The Complexity and Simplicity of Identity

Surinamese, Black, Jewish, and Universally Human in the Netherlands

Memoir

THE COMPLEXITY AND SIMPLICITY OF IDENTITY: SURINAMESE, BLACK, JEWISH, AND UNIVERSALLY HUMAN IN THE NETHERLANDS

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Fiction

An excerpt from the new novel, Spanking: Adventures of a naughty Surinamese.

Henk Bakboord

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The Complexity and Simplicity of Identity: Surinamese, Black, Jewish and Universally Human in the Netherlands

My early life

I can only speak for myself in this memoir. I’m not speaking for people I don’t know, or on behalf of a “community.” During my life there have been a number of developments with respect to the nature of racism in my home country, the Netherlands. What I will relate are strictly my personal experiences. They will show, nevertheless, that major changes are discernible between the way things were in the 1970s and 1980s and how they are now.

I was born in Suriname. My background is black and Jewish. (Through genealogical research, I’ve found Jewish ancestors going back to 1545.) I grew up in the Netherlands in the 1960s and 1970s. Racism then was a common, overt phenomenon. I didn’t even dare to go into some neighborhoods because of my race.

Every now and then a racist incident took place in my immediate living environment in Amsterdam. For example, I was not allowed to visit one of my friends’ houses because his mother “didn’t know me.” Sometimes I was spontaneously insulted in the street. This was done by types who were regarded as “weird eccentrics.” Throughout the neighborhood they were ignored.

These incidents occurred in a place where the local residents generally got on well with each other. Almost all of my classmates from primary school lived in the area. To this day I call their parents and other elderly residents Uncle Piet, Aunt Annie, Uncle Rinus, or Aunt Alie. In general, despite the occasional, spontaneous insults and my consciousness of racism, I always experienced my environment as harmonious.

My primary school period transitioned seamlessly into high school. The young people who attended the Amstelland High School were a reflection of my neighborhood. Almost all of my classmates had an older brother or sister attending that school.

After this period I attended Het Amsterdams Lyceum, a school for higher secondary education with a mostly white population. It offered a very good educational environment with a lot of attention to athletics, the arts, culture, and literature. 

Of the approximately 900 students, the dark-skinned kids could be counted on the fingers of two hands. Nevertheless, I got on well with my fellow students. My ethnic background didn’t matter. We simply didn’t talk about it: it was of no importance. What we did talk about were our common interests: music, movies, entertainment, and sports.  I felt right at home in their company. To this day I maintain good contact with my former Lyceum friends.

The parents of my schoolmates were mostly (performing) artists, famous TV personalities, doctors, and liberal professionals. They were freethinkers: well-read and well-traveled people with independent and open-minded views. During visits and even holidays, I had countless conversations with them about the ‘Free Spirit,’ free enterprise, and everything related to it. They took no part in groupthink and thought the most important thing was to strive for harmony with oneself. I soaked up their ideas like a sponge.

As I matured and joined in the Amsterdam nightlife, I became acquainted with young Moroccan and Turkish men, all with the same unadulterated flat Amsterdam accent. Rachid called himself ‘Richard,’ Mehmet was ‘Henry,’ Rami became ‘Ron’ and Achmed and Abdelsalam were simply ‘Aggie and Appie.’ None of them cared about stifling religious conventions: they smoked and drank openly. Unfortunately, I never asked them why they appropriated Dutch names. It simply didn’t occur to me. In the nightlife culture, they were accepted as “average Dutch boys.” By this time, in this mid-1980s, our multicultural society seemed to have become very successful. There were no, or hardly any, significant incidents of a racial nature, beyond what I shall now relate.

Racism in the Netherlands

I consider racism to be a worldwide phenomenon. No one is exempt from it. It can affect anyone, anywhere.

The early 1970s saw the rise of the first post-war extreme right-wing Nederlandse Volksunie (Dutch People’s Union), an openly racist political party that gained quite a following. My father bought the Nieuwe Revue Magazine, which included an interview with the party leader, Joop Glimmerveen. Our response to that interview was a sense of having been suddenly defeated. I said, “Oh my God, how intense this is! How many people will think the same way he does?” Then my father slapped his hand on the table: “No, this is only a marginal group, this is not typical of the white Dutch population!”

