The neighbourhood where I live in west Amsterdam is one of the most vibrantly diverse in the city, inhabited by people from every corner of the globe. Some are new arrivals, others are descended from parents and grandparents who came here 30 or more years ago. In the shopping mall I hear Arabic and Turkish along with Dutch, English and a smattering of other languages that I cannot readily identify. The market square is crowded with stalls selling all manner of vegetables, fish and spices, along with hijabs and abayas. The vendors call out in a mixture of Dutch and Arabic. My butcher addresses me as Abi – Turkish for “older brother” – even though he knows I am not from Turkey.
There is a sense that we are all in this together, and it is up to us to make the most of it. I see patrols of concerned neighbours who take it upon themselves to gather up rubbish that has been dropped on the streets by careless kids. Although this mix feels quite natural, this is the kind of place that Geert Wilders would describe as a multicultural hell.
