Toespraak minister Ploumen Prins Claus Fonds

Your Majesties, Your Royal Highnesses, ladies and gentlemen,

‘Witste nog, koempel?’ This was a 1976 pop album by a group named Carboon.

It contained songs about Koempel Sjeng and his comrades. And it was about phenomena like boeteren, and the blech.

I’m sure I’ve already lost the English-speaking members of the audience. To them I’d say: don’t worry. The Dutch in the audience hardly understood a word either. Because words like boeteren and blech aren’t Dutch words. They’re words from the southern part of the Netherlands, where I am from: the province of Limburg.

Actually, most people from Limburg wouldn’t know those words either, because they are peculiar to the inhabitants of the mining region around Heerlen in the east of the province. In fact, even I had to look them up. You may think of the Netherlands as a small country, but I am from the
western part of Maastricht and I can tell you, the east and west of my province are 2 different worlds.

So a translation is in order for almost everyone here.

Boeteren was the accepted term for having your lunch underground, deep inside the mines. The blech was a flask that held coffee. Such words were almost a language in themselves and they provided enough material for a double album: Witste nog, koempel? Do you remember, miner?

For well over a century, mining was by far the most important industry in Limburg. Coal miners were macho role models, modern day heroes celebrated for keeping the country warm. And then natural gas wasdiscovered, the price of coal plummeted, and by 1970 all the mines were closed. Buildings were erected over the mines, and within a few years hardly a trace was left.

Many mineworkers took jobs in factories. But they felt bereft of their identity, their source of pride, their way of life. They even felt bereft of their language. Not many of them would have considered themselves cultureoriented people. But when Witste nog, koempel? came out, they all went and bought it. Many a tear was shed. It reminded them of who they were and where they came from. It restored their sense of self.

My point is this: culture defines us. Language defines us. Our traditions and our habits define us.

This year the Prince Claus Fund jury awarded a prize to a Lebanese cook. And why not? After all, culinary traditions define us.

I applaud the jury’s decision! It shows that you promote, protect and preserve culture in the broadest sense. You’ve been doing so for 20 years now and I salute you for it.

At the same time, you have by no means discarded culture in the more traditional sense of the word. In fact, one of your greatest achievements was your role in rescuing Mali’s ancient Timbuktu Manuscripts.

Most of you know the story, but I’m so proud of it I shall tell it again.

In 2012 the Prince Claus Fund got word through its network in Timbuktu that militants were planning to destroy the world-famous manuscripts. A secret operation was funded and set up, and by the time the militants finally arrived to carry out their threat, 95 per cent of the documents had already been smuggled to safety.

Manuscripts are only paper, you might say. Well, hundreds of Malians thought otherwise. They made the rescue possible, often at huge personal
risk. But they thought it was worth it. The manuscripts – partly in Arabic but also in local languages – represent knowledge. They are physical proof of a time, going back to the 10th century, when Timbuktu was an African centre of trade, learning and civilisation. That is a great source of pride for the Malian people, right up till today. It’s something worth risking your life for.

Of course, what we value most also makes us most vulnerable. Predators can sniff out vulnerability. So it’s hardly surprising that the likes of the Taliban, al Qa’ida and Da’esh target culture. We saw it with the Buddhas of Bamiyan in 2001, we saw it in Timbuktu in 2012 and we are still seeing it in Palmyra and other places.

In many other respects, too, culture is under siege. The space for culture is shrinking and artists are becoming isolated. Freedom of expression is being restricted and diversity is being threatened by intolerance and distrust. Violence and the fast pace of change are uprooting people, both physically and psychologically.

While some have grown insecure about their identity, others have had to literally leave everything behind: their house, their community, their homeland. They’ve seen their whole social fabric unravel and their history disappear before their eyes. They run the risk of losing themselves completely.

If ever there was a need for an organisation like the Prince Claus Fund it is now. And if ever there was a need for people like you, its laureates, it is now. Because you epitomise the achievements that Prince Claus envisioned when he accepted this gift from the people of the Netherlands: a fund that would further his ideals. Ideals that were summarised by Professor Anke Niehof, the first chair of the Fund’s board, in 2002, the first time the awards were presented after Prince Claus passed away:

‘[...] Respect for people’s own ideas, ideals and creativity, and [the] conviction that human agency can overcome adversity, discrimination and
deprivation.’

I hope the Fund will continue to safeguard the legacy of Prince Claus. I hope the award laureates – past, present and future – will continue to tell the stories and preserve the identities of those who need it most. We all need our own story, wherever we are.

Witste nog, koempel?

Thank you.