My previous visit to the Netherlands had been in the era of the Dutch guilder and a sense of Dutch freedom. Now, returning after so many years, the monetary currency was euros, and the cultural currency was lockdowns, face masks, and QR codes. Dutch sovereignty and freedom had taken a beating—this time from within.
When the train stopped in Bunnik, my compartment was the farthest from the platform. As I stepped out, I saw a silhouette in the distance waving at me. It was Angelique, dressed entirely in black, her long raincoat resembling a cape and a wide-brimmed black hat atop her head. For a moment, I felt transported to one of those Zorro-esque Sandeman commercials from my childhood in the Netherlands. The scene was mysterious, much like my long-distance friendship with Angelique. As I walked toward her, each step brought clarity—her long, blonde hair became more noticeable. Angelique stood tall. She was unmistakably Dutch.
I pulled a small suitcase behind me, and just as I released it to hug her, she swiftly fist-bumped me with her black leather glove and said in Dutch, “Helaas, dit is alles wat we kunnen doen”—“Unfortunately, this is all we can do.”
Stunned by the cold greeting, I masked my disbelief with a stoic expression and followed Angelique to her car. As she made small talk, I couldn’t shake the thought: After all these years and shared experiences, she greets me with a fist-bump?
Once inside her car, I wondered if Angelique truly believed the corona hysteria. If so, why wasn’t she wearing a mask? And why had she invited me to stay the night at her place? It made no sense.
What I hadn’t told Angelique was that I had reservations at a local hotel. Her cold fist-bump had given me cold feet, and I was leaning toward staying at the hotel for my own space.
As Angelique began driving, I mentioned my hotel reservation. She flinched and said she had already arranged everything for me to spend the night at her home. She asked me to visit her place before deciding. I agreed, wondering if I had judged her too hastily.
At her home, she showed me the room she had prepared, which belonged to her son, now away at college. Everything was neatly organized, and I felt obliged to stay. Angelique called the hotel and canceled my reservation.
We ate lunch in her kitchen, and to my delight, Angelique had bought North Sea herring. Afterward, we took a long walk through the Dutch meadows behind her home. I felt blessed to be back on Dutch soil. When we returned, she offered me a beer and potato chips—my favorite combination. Then the topic of vaccinations came up.
I mentioned a Dutch official at Schiphol Airport asking if I had been vaccinated. I found this surprising, as I believed the Dutch were more sober than Americans about corona policies. In the U.S., people seemed hypnotized by the news media. I had witnessed masked individuals darting across streets, panicked by approaching pedestrians—a scene reminiscent of a Rod Serling Twilight Zone episode.
Ironically, it was the Dutch political opposition to government lockdowns and QR codes that had inspired my return to the Netherlands. From Dutch media, I learned of a philosophical movement against the government’s corona policies. I was impressed by Thierry Baudet and Gideon van Meijeren of the FVD party. They challenged not only the government’s “science” but also its edicts eroding people’s freedoms in the name of “public health.” Most strikingly, they opposed mandates on moral and constitutional grounds.
In the United States, no politician articulated it as they did. The boldest American politicians would say, “I strongly recommend getting vaccinated, but it should be a choice.” This lacked the conviction needed to restore freedoms. Many so-called American “constitutional scholars” were either silent or advocated punishing non-compliance with draconian laws. The world seemed upside-down.
Suddenly, democratically elected governments had become rulers. The government held all the rights, while the people were left with occasional privileges. “Freedoms” now hinged on fluctuating government statistics—tallied, defined, and controlled solely by the state. At least, that’s how I saw it.
I hadn’t shared these thoughts with Angelique, but as I sipped my beer, I expressed surprise at the inconsistent corona policies. Weeks before my arrival, no corona test was required; then suddenly, one was. One day, the U.S. was a “safe” country; the next, the EU deemed it wasn’t. Quarantine rules for U.S. citizens shifted daily.
