Living in the Netherlands and traveling through Japan taught me more about both countries than I ever expected, including the fascinating story of how deeply they are connected.
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Exploring Nagasaki on my second trip to Japan with my fiancé, we took a short walk from our hotel to the artificial island of Dejima — the historic home and trading post of Dutch merchants, during sakoku, Japan's long period of self-imposed isolation, when the Netherlands was the only European nation permitted to trade.
At just 15,000 square metres, Dejima was home to around 20 Dutch traders, officials, interpreters, and even livestock: chickens, cows, pigs, and at one point, an elephant. A single guarded bridge connected the island to the mainland. Between 1641 and 1854, that bridge was also Japan's only link to the Western world.
We enjoyed a quiet nighttime stroll around the tiny island, rebuilt in traditional methods and furnished with European comforts — spacious tatami rooms with antique desks and chairs where you'd normally expect a kotatsu — marvelling at the significance of this place in the lasting friendship between Japan and the Netherlands.
The evidence of that friendship is not confined to Dejima. Earlier that day, we'd been admiring a set of porcelain sake cups in an antique shop. The owner insisted they were Delftware — though upon later research, having already purchased them, we suspect they were Japanese-made. We don't mind either way. But the difficulty in telling them apart speaks volumes about the influence of Japanese style and craftsmanship on Dutch porcelain.
The Dutch market loved Japanese ceramics, and Japan happily increased production to keep up with exports. When a restaurant host asked where we were from and we replied "Oranda" (Holland), he delightedly pointed out a painting of Dutch ships in the lobby, asking if we'd visited Dejima yet, or Huis Ten Bosch — a Dutch theme park complete with windmills and canals, fittingly located in the same Nagasaki Prefecture.
The Dutch influence extends well beyond Nagasaki. Vincent van Gogh was profoundly inspired by Japanese woodblock prints, and their mark on his work is unmistakable. You even see it in modern pop culture. While Nijntje (Miffy) certainly looks right at home among the likes of Hello Kitty, her popularity among Japanese consumers feels like yet another small nod to this centuries-long friendship.
As a South African expat living and working in the Netherlands — and a lover of all things Japan — I am nonetheless an outsider and an observer of both cultures. I find the relationship fascinating.
Let's start with directness. As a private English trainer, I work a lot with Dutch businesspeople, and Dutch directness is always an important topic. The Dutch say exactly what they mean — no padding, no softening, no reading between the lines. For Brits and Americans, who tend to wrap difficult messages in layers of diplomacy (or "verbal bubblewrap," as I like to call it), this can take some getting used to. Japanese communication sits at the other end of the spectrum, often prioritising harmony to a degree that can make directness feel almost impolite. If Dutch is a straight line, English is a gentle curve — and Japanese, at times, is a very elegant detour.
Japanese workplaces also tend to be notably hierarchical, with long hours often worn as a badge of honour. The Dutch, by contrast, are relaxed about authority and fiercely protective of their free time. These are real differences. But they're also part of what makes my experience of both places so rich — each culture holds up a mirror to the other, and I find myself more curious and more self-aware for having spent time in both.
I never take for granted how accessible Japanese culture is to me here. In late winter, I paid a visit to Lodder Bonsai in Harmelen — a fourth-generation family nursery near Utrecht, Europe's leading bonsai specialist since 1896. That was the start of a new hobby.
Closer to home, I delight in the sakura lining the streets of Amstelveen and Hoofddorp each spring. I love that I can pick up my favourite Japanese snacks at the local Asian supermarket — even if the Euro price makes them a more occasional treat than they were at my third konbini visit of the day in Japan. (Like every foreign visitor, I simply cannot get over the joy of Japanese convenience stores.) These small things are daily reminders that Japanese culture isn't something I have to travel 10,000 kilometres to access, but woven into the neighbourhood I live and work in. Working with students from Amstelveen's Japanese expat community makes that connection feel personal in a way I genuinely treasure.
As the sakura comes into bloom at Amstelveen's Kersenbloesempark, I find myself thinking about that little bridge at Dejima. The cherry blossom, in Japanese tradition, is a symbol of new beginnings and the beautiful impermanence of things. But some things are less impermanent than others. The friendship between Japan and the Netherlands has outlasted empires, survived isolation, and quietly woven itself into the fabric of daily life in ways that are easy to miss. It's worth taking a moment to notice. In a world that has never truly been free of war and conflict, our long-standing friendships are worth protecting and celebrating.
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"The Dutch-Japanese Connection” was written by Alexandra Roberts, BA, English trainer