The low point in this period was the 1983 murder of Kerwin Duinmeijer, a 15-year-old Antillean boy who was stabbed by a skinhead in Amsterdam. He died on Dam Square in the heart of Amsterdam, after a taxi driver refused to take him to hospital because he didn't want blood in the back seat of his taxi.

This first racist murder of the post-war period moved me deeply. Apart from the tragedy this murder inflicted on the victim and his loved ones, the killing was for me personally a low point, capping a series of episodes of harassment, bulling, and impertinent comments to which I felt that I, as a young black man, could not respond because if I did, I would be seen as “aggressive.”

I admit it. I rounded up a few other dark-skinned boys: “We’ll pay them back: enough is enough! Now it’s our turn!” We even went out for a day, on a skinhead hunt. We came across a few—the eight of us, the four of them. But when I saw the terror in the eyes of one of those skinhead boys. I said, “Guys, stop. This isn’t going anywhere. We shouldn’t do this.” In the end, we let them go.

If any good came of Kerwin Duinmeijer’s murder, it was that the resulting shockwave resulted in many white Dutch people opening their eyes, and asking themselves, “Has this country sunk so low? This must stop.”

If we look at the past twenty or thirty years, we see an acceptance among white Dutch people that people of color also live in the Netherlands. We call ourselves Dutch, feel Dutch, and have a bond with the country. Due to this acceptance, extreme right-wing parties hardly have a foothold here anymore. The Netherlands has changed since the 1970s and early 1980s.

Unlike a few decades ago, one can no longer say, “I want the Netherlands to become totally white.” That’s crazy, it’s delusional, because too many people of color consider this country their home and too many white Dutch people are happy to have us as fellow citizens.

However, there is a subtle form of racism described by British author and political activist Maajid Nawaz as “the racism of low expectations.” The Dutch term for this is Betuttelracisme (roughly translated, “cuddle-racism”). We see this phenomenon in so-called progressive, left-wing circles.

The patronizing racist means well. He has lived in Africa or Asia for a year or two and believes he “knows all about non-Western cultures.” He associates non-Western cultures with cheerful or melancholy dance music, colorful clothing, exotic dishes, boundless hospitality, nice shops, and restaurants. But if you point out possible downsides to him, he immediately calls you racist or xenophobic, which silences any discussion: after all, entering into a dialogue with racists and xenophobes is simply not done.

“Cuddle-racism” is a form of racism based on the belief that people of color lack the ability to advance themselves. One component of it is the “white savior” complex. This is found among white liberals who, without even once asking colored people about their vision or ideas, still think they know what is good for them. Universities and colleges lowering their standards to attract people of color—it all sounds inclusive and nice, but at the end it is racism with a smile.

As long as you keep yourself in a dependent position as a person of color, the patronizing racist is happy. But as soon as a person of color dares to speak out and express his own wishes and perspectives, the patronizing racist’s true nature comes out: false, mean, and cunning. I once said—and this has not made me popular—that I would rather have a die-hard racist facing me than a patronizing racist. At least with the first sort you know where they stand.

There certainly are racists and xenophobes out there, cuddle racists and die-hards alike. However, calling a particular individual a racist or a xenophobe is a serious accusation that, from my point of view, one must not undertake lightly. Otherwise, terrible things can happen: in The Netherlands a politician, Pim Fortuyn, was assassinated on May 6th 2002, only 9 days before the National Elections, after being accused repeatedly of racism and xenophobia. 

The U.S. and Europe

Black people in America have shared one country and nation with whites for generations: they speak the same language, in more ways than one. The Americas are a melting pot of immigrant cultures that have influenced each other in every possible way. It sounds really weird when a white American with a last name like Kowalski or Levantino tells a black person with a last name like Washington or Jefferson to “Go back to Africa!”

As the black American writer Albert Murray said half a century ago, in his book The Omni-Americans:

[T]he United States is in actuality not a nation of black people and white people. It is a nation of multicolored people. There are white Americans so to speak and black Americans. But any fool can see that the white people are not really white, and that the black people are not black. They are all interrelated one way or another.

The melting pot is what makes American culture unique in the world.

However, this does not diminish the fact that there has been plenty of racism and discrimination.

