The Peace That Isn’t Given:
Amsterdam, Authoritarianism and the Work of Staying Human
I am writing from Amsterdam, where centuries-old buildings stand as silent witnesses to the profound currents of human history. As I walk these cobblestone streets and spend time with friends in this remarkable city, I find myself confronted by something both beautiful and sobering — the enduring memory of what war can do to a community, to a people, to the very fabric of civilization itself.
During World War II, both German forces and Allied bombers descended upon Holland with devastating force. The numbers alone tell a story that defies comprehension: over 300,000 Dutch lives lost, families torn apart, communities shattered. Yet what strikes me most profoundly during my time here is not merely the historical record, but how this trauma continues to pulse through the generations.
Few remain who carry firsthand memories of World War II, but their stories live on in their children, their grandchildren, their great-grandchildren. The commitment to peace here isn’t abstract or theoretical — it’s visceral, earned through suffering, forged in collective memory.
This lived understanding of war’s consequences has sparked conversations with my Dutch friends that I find increasingly urgent as I consider our current moment in the United States. They ask questions that pierce through political rhetoric and reach toward more urgent demands:
- Why aren’t Americans doing more to confront rising authoritarianism?
- What does it truly mean to practice peace and temperance when the gravitational pull toward conflict, toward othering, toward demonizing those who disagree with us, seems so strong?
These questions force us to examine what we mean when we speak of taking a stand, of calling for peace and justice while maintaining the temperance that prevents righteousness from devolving into its own form of violence.
The Dutch experience offers no easy answers, but it provides something perhaps more valuable: perspective born of lived consequence. Walking through Amsterdam, you see a society that has experienced what happens when democratic institutions fail, when neighbors turn against neighbors, when the machinery of state becomes an instrument of oppression rather than protection.
Yet this isn’t a story of despair. It’s a story of renewal, of conscious choice, of communities that decided to build something different from the ashes of what was lost. The peace here isn’t passive — it’s active, intentional, requiring constant tending like a garden that could easily return to wilderness without care.
As we in United States grapple with our own questions about democracy, about how we treat those with whom we disagree, about what kind of society we want to build and leave for future generations, perhaps there’s wisdom to be found in listening to those who have walked this path before us.
Amsterdam’s history offers no easy answers, but it does pose uncomfortable questions about the choices societies make under pressure and the real cost of political violence. The city’s experience suggests that the peace we take for granted is neither natural nor permanent — it’s built through deliberate choices, tested repeatedly, and easily lost.
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