May 5th. Every year I ask myself: do I take time to consciously remember, or do I keep building the present? But I am part of history. My foundation rests on the shoulders of my parents and ancestors. That’s why I remember.
I created this sculpture, Broken Life, for my father. After World War II, he was conscripted and sent to Indonesia. The mission: suppress a colony demanding independence. It turned into a guerrilla war. Desertion was not an option. 5,000 Dutch soldiers lost their lives.
And when they returned? No recognition. No support. They were shunned. Those who stayed behind — the state — washed their hands of it. The word trauma didn’t exist yet, but it was passed on.
The Netherlands hosts the International Criminal Court. Quick to judge others. But how credible are you, if you betray your own people — those who stood up when you needed them — and never hold yourself accountable?
With Broken Life, I make visible what is broken.
I reassemble shattered limbs.
I lift the dead from their white coffins.
As long as we refuse to face it,
a wound cannot heal if there is still pus inside.
In 2022, there was a “sorry.”
But a sorry is not justice.