In Europe, because of the millennia-long “white” past, things are slightly different. Until, say, sixty years ago, you could call Europe more or less homogeneously “white.” People of color in today’s Europe are immigrants, foreign workers (whether from former colonies or not) who have settled there. They come from all over the world and are therefore called “newcomers”—people who do not have their roots in Europe. But here too, European traditions and customs are changing. This goes both ways. Over the years, many newcomers and their descendants have put down roots in the Netherlands and the rest of Europe.

Surinamese immigrants in the Netherlands

I can’t speak for the other nationalities, so I will focus on immigrants from Suriname. Based on my own observations, Surinamese migrants can be divided into three groups. The first group are those who have adopted and embraced their new country, though without speaking out about it; they do so by simply participating in Dutch society. They are integrated into the society and have no illusions of someday “returning home.” They have put down roots in the Netherlands.

The second group are those who feel trapped between two cultures. This group has an immense longing for Suriname. But of course that country has changed a lot since their departure, so that they cannot really feel at home either back there or in The Netherlands. This phenomenon is a major stumbling block for integration and presents the dilemma of being a foreigner in one’s country of arrival and one’s country of origin.

Remigrants, the third group, usually make it back in Suriname: they have often spent significant time there and have built up something of a network in the run-up to their remigration. Most of them succeed. However, having lived in Dutch culture for a long time, some of them face problems adjusting. They are often accused of having a mentality that is “too Dutch.” Furthermore, having to (re-)integrate into a community with completely different norms and values ​​often leads to frustrations. Some eventually return to the Netherlands.

Misplaced victimhood

What I notice among some Surinamese in the Netherlands is the so-called “victim culture.” People who constantly see themselves as victims get on the defensive, even when they haven’t been attacked. My late mother compared this to crying before you get hit. She absolutely couldn’t stand it and would give you a good slap, saying, “Well, now you’ve got something to cry about!”

Misplaced victimhood, however, is not necessarily linked to racism; it is much broader—people who think they are victims of the government, of the global conspiracy, of their partner, of their employer, etc. Yet a victim’s role leads to nothing: it’s like a cat chasing its own tail. Even if beautiful things also happen to them, victim-thinkers will always feel like victims, no matter what social position they hold.

Imagined victimization also has a dangerous side. Sometimes it leads to atrocities. The Nazis saw themselves as “victims of international Jewry,” ISIS sees Muslims as “victims” of the Western imperialist powers, and Anders Breivik saw Europe as a “victim” of the Social Democrats.

The Present

I am now almost sixty and single, with a daughter who is 13. She lives with her mother and I see her two or three times a week. Things weren't going well for me after we broke up. The situation was not easy and I walked around aimlessly. I gave dance lessons to young children—this is my regular job—on autopilot.

Through Twitter I came into contact with creative people with whom I could find a virtual connection. One of these was the eccentric Dutch writer, journalist, and publicist Arthur van Amerongen. In mid-March 2020 he invited me to meet in person at the annual alternative Festival of Books. We immediately clicked. I also got to meet many other interesting creative characters that I knew from Twitter.

Inspired by all these people, I also wanted to write, but about what?

It suddenly occurred to me that I still had something on an old computer. It was the set-up for a book called I Am Ready, named after a techno track. This short manuscript, which I had written with an ex-girlfriend, was based on true events. The story is about friendship, fidelity, and loyalty, against the backdrop of the Amsterdam Underground Kinky scene from the mid-’90s. We had been part of that scene for about five years.

Touched by these adventures during this lively and special period, my then-girlfriend and I decided a few years later to write down our experiences. This resulted in a short manuscript of fifty pages. But once we broke up, the story was never completed.

So after a long search, I found this manuscript on an old computer. I wanted to cheer! In about five days I had edited the short manuscript. Both Arthur and his publisher Otto Wollring were enthusiastic about it; they decided to do business with me and publish my story. I started to work, and it turned out that I had plenty of time for that—the weekend after that Festival of Books, the first Covid-19 lockdown started in the Netherlands. You could say that this one came when called.

