Mieke Weismann examines the Dutch tradition of Zwarte Piet, and the troubling face of entrenched racism Continue Reading Zwarte Piet: Tolerance Gone Wrong in the Netherlands
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To celebrate Litro #113: Double Dutch, we held a Dutch-themed short story competition. Rebecca Cordingly was the winner. I am the only person I know who has never been to ...
Welcome to the first in Litro‘s World Series of issues in translation: the lekker Dutch issue. Once again, we step into the breach to bring you a great selection of contemporary ...
You’d chosen our hotel with such care, situated in the Museumplein district far from the scrambling mass of coffee shops and girls in windows. I did my best to hide ...
“So Yaradua goes to Israel on an official trip. He gets sick there and dies. His entourage is told, ‘Well, you’ve got two options. Your president was a Muslim and ...
The first time it got me in its grip was on a Sunday afternoon in the tram. I’d got in at the Koningsplein. About three o’clock. I’d pushed my way ...
Of course it wasn’t just Holland. Granny Oudewater knew better than that. She’d encounter them anywhere. Those sideways glances. The offhand remarks. They’d do it in any country. Probably. Then ...
and this is my poem, come on in don’t be afraid, ignore the echo let us begin in emptiness welcome to my crater of light once we gathered, ...
Progress A small group was passing through the street with Bibles in their hands. My father was standing next to me, grinning. He said, “Those people still believe in ...
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February: it’s not just the season where we remember lost loves and new ones, but a chance to embrace a whole array of fantastic literary-inspired events, from Gothic dinners to ...
The dining room, doing service as a dressing room, was a hive of activity. Before a cheval glass stood Frédérique van Erlevoort, her hair loose and flowing, looking very pale ...
Because I’m unemployed I go to the funfair. I’ve no choice but to keep myself moving, otherwise I’ll be in an even worse state. And don’t amble; the soles of ...
The sun tries its hardest to break through the low-hanging mist. We are moving through the prettiest part of our route: the heath, dotted with fantastic pines and beeches that ...
It was summer and winter. The water by the river, how it rose. Mist between the hills. In the valley the expensive villas, shuttered, white and pink. Fox ...
The Alcantara was moored side by side with the Oranje, but he was still a continent away. Seven months had passed since the liberation. The American jeeps had rolled into ...
As she drives onto the bridge, the bumper rod snaps and whips up onto the hood. She wonders whether it will break off. It’s completely bent. Yesterday evening, after the ...
I drank until I was simple enough to be loved. I let myself be loved. the earth tore open beneath my feet. I drank until I was simple enough to ...
Like Malik’s parents, the Spanish Lady and her husband had been refugees. Refugees with a small “r,” an “r” that tried to make itself as small and inconspicuous as possible. ...
