I never watch movies on a plane, but this time I did. A film about the war. I don’t mean the war between Russia and Ukraine. Nor am I referring to the Israel-Gaza war. No, I just mean: ‘the’ war.
The film was about Sir Nicholas Winton who saved 669 children from Prague on the eve of the war by taking them to England with the permission of their parents.
Horrible images of poverty, persecution and misery. Parents saying goodbye to their children. I knew these images would seriously disrupt my sleep and yet I continued to watch. But when I heard that the Netherlands refused to issue transit visas, I turned off the screen: this was not my Netherlands…
Having barely landed at Schiphol, I rushed to Nijkerk. The Christian Israel Centre was heavily defaced by so-called climate activists. Israel’s ambassador would address the employees in solidarity. I was also asked to encourage them. I did that, of course, while I had the feeling that this couldn’t happen in my Netherlands…
These same climate fanatics are also against Christians, against gays, against marriage, against rape (unless it happens under the supervision of Hamas), against a gay parade if Jews are included, against gender naming…
It would not surprise me that, in addition to the ban on the flag of Israel, the singing of a Yiddish mamme will no longer be permitted. They will think this is discrimination or apartheid… everything must and will be gender neutral.
Back in my Netherlands, because that’s how I felt in my naivety, I peacefully walked to synagogue on Shabbat morning. Wonderful, back home after three weeks!
But the way back was less pleasant: a car drove up next to me at walking pace and took the liberty of intimidatingly photographing my guests and me from the car. I passed the license plate number on to the police.
And in my own street I was then welcomed with a loud volley of free Palestine by the youth of the local New Dutch citizenry.
Among the loudmouths there are also two boys with a black skin colour, who I know are insulted behind their back by their fellow white ‘believers’.
Apparently, I am the common enemy, even though I was allowed to provide spiritual support to the black mother of these two black boys. I increasingly get the feeling that, after living here for at least sixteen generations, this Netherlands is no longer my Netherlands…