The first five drafts I submitted were turned down with the comment on the sixth one, “Henk, because it’s written in the third person, I don't feel anything reading this quite exciting story. I’m not moved. It’s autobiographical, right? So get over your ego and write in the first person. That will get to your readers a lot more!” After three emotional days, I submitted my eighth draft (the 7th I had withdrawn myself!). The response was high praise: “Look, Henk, this is what I meant! Now we’re getting somewhere!”

On October 8th, 2021 my debut novel was released. The title has since been changed from I Am Ready to Spanking: Adventures of a Naughty Surinamese (in the original Dutch: Billenkoek: Avonturen van een stoute Surinamer). However, the common thread running through this story—friendship, fidelity, and loyalty—remains unchanged.

Everyone is shaped by their environment, and that includes me. These past decades have made me who I am today: a freethinker and religious but secular maverick, someone who fits in everywhere but doesn't belong anywhere.

Sometimes I say what the black man doesn’t like to hear. Sometimes I say what the white man doesn’t like to hear. If you’ve decided to fit in everywhere yet belong nowhere but the human race, then you can afford to do so.

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Fiction

Excerpt, translated from the Dutch, of the novel (published October 8, 2021)

SPANKING: ADVENTURES OF A NAUGHTY SURINAMESE

Henk Bakboord

Wasteland

“Goddammit!” Shanty looked disapprovingly and with his hands on his side. He shook his head.

“What a shit mess in here! Doesn’t mean a bloody thing at all!”

Partygoers standing nearby looked at him in amazement. I put an arm around his shoulder.

"What do you mean? Nobody understands you. Kinky Club is pretty cool, right?"

I knew Shanty from the “normal” nightlife in the Regulierdwarsstreet. We sometimes chatted or danced at the Havana disco club.

Like everyone in the nightlife alley, I was impressed by his appearance.

Shanty had jet black long hair and a shapely body. He walked around in the most expensive, bold creations and owned just about the entire collection of Gianni Versace. In the nightlife scene the rumor went around that he was “extremely rich.”

Shanty was never alone either. There was always a kind of small “cortège” surrounding this intriguing personality.

When he was in a crazy mood, he demanded to be called “Gianni” for an entire evening. He simply didn’t respond to “Shanty.”

He sighed, “You know honey, you're right, but look around you. Okay, the atmosphere is nice and horny but this place is really dirty and sleazy. For crying out loud, gimme a break! You can't receive people in a joint like this, right?”

To reinforce his words, he ran a fingertip along a plinth. The finger turned grey-black. He looked at it disapprovingly.

“And there is no one fucking! They’re all just chit-chatting like in a freakin’ neighborhood bar, man! Goddammit! I wanna see more fucking, you know! Like fingering, jerking, licking, sucking, everything! By the way, this too: everyone is so sober, pfff! Actually no one is properly pissed! No, it's a lame mess here, damn!”

Lisa had now joined us and interrupted him: “Darling, what do you want? Surely this is the place to be, there is simply nothing else!”

Shanty ignored her completely and continued his diatribe.

"Yes! Everyone should just have a blast to experience, feel, kiss each other in complete freedom, you know, like, wasted in the land of freedom...”

He interrupted himself and looked philosophically at the ceiling, searching for answers.

“Wasted in the land...Like in a Wasteland...my Wasteland? Shanty’s Wasteland! Or no, wait a minute...Gianni’s Wasteland...nah, that makes no sense.” He blew into his hands as if they were cold. “I've got it! Johnny's Wasteland! Because if you put Gianni and Shanty together, you get: Johnny. Ha! That's what it will be!”

He put his arms around us. “Come on, let's have a drink, I have an idea...”

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Henk Bakboord

Henk was born in Paramaribo, Suriname, in 1961. He soon moved to the Netherlands, where he completed primary and secondary school. With the very first dance act “Alex & the City Crew,” in 1983, his career started as a professional break dancer. In television season 1987/1988, Henk acted in the youth series “De Band,” written by Marjan Berk. In 1999 he played the role of a soap actor in the feature film “Rent-a-Friend” by director Eddy Terstall.

Henk is a teacher of urban dance and an author. Billenkoek: Avonturen van een Stoute Surinamer (Spanking: Adventures of a Naughty Surinamese) is his debut novel. He is currently working on his second book, Letters to Leo. It is about his father, who voluntarily signed up to liberate the Dutch East Indies in World War II.