Perspectives on Blackness and Coloniality in Today’s Netherlands

A CONVERSATION WITH LIS CAMELIA AND FAYO SAID

From Suriname and the so-called “Dutch Caribbean” (Curaçao, Sint Maarten, Aruba, Bonaire, Sint Eustatius, and Saba) to Indonesia and West Papua, as well as South Africa, the legacy of Dutch colonialism and its racializing process are enduring. This conversation with Lis Camelia, and Fayo Said, offers two perspectives on such an endurance – it was originally conceived with a third one, that of a West Papuan activist in the Netherlands. What are the differences and similarities between the political experiences of a Curaçao-born Black person and an Oromo person whose family migrated from the African Continent to the Netherlands, without having a historical relationship with Dutch colonialism? What common ground does Blackness allow to form communities that extend the strict geographical background? We reflect on these questions and more.

LÉOPOLD LAMBERT: Could each of you describe their and their families’ relationship with the history of Dutch colonialism, as well as its persisting racialization and anti-Blackness?

LIS CAMELIA: I was born and raised in Curaçao and also lived on other Dutch Caribbean islands. My family has a long line of being on the island and dealing with the consequences of racialization there, as well as the dynamics of how Blackness and whiteness are confronted with each other. It had to do with power and wealth, but the country being so small, there is no absolute segregation possible; people are forced to interact with each other in one way or another. On the island itself, the idea of Blackness is very dynamic. That’s when isms such as colorism or texturism play a role: different shades, hair types, or last names…all these things play a role in your access to Blackness, and it also affects your belonging as well.

That dynamic is different when you go to the Netherlands, because once you’re here, Blackness becomes way more concrete. Often, the label “migrant” or “foreigner” is added, even though as someone from the Dutch Caribbean, you only have Dutch nationality. So these ideas of belonging and not belonging are very contextual to the experiences of my family here in the Netherlands, but also back in Curaçao. My family has always been very mixed, not just racially, but also in senses of ethnicity and culture. My paternal grandfather originated from Venezuela; my maternal grandmother’s family is Native. My mother’s side also has German as well as African ancestries. So all these different people that were interacting and living with each other, created different cultures that are mixed with each other. The ways I experience Blackness in Curacao and the Netherlands are very distinct from one another.

FAYO SAID: My family and I are Oromo, a group from the Horn of Africa, so we don’t have this direct colonial relationship with the Netherlands. And because of this lack of colonial history, I think different things come into play. In Ethiopia, the Oromo are not subjected to anti-Blackness as in the Netherlands. Still, there is a complex history between the Oromo and Ethiopia, since Oromo lands were colonized by the Abyssinian empire’s regime. Throughout the growth of the empire, the Oromos were subjected to violence and oppression of Abyssinian rulers and elites. This history helped the development of Oromo nationalism and put a lot of emphasis on maintaining Oromo culture and language, because it wasn’t always natural to speak your language; there was a time under the reign of Emperor Haile Selassie where the Oromo language was completely banned. So this kind of Oromo consciousness, or “Oromummaa,” which is how we call it an Oromo, is still very strong with me, even though I was born and raised here in the Netherlands.

When my parents left Ethiopia, it was quite confusing to come to the Netherlands and be labeled as something else than “Oromo,” and to be racialized as Black, since everybody is black in Ethiopia. Being visibly Muslim is another layer in this process, which they didn’t have to deal with in their religiously homogeneous hometown. So yes, there is not really a history of this relationship with Dutch colonialism, but there’s definitely racialization and anti-Blackness, obviously, that we have to deal with.

LL: Do you perceive any notable differences between these racialization and anti-Blackness targeting people who are directly related to the history of Dutch colonialism, and those who are not?

LC: One of the things that is very specific to the relationship the Netherlands has with its colonial history is connected with what the nation wants to be seen as, which has to do with what Gloria Wekker calls “white innocence.” The Netherlands think of itself as a small, hardworking country that minds its own business, that is very good at producing certain things like cheese, etc.. The idea of colonialism and violence does not fit in that narrative.

So how do you deal with people whose very presence inherently reminds you that this innocence is a lie?

It is not something that they want to confront: there’s no real conversations about healing or accountability, because all these things are only possible if the predominant white Dutch society lets go of the facade of innocence.

In my case, when it comes to the Dutch Caribbean relationship with the Netherlands, and this image of innocence, there’s a lot of erasure happening. For example: we don’t have our own nationality, we all carry the Dutch one. Our presence in Dutch history is basically erased as being part of the Caribbean legacy. But this erasure also comes with hyper visualization, especially regarding issues such as crime: even though the Dutch Caribbean population accounts for about 1% of the Netherlands population, we account for around 7% to 14% of the prison population. Furthermore, I do a lot of research in sports, and often, athletes from the Dutch Caribbean talk about the idea that when they are winning, they are perceived as Dutch, but then when they’re losing, they are perceived as Dutch Caribbean.
Language is another important aspect: I speak Dutch because I am part of the Dutch Caribbean. However, Dutch is not my first language; it is not even my second or third. I don’t speak Dutch because I found it nice to learn and I made the choice. I speak Dutch because I was forced to. Once we start talking about the complex relationship between the Netherlands and the Dutch Caribbean, we have to acknowledge how some people were forced to be here. This destroys the innocence that the Dutch nationality is built upon.

