RESILIENCE.
Capturing humans, capturing life
Rezan (27)
I am born and raised in Saudi Arabia, but my roots stretch beyond its borders. My mother is Yemeni, my father Eritrean, and I grew up balancing different cultures, languages, and traditions. I never really felt like I belonged anywhere—not fully. As a child, I didn’t question it. I spoke Arabic like everyone else, dressed the same, went to the same places. But one day, in fourth grade, a classmate told me, “This place is Saudi, and I am Saudi. You are not.” I remember going home, and asking my mother, “Where am I from then?”
That question stayed with me for years. It was a hard truth to face. No matter how much I felt at home in Saudi, I wasn’t truly accepted. I had no rights, no future there. I was different, and different didn’t belong. But instead of letting that break me, I let it push me forward. At 14, I started dreaming of a life somewhere else. A place where I could build a future. A place where I could be free.
Now I am here, in the Netherlands, and for the first time, I feel like there is a possibility. Back in Saudi, I had no options. Now, I do. I want to study, to become a dentist, to live as an independent woman. I don’t know exactly what the next years will bring, but I know I’m moving forward.
I’ve learned that cultures shape us in ways we don’t always notice. Growing up, I saw how respect for elders was deeply ingrained in my family’s traditions. In my culture, you would never let an older person stand while you sat. You would never speak over them or ignore their wisdom. Here, I was shocked to see a child refuse to give up their seat for an elderly man. In the Netherlands, people value independence, but sometimes, I think they forget honouring those who came before us. At the same time, I’ve come to appreciate what the Netherlands has to offer. Here, people are open. They accept differences. They don’t judge as easily. In Saudi, you had to fit into a mould. Here, you can just be. That is something I am grateful for every single day. I don’t define myself by borders. I don’t let labels limit me. I am not Saudi, or Yemeni, or Eritrean—I am just me.
Afra (24)
Seven months ago, I arrived in the Netherlands. I carried with me both dreams and unfinished chapters. Back in Turkey, I was studying Nutrigenetics—just one year away from completing my degree. I had a plan, a path, a future I could see clearly. Then, everything changed.
I didn’t come here because I wanted to. I came because I had to. My family faced political challenges, and staying in Turkey became too dangerous. For three years, I couldn’t see my mother. My brother was imprisoned. The world I knew was no longer safe.
Now, I find myself in a place of waiting. I can’t work yet. I can’t continue my studies yet. But waiting doesn’t mean stopping. Instead, I fill my time with things that keep my hands moving, my mind active, and my heart hopeful. I craft bracelets, carefully choosing colours and stones, creating something tangible when so much of life feels uncertain. I burn intricate designs into wood, watching simple pieces transform with each stroke. And more than anything, I cook. Cooking is where I feel most at home, no matter where I am. I love experimenting with flavours—Turkish dishes, Asian spices, and recipes from around the world. One day, I dream of becoming a dietitian, or maybe even a chef. Food has always been more than just nourishment for me—it’s creation, connection, and comfort.
Life in the Netherlands is different from what I knew before. In Turkey, stress and frustration were constant. Here, people respect each other’s space, their choices, their differences. People don’t judge as quickly. Even though I don’t speak Dutch yet, they switch to English without hesitation, making me feel welcome. That kindness means everything when you’re starting over.
Still, there is so much I want to do. I dream of the day I can continue my studies, build my own career, and shape my own future. I believe that time will come. I believe life will be better. And until then, I keep creating, keep learning, and keep looking forward. This journey isn’t easy, but it’s mine. And I know I’m only at the beginning of something new.
Muammer (32)
I am originally from Turkey, but I don’t really see Turkey as my home. For eight years, I was a teacher in Kenya, and that’s where I truly felt I belonged. Life was different there. People were warm, open, and full of energy. Our school was one of the best in the country, and being part of something so meaningful gave me a deep sense of purpose. It wasn’t just a job—it was a mission, and we were in it together. The feeling of companionship is really important to me.
