By Gemma Boon, founder of FRIDA book café and Director of Dag van het Kasteel. Translated from Dutch. Originally published in newspaper Tubantia, Friday 22 November 2024.
Gemma visits Bijlmer-Arena Station, where an unexpected encounter prompts her to reflect on connection and the growing polarization in the Netherlands.
Amsterdam, Bijlmer-Arena Station. I take a bite of a fry dipped in peanut sauce and gaze at the snack bar’s interior. The canary-yellow ads for Dutch snacks hang gloomily behind the windows; their corners curled, the tape yellowed. I stand at a high table, twelve minutes left until my train departs. To my right, a woman curses. Her bag has slipped off the chair, its contents scattered across the sticky tiled floor. Hastily, she gathers her belongings. As I debate whether she needs help, someone steps into view.
He hums softly, swaying his hips to barely audible sounds from the pods in his ears. His hands move near his face, his hips tilted. He looks happy. Or intoxicated. Or both, who knows. He strategically lingers near the door, under the warm airflow. When he turns to the snack bar employee, he exclaims with a wide grin, “I’m using your warmth!” The employee laughs back. They share a fist bump.
“Where are you from?” the man asks.
“Amsterdam,” replies the employee.
“I’m from Nigeria,” the man says proudly.
My thoughts wander to the people I’ve met over the past months. From Iran, Israel, Germany, Italy, America, South Africa, and so many more. All people, all with their own stories. At FRIDA in Enschede, they find a home far from home. They meet at book clubs, events, or strike up conversations over coffee. Their stories differ, but there’s a common thread: they are cultural chameleons, global citizens who belong everywhere and nowhere.
Our government wants it differently. Less immigration, fewer people not born here. Away with international students filling our universities. Away with skilled migrants. Away with the man from Nigeria, now leaning casually against the counter, taking a sip from his beer bottle. The snack bar owner gently points at the bottle.
“Could you drink that outside?” he asks.“Of course, no problem,” the man responds with a big smile. He offers a fist bump. “See you, man.”
As he walks outside, I stuff the last fries into my mouth. Five minutes left. I turn towards the station, back to Enschede. The city that isn’t my birthplace, but the one I call home. I’m worried. No one knows what will happen now that Trump is back. Unpredictability is his power. Europe watches anxiously, holding its breath. And what if Wilders gets his way? Then international students and migrant workers will disappear from Twente. Not just refugees seeking a better life, but also specialists with knowledge we don’t have in the Netherlands. Knowledge vital for remaining competitive.
With a minute to spare, I step onto the train. The plastic seats remind me of the hard church pews of my youth. I want it to be different. I want friendship, love, community. I refuse to see my fellow human beings as intruders. I’m tired of the conflict, the distrust, the polarization. With my head against the grimy headrest, I close my eyes.
FRIDA is my answer. A place where people come together, meet each other, and have the uncomfortable conversations that are so desperately needed. Maybe it’s just a drop on a hot plate, or maybe a raindrop that causes ever-widening ripples in the water.
As the train starts moving, I think back to the man from Nigeria. His broad smile, light steps, friendly fist bump. He uses another’s warmth but shares it just as easily. That’s what I want: a world where warmth is shared. I feel the weariness of the day but also a quiet hope. Perhaps this man is the raindrop, and FRIDA is the ripple across the water’s surface.