FS: I believe it’s crucial to discuss the misconception of the Netherlands as an innocent country, especially when compared to France and Britain. Something interesting I noticed in relation to racialization was during my studies in South Africa, in Bloemfontein, which is in the former Orange Free State (Oranje Vrijstaat). The descendants of Dutch settlers who acquired their land through violence during the colonial period initially perceived me as a Black person and didn’t engage much with me. However, when someone mentioned that I was from the Netherlands and spoke Dutch, their attitude changed completely. They immediately began speaking Afrikaans to me.

This was very uncomfortable to witness because my association with Dutchness made me different from the native Black South Africans living there.

This proximity to Dutchness afforded me certain privileges, which felt odd because, growing up in the Netherlands as a Black person, I was never perceived as fully Dutch.

LL: Could you each describe the various forms of organizing you are either a part of, or supporting in the context of the Netherlands?

LC: I am not part of any specific organizations right now, but I support politically and financially organizations that challenge this erasure of Blackness for Dutch Caribbeans here. There are organizations here that organize events for Dutch Caribbean people to come together which highlight our visibility here. There are also others that allow Dutch Caribbean people to look into databases to look for their ancestors, back home. And I’ll also mention Omroep Zwart, which pushes for Dutch television and media at large to be more diverse, or “colorful,” as they say. And of course, there’s also efforts within academia to counter the erasure of Blackness and Dutch Caribbeans in these spaces.

FS: I have been involved in several organizations, such as the Association of Black Students, which Lis was also a part of, and the Association for Black Art_ists e.V. that supports emerging Black artists and archivists throughout Europe. Currently, I work on the self-initiated project Oromia Records, a digital art archive dedicated to preserving Oromo arts and culture.

In this context, I’m working on a project highlighting Oromo presence in the Netherlands, as I believe there’s often a focus on colonial histories and related communities, overlooking Oromo communities who have been here since the 1960s-70s.

Additionally, I support Moslim Archief, which is a historical archive for the heritage of Dutch Muslims. At a time when Islamophobia is rampant in Europe, I believe it is crucial to support efforts that document and preserve the presence of Muslim communities in the Netherlands. Lastly, I’m also part of Yumna, a community that fosters togetherness and spirituality for Muslim women, providing a diverse and welcoming space.

LL: Originally, we were supposed to have this conversation with a West Papuan activist to add a third distinct perspective on Blackness in the Netherlands; in the end, it did not happen, sadly. It’s still very important for me to ask you whether Melanesian anti-colonial struggles in general, and more particularly, the West Papuan struggle for liberation (given its own history with Dutch colonialism), are part of the political imaginary of Black communities in the Netherlands?

LC: I would say that it has not been part of my own imaginary. I think that raises some questions for me and my understanding of who gets to be part of Blackness. What is Blackness as a social construction, and how do we allow it to be a form of empowerment for those who are oppressed? These are questions that I had after reading the question that you sent us; it’s not something that I have an answer for. But for now, this is not part of my imaginary of Blackness.. I think it’s something that would have been interesting to have a conversation about it, not just about Blackness, but also about Dutch colonialism and Indonesia; it’s really not discussed enough.

FS: My answer is quite similar. Melanesian communities have not been a part of conversations in the Black organizations and communities that I know. Also in the wider sense, in the popular discourse of Black communities, the inclusion of Melanesians is not part of it. In general, Dutch education lacks a comprehensive focus on colonial history. In high school, it’s often reduced to a brief mention of Indonesia, South Africa, Suriname, and the Caribbean. This shallow historical consciousness about colonialism in the Netherlands likely contributes to the exclusion. We were never taught in-depth about the histories of Indonesia and West Papua. Reading your question made me realize I have some catching up to do.

LL: Similarly, does the history of the struggle against the apartheid in so-called “Southeast Africa” and “South Africa” have a particular resonance for Black activists in the Netherlands given the history of Boer settler colonialism?

