by Yvonne Zoethout –
In Friesland, she is widely known. But, depending on who is asking, the question can cut deep: “Wêr komsto wei?” (“Where do you come from?”) Staring into the Frisian waters, the mirrored heritage the mienskip (community; often with the connotation of a strong sense of community) is so proud of, the question disrupts her reflection. Seemingly innocent, yet heavy with meaning, the sounds send a ripple across the surface, distorting the image she sees of herself. Instead of letting her roots anchor her, she becomes unsteady, disoriented. What remains almost feels like a lie: “Út Fryslân, ik bin ek in Fries.” (“From Friesland, I’m Frisian too.”) It may sound like recognition, but in truth, it is resistance, resistance against something deeper: a system that continuously questions her identity.
While working on my thesis in my childhood home, writing about what it means to grow up in Friesland with a migration background, the sunlight poured in warmly through the window. It felt like the right moment to clear my head, to step outside and feel the sun on my brown skin. I put on my shoes and went out for a walk. On the way, I called my boyfriend. I missed him. We chatted a bit, casually, until my gaze landed on a group of primary school children walking by. Hand in hand, two by two, just as I once did, in this same village. “It’s as if nothing has changed,” I said with a smile. But the feeling behind that smile was layered. As a child, I often felt like the only brown-skinned girl. Time and again, I was confronted with my appearance. My looks were constantly pointed out, presented as something different, something that raised questions. For a moment, I felt myself slipping back into those memories, until the image of two young girls of color pulled me back into the present. They were leading the group. Suddenly, one of them waved at me, enthusiastically. “She’s waving! She’s waving at me!” I exclaimed to my boyfriend, surprised. It was such a small gesture, yet it moved me. As if she was saying, “I see you.” And suddenly, I caught myself wondering: what’s her story? How did she end up here? At the same time, I felt the irony. That question, ‘Where are you from?’, had been asked of me so many times, always with a hint of suspicion, always with discomfort. And now I caught myself wanting to ask her the same. While I fight for the recognition of my own presence as something self-evident, I find myself trying to explain hers.
Growing up in Friesland with a migration background often means living with moments of inner conflict. The constant tension with your surroundings leaves a frayed edge in the self, a vulnerable thread that becomes more pronounced over time, especially as awareness sets in and attempts are made to smooth it out. Friesland’s strong cultural identity doesn’t always leave room for those who fall outside the dominant narrative. And that, in itself, reveals a paradox. Because Friesland, too, seems to wrestle with its identity. The way it is so firmly expressed, through language, tradition, and collective pride, hints at something unresolved. An imagined community trying to make itself seen can unintentionally exclude those who don’t fit the mold, even though that same community may feel overlooked within the broader national story (Anderson 1983). That’s what makes Friesland such a poignant stage for questions of identity, for those with migration backgrounds and beyond. You grow up in a place fighting to assert its existence, while you’re trying to claim yours within it. Two parallel struggles, intersecting in one landscape.
Suddenly, it clicks. Maybe that’s what moved me so deeply; her wave didn’t just say, “I see you,” it answered the question that had long distorted my reflection. In her eyes, I wasn’t a question mark. I belonged. And for a brief moment, the ripples calmed, and the water cleared. Maybe that’s what we all need: not another question, but a mirror that doesn’t waver.
Yvonne Zoethout recently graduated with a master’s in Anthropology.