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In mijn blog schrijf ik  verhalen over alles wat mij interesseert of zorgen baart. Ik voel me betrokken met wat er in de wereld gebeurd en bij mensen die zich inzetten voor verandering. De rechten van mensen zijn door de UN vastgesteld evenals de kinderrechten die wereldwijd gelden. Niettemin worden die rechten dagelijks geschonden en zeker niet alleen in landen die we vroeger de derde wereld noemden. Mijn motto is "worden wie je bent" en daar moeten dan wel alle ondersteunende voorwaarden aanwezig zijn.

Peter van Velzen

Removed from Home

En dan ook nog.. Posted on Tue, July 18, 2023 12:46:00

The dehumanization of a generation

The formation of your personality is influenced by the script you receive at birth: it connects you with past and future and your intuition is the tool to follow the trail of the script. At least if your parents are aware of this. The worst is when they try to mold you into their image and likeness, impose their religion, hold expectations you can’t live up to and sooner or later lead to a midlife crisis. Unless you intuitively feel it’s right. That was not the case with me. Worse: a deforming intervention by child protection without professional guidance.

Eleven hundred (1.100) Children are removed from home because, in the opinion of the juvenile court and/or Youth Protection, the domestic circumstances pose a threat to the well-being of the child, both psychologically and/or physically. There is not always a pre-announcement, often there is a direct removal from home on the basis of a court order. Information about the need for intervention comes from a teacher at school, one of the parents, the neighbors, the GP. The why and the consequences are not discussed. The children are picked up and go to a children’s home.(worse: children Concentration Camps) Only much later does a substantiation of the decision come against which the parents do not have much to say. You have lost your children. Lost track, wrong turn!

I can say a few things about that myself. The GP established that I was being sexually abused and passed this on to the Youth Protection Agency. It was not discussed further at home. My father had to leave the house by the juvenile judge and he took his middle class diploma with him. The diploma my mother didn’t have. That marked the end of the store. I came back from Scouting on a Saturday and was met by a lady. I don’t remember her saying anything. There was no bag of clothes ready, no case with a fresh toothbrush and toothpaste. There was no goodbye. She just took me. To a children’s home.

Life sentence and no life jacket. That is certain.

And this is where the alienation begins. Not understanding it. The lack of explanation, as I did not understand my father who muttered that he needed me and hugged me until bleeding. Not my mother, because she didn’t intervene, said nothing, sedated, a strangely dark house with steep stairs, an attic full of old children’s clothes, a boys’ dormitory. Here I learned to cry silently, walked around lost, felt the threat of screaming and screaming children, the screams of the nurse.There was no ground to stand on, no hand on my shoulder, no welcome. Shut up, empty plate, go. Did she know my name? It felt like old dirt and too much. Someone punched a hole in my head with a block of wood. What are we on earth for?, the priest asked at school. To be happy here and hereafter, we boomed in unison. He was referring to the afterlife. Not here.

I felt neither inside nor outside. There was screaming outside, inside it was empty: I felt nothing. The tears came at night, without sound, without breath. Was it all my fault? Why hadn’t I said anything about my father, not warned. Hadn’t my mother seen my underwear, dirty and with traces of blood? Too busy with work and drink. She never said anything. She had cried but didn’t say goodbye. She hadn’t taken me in her arms, didn’t comfort me, didn’t say it’ll be okay. Had I lost my mother? Throughout my life I felt her absence, her reproach. I was my father’s favorite child.

My mother took us home with a lie and hid us there. Watch out for the man across the street. Bend over when you go to bed. It didn’t help. After three weeks, a police force of eight officers dressed in black arrived and after much shouting and a struggle with my mother, were given the key to the secret annex. Then we disappeared in a black Chevrolet from the police to another children’s home. Further away. I was nine when I left. When I turned thirteen, the juvenile court judge asked what I wanted. I couldn’t go home. There was no house. I didn’t want to go to a foster family. Too close to my skin. I wanted to be a priest, so I went to a seminary. There it would be full and I would be unseen. There were 160 boys in the house. I could disappear.

I tore the skin of my hands and used wound ointment, I suffered from psychoses and I manage to sit still in a violent cramp. I hit my head back and forth to go into a trance and feel no sadness. I was there for six years and still ended up with a diploma. Becoming a priest did not happen. The vow of obedience and chastity was the breaking point.I had been banned from talking about home and the events. After all, that’s nobody’s business, they said. It became my habit to ask questions and not answer myself. I was not in the picture and I could not say on official papers what my father did, where he lived, was married and/or was still alive. I knew nothing.

I was approached by men who saw something I didn’t. Something my father thought he saw and I didn’t know. I was incapable of any kind of intimacy. That was a source of conflict. What started so beautifully with my wife, eventually turned out to be a threat. It got stuck on the child in me. The child who screamed and ranted and finally broke, a vicious circle. She said: you talk like a child. It worked out. I sought help and it worked. It became a story.

Maya Angelou is right: there is no greater agony than an Untold story. The silence is unbearable and sickening.

