amsterdam, I did a bunch of touristy things I figured I should do. I went to the sleek and modern Stedelijk Museum and found a stand that sold oliebollen, the Dutch version of fried dough balls dusted with powdered sugar, which tasted great even without a surrounding Christmas market. Still, while travel inherently offers an opportunity to step out of your usual routine and look at your life and home country differently, it’s not as though you become a different person on vacation. Inevitably, the good and bad parts of your core identity travel right along with you, like an invisible extra piece of luggage. In my case, I could not escape my identity as a columnist who views the world through a political lens. I got on social media and started reaching out to political activists in Amsterdam.
Conveniently, one of the country’s leading Muslim political figures, Tofik Dibi, was already following me on Twitter. I messaged him, and we arranged to meet for dinner.
I pedaled again in the drizzle to a massive parking garage, a tower of concrete perched on the edge of another canal, which struck me, not unlike the Noorderkerk, as a church for another religion not really practiced here. I locked my bike, carefully keeping the keys facing away from the canal this time, and slipped behind the parking deck ramp to Waterkant, a popular Surinamese restaurant, reportedly home to an especially bustling nightlife in the summertime. Inside, the decor was dangling strands of bright lights, tiny table tents with beer advertisements, and the kind of wooden crisscross siding you find on a deck—exactly what I imagined a beachside bar might be like on the northern coast of South America. Except, at least on the night I was there, the restaurant didn’t seem to have any waitstaff actually from Suriname, the former colony and hub of the Dutch slavery industry. The roti was scrumptious, nonetheless.
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“Tolerance is the Netherlands’ main export,” Tofik told me, “but it’s an illusion. Or a delusion. The Netherlands is not actually that tolerant.” Tofik gave an example close to his experience—the rise of Islamophobia. In the Netherlands, it should be noted, Muslim fundamentalists are a small minority of the Muslim population—as they are, ahem, in most places. But after September 11th and the 2004 murder of Theo van Gogh—a provocateur filmmaker whose anti-Islam film, Submission, made him infamous—all the country’s Muslims were under scrutiny, Tofik said. “Before September 11th, I wasn’t seen as Muslim, you know? But since then, I feel it’s all I’m seen as; as if I constantly need to prove I’m not plotting something.”Paris, which happened after my trip, further darkened that cloud.
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