Angelique seemed uninterested in my observations. I tried to pique her curiosity by mentioning absurd policies, like California’s wet/dry sand rule. During lockdowns, people were arrested for sitting on dry beach sand but permitted to walk on wet sand along the shore—all in the name of “science.”
But these ironies didn’t engage her. She stared blankly, then asked why I wasn’t vaccinated. I explained that I believed natural immunity was superior to vaccines. She reluctantly agreed but claimed vaccinated people wouldn’t become seriously ill if infected. I countered that most hospitalized patients were vaccinated. When she asked if I was an “anti-vaxxer,” I clarified that I wasn’t against vaccines but questioned the COVID vaccine’s effectiveness and safety. Angelique looked away, paused, and said she needed to go upstairs.
When she returned minutes later, she said in a controlled, calm tone that she was extremely angry and that I couldn’t spend the night in her home. When I asked if it was because of my views on corona mandates, she confirmed it was. I offered to listen to her perspective, but she refused to explain. Her decision was final.
Just two hours earlier, she had greeted me with a fist-bump, and now she was boot-bumping me out of her house.
Minutes later, Angelique was driving me to the Postillion Hotel, calling to “uncancel” my reservation while effectively canceling me as a person.
We exchanged no words during the drive. I stared through the windshield, wondering when Angelique had lost her humanity. To think she was a lecturer on “medical ethics” in the Netherlands—the world truly was upside-down.
But then, the Angelique I remembered never had firm convictions and always avoided controversy. She was preoccupied with how others perceived her. Once, I tried discussing politics casually, and she said we couldn’t because we weren’t “educated” in the field. I found that odd then and still do. Why couldn’t we engage with our own thoughts? Why did we need credentials?
Growing up in the Netherlands, I was a mediocre student, while Angelique attended the elite Atheneum high school and prestigious universities. Her social circle consisted of high-standing academics.
Angelique seemed to believe her academic standing granted her the moral high ground, requiring no reasoning or discussion. I wondered: if she was so well-educated and a genuinely good person, why didn’t she help me understand the truth? Why not explain my errors or show me the light?
Both Angelique and I came from modest backgrounds, but her mother encouraged her to climb into higher social circles. Her marriage and friendships reflected this ambition. This class consciousness is common in Dutch society.
Much of it stems from the Dutch caste system, still ingrained in its culture. The Dutch government seems to exist primarily for the royal family and the elite. The monarchy’s justification rests on pedigree and superior social standing. The Dutch media, politicians, and high society are its biggest cheerleaders.
Ironically, the Dutch preach equality, yet their culture remains rooted in a caste system. The monarchy and political-media elite lecture the working class on “diversity” and “equality” while praising newly arrived immigrants as somehow more virtuous. This feels like a modern “divide and conquer” strategy to maintain power.
I first met Angelique in 1986 at a café across from the railroad station in Leeuwarden, Friesland. I had arrived with my date, Jacqueline, and as we sat down, my eyes met those of an elegant young man I recognized: Ronald van Blanken. We had both attended the LDS high school (Lagere Detail Handel School) in Leeuwarden. He was dating Angelique. Hours later, we were all drinking coffee at Angelique’s home in Franeker, where her mother, Rita, offered Ronald and me small cigars while asking about my father, whose apartment was a football field away.
Weeks later, after returning to the U.S., Angelique wrote to tell me that my father and her mother had met and fallen in love. They were together for nearly 20 years until my father’s death in 2005.
About my father: As a teenage boy during World War II, he was captured and forced to work in a German weapons factory. He escaped and walked back to Franeker. His best friend, Wijtse Vlietstra, and he—both from working-class backgrounds—became successful through hard work and were well-known in Franeker. My father became an international art dealer, and Wijtse owned a large window-washing company.
When we reached the hotel, I retrieved my suitcase from the trunk and walked toward the lobby. Angelique stood by the car, seemingly offended that I didn’t say goodbye, despite her ejecting me from her home. At the reception desk, I glanced back and saw her still in the car. Moments later, she was gone. So was our friendship.