In the Netherlands, hundreds of children have been forcibly removed from their homes because their parents allegedly committed fraud. They discovered at the tax authorities that they do not have a Dutch surname and then they would intentionally display the criminal behavior. It happened to the parents. They demanded the money back that was meant for childcare. Those parents didn’t. The money was legitimately spent on childcare, so they didn’t have the money and the bailiffs started threatening fines and the debts rose to great heights. They had to sell their possessions, their house, car, everything and still the receivables went up. The children were met at school and taken by complete strangers who didn’t have to explain anything. They just had an assignment. The children from 1 family were housed in different places. Without a goodbye, without a story, by complete strangers. Quite apart from abuse by foster parents, if a child is away from home for too long, the child becomes alienated from the parents. You don’t remember if maybe it’s not your mother’s fault and why didn’t they pick you up, why didn’t they know where you were, can you believe what your parents tell you and when you say you want to go home , why can’t they and why are they separated and when will this nightmare end? It keeps rumbling through your head: anger and sadness alternate. To this day, the tax authorities cannot solve the problem. The parents have not received any compensation. Entire families are separated. The Dutch government shows a dark racist side and still has not solved the issue, has not compensated the parents; not for twelve years!

The children are traumatized for life. Just like the parents who have lost faith in the government. I know which route they are going to take.

* if they, themselves are to blame.

*anxiety and depersonalization symptoms

*fear of intimacy

*look back and see if someone is coming for you

*no trust in authorities

*alienation from your parents, divorced parents

*too old to go back to the parental home, the children’s paradise

*check the locks of the house, your cell, your room every night

*drinking/drugs/ suppressing feelings

*you have lost the original script you were born with, to find your script you were not encouraged by your parents, the priest, Jehovah’s Witness, whatever.

*auto mutilation

*depression, with 40 years of disability.

I can’t help but think often about the children’s concentration camps in America and Israel, two civilized countries just like the Netherlands. When I think of the consequences of this deliberately forced trauma on these children, I shudder. When they express their anger, throw stones, want revenge for the pain and sorrow, they are killed. In Kasmir, soldiers aim their pellets at children’s eyes, in China children of Uygur parents are separated and so called re-educated. Children’s hands in the gold mines of Ghana, Africa.

A perverse system.

Juvenile Court




En dan ook nog.. Posted on Tue, July 18, 2023 12:05:21

1. After the rape, the doctor, the juvenile court judge, we were forced to leave the house. After being kidnapped by my mother for a few weeks on an excuse, we had to keep ourselves covered in the Secret Annex. Not to be seen by those who had placed themselves in front of the house. Yet it happened. Eight policemen dressed in black entered the store and asked for the key to the house. They assumed that we, the children, were there. My mother refused. They started fighting, screaming, threatening and looking in her clothes for the key. We heard the screams and screams and panicked. We cried and prayed the same prayer several times. We held each other. It lasted. The neighbor, the baker, called us and we quickly climbed through the small window in the bakery. There we waited. The black-clad cops came to get us. We were put in a black car without saying anything. Then it went to a distant children’s home. Nobody said anything. We never saw my mother again. Nobody said anything. Not even when we arrived. I was nine years old. That kid inside of me never left.

2.We live in a district with a dark history. I wasn’t born yet but I have a strong empathy. At that time, people wore a star: man. wife, children. It didn’t seem to matter until they came. The occupying forces. They screamed. Were armed. People had to go outside with suitcases and important things. To the meeting point with hundreds of others, on their way. Crammed into a cattle truck without facilities, with the gas chamber as the final station. Can fear be felt? The cold wave creeping in, paralyzing your soul? Against his better judgement, holding the child and saying sweet words. Only nine years old. And what if you managed to escape before the transport and no one ever came back. As a survivor, you look into an unfillable depth and remain silent for lack of words. Others tell the story. Every year. That kid of you never left.

3.It’s in the middle of the night. You are startled when the door is banged on with the butt of a machine gun or something similar. When the door is opened, heavily armed soldiers rush in wearing balaclavas. The occupying forces. Mouth and eyes are visible. They don’t say what they come for. They want to know who lives there. Whether there are children. They need to be woken up. Mother tells them not to be afraid. They are terrified. The soldiers ask your name. They take pictures of you. You know from friends that they can take you. Whether you have thrown stones, whether you will be throwing stones, whether you have kites in the house, how old you are. And you don’t know what it’s about. You feel the fear in your parents, who keep telling you not to be afraid. You think of So-and-so’s brother, who has just been released from a long time in some prison with over a hundred children. They had humiliated him, beat him, solitary confinement with noise and lights that didn’t go out. Wrote some sort of signature on sheets of text he couldn’t read. After more than an hour and with names, addresses and photos to use with their facial recognition equipment, the soldiers disappear. It’s the first time that night that you wet the bed. Are 9 years old. That child inside never left.

Consequences: Nightmares, flashbacks, fear of the knock on the door. Footsteps in the hallway, fear of uniforms, angry outbursts, fear of losing control, resistance to authoritarianism. You must become a hare: sitting still in the bright light, easy prey. A shot in the knee, kicking until mild removal, internal bleeding. And they laugh. But I never break. Neither do you. Anyway, whatever. From the age of nine. Yet that child never left and never will be. Maybe that was the intention and it belongs to a criminal environment, criminal government, people who would rather see you dead than alive. Who take advantage of you.

And I repeat: they will never get me, they will lose. Nether do you.

Peter van Velzen

11mei 2020