LC: In my conversations with Black South Africans, I see a lot of similarities between us. There’s a lot of coping mechanisms, dealing with systems of exclusion and systems of oppression. There’s a lot of commonalities and things the way people understand each other, communicate with each other. There’s connections in our perceptions of Blackness, despite being born in very different places around the world: when we talk about family members, the way we eat, the way we do all these things, there’s so much connectivity. This builds connection and community. But when talking about apartheid in South Africa, it feels very foreign. This is not the way the colonial system in Curaçao worked. The idea of segregation is part of it, of course, but not in terms of strict lines of racialization, or the struggle for land and capital that was happening in South Africa. These things are very different from the history of slavery and LC: In my conversations with Black South Africans, I see a lot of similarities between us. There’s a lot of coping mechanisms, dealing with systems of exclusion and systems of oppression. There’s a lot of commonalities and things the way people understand each other, communicate with each other. There’s connections in our perceptions of Blackness, despite being born in very different places around the world: when we talk about family members, the way we eat, the way we do all these things, there’s so much connectivity. This builds connection and community. But when talking about apartheid in South Africa, it feels very foreign. This is not the way the colonial system in Curaçao worked. The idea of segregation is part of it, of course, but not in terms of strict lines of racialization, or the struggle for land and capital that was happening in South Africa. These things are very different from the history of slavery and colonialism in the Dutch Caribbean. So when I talk about political movements with Black South Africans, I feel like I just have to sit down and listen and try to understand how this works. For me, it is less about how to be accountable for the struggles, and more about how to build community with each other.

I feel it’s a powerful thing for people to find community, belonging, and safety within a shared Blackness. Having space to do that is, in my sense, a priority.

FS: Growing up in the Netherlands, the idea of apartheid and the colonial legacy of the Netherlands in South Africa has felt very far away for me. This changed when I went there, seeing firsthand the effects of Boer settler colonialism. All in a sudden, it did feel very close to home, seeing the names of the people who have done this and the long term effects that that are still visible, talking to people, friends of mine, parents of theirs seeing, especially in Cape Town, how racialization still is so ingrained in society, including on the university campus where I was studying. Even though I don’t have a direct relationship with South Africa, having this proximity to the Netherlands, it felt all of the sudden closer to me. And this made me reflect on how these real life effects were so foreign to people in the Netherlands, how it’s just not part of the consciousness at all. People are generally aware of the Dutch word “apartheid,” but they are not aware of its actual effects.

I became very interested in doing more research, and making connections between Black South Africans and Black people in the Netherlands. This was immediately what I felt was urgent to do while observing this lack of consciousness. I should say though that as far as Black organizations in the Netherlands, I think there are some projects happening: certainly about Black freedom fighters in South Africa, as well as other aspects of the history of this Black struggle. And to a lesser

account, some discussions have to do with this lack of accountability from the Netherlands towards the history there, but it does not feel as much of a collective priority. The colonial history of the Caribbean, Suriname, and Indonesia feel more present. Maybe this has to do with the fact that there are not so many Black South Africans living in the Netherlands, but it still feels like a relegated conversation.

LL: Having in mind your two very distinct perspectives – one where Arawak Indigeneity was destroyed by European colonialism and the transatlantic slave trade and one where Indigeneity remains a permanent question with regards to the Ethiopian imperial structures, and thinking again about the third perspective Papuan indigeneity can bring, as it had to resist not only European colonialism but also Indonesian occupation – could you please talk in the different ways you find articulations between Blackness and Indigeneity?

LC: I find the relationship between these…. intriguing. There are certain things that connect really strongly between them in my understanding of Blackness, and other aspects that make it harder to connect. In my reading and hearing of Indigenous people in the Americas, indigeneity has a lot to do with the connection to land, and the responsibility to take care of land.

Coming from Curaçao, this connection with land, even though the Indigenous element has been predominantly erased, is very present in our culture: the tradition of burying people, burying placenta in the land when a child is born… being from here means that this is where your umbilical cord is buried.

These traditions have to do with being part of the land, despite Indigeneity not being really a categorization in Curaçao, because of its drastic erasure by colonialism. But I think Blackness also comes with these ideas of connection to land. But then, in my understanding of community building, it has to be beyond that. So how can you build community and Blackness, beyond the need to connect it back to the land, because, in my understanding, Blackness gives space for people from all these different countries and all these different connections to territories, as well as people who have multiple connections to multiple territories? I think the ability to go to land, find healing, find substance, find escape, all these things, I think it resembles Blackness, but also having the ability to expand beyond the land. Finding home more within people, within practices, and within nostalgic familiarity in a way trying to mix these things also.

FS: I think it’s actually an interesting concept to think about within the Oromo context, in Ethiopia. This history of the Ethiopian empire of oppression, land grabbing, and cultural erasure, went also hand in hand with the idea that Oromo people were not indigenous to their land, but rather were originally from Madagascar, as a justification for the Ethiopian empire to expand. As a result, Oromo people may have become even more grounded in their indigenous knowledge and traditions. For example, in my family and many other Oromo families, there’s a strong tradition of reciting your lineage through your forefathers over many generations, knowing what town or village each of them is from and knowing your clan. This deep connection to the land includes knowing how to herd, produce food, understanding the different seasons, and other essential aspects of life.

While this context is specific to Ethiopia, it can still be translated to the situation in the Netherlands. For almost all Oromo people in the diaspora, their Oromo identity comes first. The connection to the land is still important. However, the identity construction and process is complex and highly contextual. We can still assert our Black identity in our politics, which is why I organized with Black students and artists. There is much common ground where we can come together and connect. ■