Coming to the Netherlands was never part of my plan. I had to leave Kenya because my passport was expiring, and I couldn’t get a new one. Going back to Turkey wasn’t an option—I would have been jailed. So I had to choose: Germany, America, or the Netherlands. I picked the Netherlands because I had friends here who said they were happy. But I wasn’t excited about it. Becoming a refugee wasn’t a choice, it felt obligated.
The first months in the Netherlands, I tried to adapt quickly. I learned Dutch, I went to school, and I worked hard to integrate. For a while, I thought I was getting there, that I was going to belong. I felt it was happening! But that feeling faded. I missed something I couldn’t quite explain. The Netherlands gave me stability, but I lost the sense of connection I had in Kenya. I left for a while, travelled, searched for something that felt right. And then reality hit me—I needed to start again in The Netherlands as I do have a reality there. But this time, on my own terms.
Now, I’m focused on building a future that makes sense to me. I want to work with children again because that’s where I feel most like myself. Teaching isn’t just a job—it’s who I am. Organizing projects, working as part of a team, making a difference—it never felt like work, just part of my life. I’ve done other jobs here, like working in a restaurant, and I hated feeling like I was just trading hours for money. I don’t want that kind of life.
There’s a lot I admire about the Netherlands—the opportunities, the safety, the quality of life. But there’s also something missing. In Kenya, people are genuine and connected. They rely on each other, they celebrate together, and they lift each other up. Even at funerals, people find a way to smile, to cheer each other on, because life is short and meant to be lived. Here, people are polite, but I don’t always feel the same warmth. Dutch people value independence so much that sometimes it feels like they don’t need anyone. And when you don’t need anyone, you also don’t really have anyone. There’s a kind of isolation here that I never felt in Kenya.
Another thing I’ve noticed is that life in the Netherlands is… easy. And that sounds like a good thing, but I think it also takes something away. In Kenya, people face real challenges every day—poverty, inequality, struggle. But because of that, they appreciate life more. They work hard, they find joy in small things, they celebrate what they have. Here, everything is available. If you want something, you send an email, you make an appointment, and it gets done. There’s no real struggle, no real obstacles. And when everything is within reach, what’s left to chase? People here have everything, and yet they often seem unhappy.
In Kenya, you’re part of something bigger. Here, people are more focused on themselves. I think the Dutch could learn something from that—how to be more connected, how to rely on each other, and how to appreciate life even when things aren’t perfect. It’s not about having more; it’s about feeling more.
I give myself two years to build something that feels right. I don’t know exactly what that will look like yet, but I know I need to create a future that fits who I am. This journey has never been about finding the perfect place—it’s about adapting, learning, and making things work in my own way while being part of a bigger purpose.
Amer (41)
I come from Northern Syria. I’m Kurdish. For sixteen years, I worked in the administrative and legal department of a government organization after studying law at the University of Damascus. I had built a stable life, a career I was proud of. But when the war started, everything changed. I had to leave everything behind and flee—alone—to the Netherlands.
Those first months here were hard. I spent a year and a half in an AZC. It was a time of uncertainty, but I didn’t want to sit still. I worked with COA during that period, trying to contribute in any way I could. Eventually, I was given a house in Groningen. That’s where I began to build something new, piece by piece.
I’ve been in the Netherlands for just over three years now. I don’t have a wife or children here, so I can fully focus on my future. My dream is to return to the kind of work I did in Syria—to support people, to work in the legal or social field. But I know I can’t do that without a Dutch diploma. That’s the goal I’m working toward. First, I need to reach B2 in Dutch so I can start studying at an MBO or HBO, ideally in Social Work. If I want to return to law, I’ll need to reach C1. That feels like a big step, but I haven’t ruled it out.
Outside of studying and volunteering with Humanitas, I find peace in small things—drawing caricatures, biking through the countryside, and walking in the woods. Dutch nature is something I’ve come to love. There’s a feeling of freedom here I didn’t know before. I see a society where freedom—of work, of faith, of being—is part of everyday life. That openness and respect really speak to me.
What I’ve learned over the years is this: there’s always a way forward. Even when the path you imagined disappears, another one will show up. You just have to be willing to look for it—and to believe in yourself enough to keep going. That belief is what carries me, even on difficult days.
Amer's interview was conducted in Dutch and has been translated to English for the project 'Resilience'.
