My first contact with the Netherlands came about when I was 8 years old. “Dans le port d'Amsterdam...” sang Jacques Brel so passionately on that old record player of my father at our house in Mauritius. Little did I know at the time, that 26 years later, I would find myself in a city hall in the very same Amsterdam singing Het Wilhelmus, the Dutch national anthem. And that alongside a group of people of as many as 37 different nationalities. 

Today I became Dutch.

With almost clinical precision, at 3 pm the big doors of Amsterdam’s city hall opened. My Liberian friend could not help himself mentioning that besides having to be on time, it is also clearly said in the invitation letter to the naturalisation ceremony, that if you miss it, you do not become Dutch.

This ceremony is the last link in the long chain of obligations to obtain Dutch citizenship. Inburgeringscursus (Integration course) is another one.  I was 32 and had to go back to school four days a week, to learn the Dutch language and culture, history and customs. Frustrating on one hand because you put your life on hold, and liberating on the other, because you make friends who can help you understand the Dutch and their ways. 

The soothing sound of a piano, playing old Dutch folk songs welcomes me and my soon-to-be fellow citizens. A montage of old black and white films of Amsterdam are shown on a big screen. You can feel the excitement in the air.

Now the screen has turned into an imposing Dutch flag. One by one, we are called to the podium. We are asked to solemnly promise to respect and obey the Dutch constitution, another obligation.

It is not a short and easy process to become Dutch. Mine started 5 years ago when I fell in love with Ellen, my wife now. After many sleepless nights, worrying about whether I would actually make it to the Netherlands to be with her and much paper work later,  I was granted a residence permit.

My story is less heavy,  compared to the more painful ones I have heard. Harsh living conditions in asylum seekers' centres, the endless bureaucracy, discrimination and years and years of an uncertain future after fleeing your own country, to name a few.

The happiness and relief on some of the faces at the ceremony. “In life, you have to be patient. If you have patience, anything can happen,” Raphael from Congo-Brazzaville tells me with a lot of emotion. He came here as a refugee 8 years ago. 

It is my turn onto the podium. The host jokes with me and asks me to say “I have become Dutch” in creole, my mother tongue. He is a nice guy, Mr Adema. In his speech, he tells us about the importance of integrating and respecting the Dutch culture. But he also advises us to remain true to ourselves and make sure that the Dutch people also learn about us.   

A warm handshake, followed by my certificate and a gift. A history book. I read about the golden age in which the Dutch merchants sailed across the globe and gathered the wealth that helped build the beautiful historic centre of Amsterdam. Once again, no mention whatsoever of the role slavery played in that period. I am not surprised anymore. Somehow the African 'contribution' to this richness keeps being ignored.

In the tram, on our way home, I look at our 3-week old baby in her pram and I ask myself the question “Will we ever be Dutch enough here?” I doubt it when I come to think that certain politicians are now debating how much money the Dutch government spends on the maintenance of foreigners... with a Dutch passport!