The whole environmental policy in the Netherlands has no

Host: The rain had just stopped falling over Rotterdam, leaving the streets slick with reflection — puddles catching the bruised glow of streetlamps, neon, and the lingering pulse of a restless city. The wind from the Maas carried a faint scent of the harbor — oil, salt, and cold steel.

In a dimly lit café, tucked between narrow canals and tired apartment blocks, two figures sat by the window. Jack stared into a cup of black coffee that had long gone cold, his gray eyes clouded with fatigue. Jeeny sat across from him, her hands wrapped around a steaming mug, her gaze fixed on the city beyond the glass.

Pinned to the corkboard behind them, half-hidden under concert flyers and protest leaflets, was a scrap of newspaper — its headline bold, almost angry:

“The whole environmental policy in the Netherlands has no substance any more.”
— Pim Fortuyn

Host: The quote seemed to hum in the air — like the city itself knew it had been accused. The rain outside began again, softer this time, washing the dust but not the guilt.

Jack: “He wasn’t wrong,” he said finally, his voice low. “Policy’s just theater now — the kind of performance that makes everyone feel responsible without actually changing anything.”

Jeeny: “You think nothing’s changed?”

Jack: “Look outside.” He gestured toward the window, where the water reflected the flickering billboards advertising electric cars and bottled ethics. “Green slogans, plastic promises. The Netherlands used to lead in environmental innovation. Now it just recycles its own press releases.”

Jeeny: “That’s harsh.”

Jack: “It’s true.”

Jeeny: “You talk like the whole world’s lost its sincerity.”

Jack: “It has. We replaced vision with branding.”

Host: The rain thickened again, streaking the window until the city blurred — as if even the landscape refused to look itself in the eye.

Jeeny: “Maybe Fortuyn was frustrated because progress doesn’t move fast enough. Governments build policies like dikes — slow, careful, bureaucratic. Maybe that’s how it has to be.”

Jack: “Dikes are built to hold back water, not ideas. You can’t stop a crisis by drafting a committee.”

Jeeny: “You can’t fix it with outrage either.”

Jack: “Outrage is at least a start. It means someone still cares.”

Jeeny: “But caring isn’t the same as solving.”

Jack: “Neither is pretending.”

Host: A flicker of lightning illuminated their faces — hers, earnest and defiant; his, sharp, shadowed, and weary. The café’s neon sign sputtered in the rain, spelling “OPEN” in half-lit irony.

Jeeny: “You know what I think?” she said softly. “Maybe policy lost its substance because the people did first. We like green ideals, but not green sacrifices. We want clean air, but not less convenience.”

Jack: “Exactly. Environmentalism became a lifestyle, not a principle. Solar panels on the roof, diesel in the driveway.”

Jeeny: “You’re describing hypocrisy.”

Jack: “No, I’m describing survival. People don’t want to be heroes. They just want to live comfortably and die believing they did the right thing.”

Jeeny: “That’s the tragedy, isn’t it?”

Jack: “No. That’s the species.”

Host: Her eyes glistened — not with tears, but with anger. The kind born from loving something that keeps disappointing you. The wind rattled the glass, scattering their reflections like ghosts caught between what was and what should be.

Jeeny: “You talk about politics like it’s a disease. But policy is all we have left. Without it, there’s chaos.”

Jack: “Policy without conviction is worse than chaos. It’s choreography — movement without meaning.”

Jeeny: “Then what’s your solution? Tear it all down? Start again?”

Jack: “Maybe. Sometimes the system has to drown before it learns to swim.”

Jeeny: “That’s poetic.”

Jack: “No, that’s Dutch.”

Host: His attempt at humor broke through for a moment — brief, like lightning fading into dark water.

Jeeny: “You know, I met a student activist once in Amsterdam. She said every protest feels like a funeral for an idea. People march, chant, cry — and then go home to the same routines. Maybe that’s what Fortuyn was angry about. Not the policies themselves, but the apathy beneath them.”

Jack: “Apathy isn’t passive. It’s self-defense. You stop feeling when feeling doesn’t work anymore.”

Jeeny: “So you just stop trying?”

Jack: “No. You start adjusting your expectations.”

Jeeny: “That’s resignation.”

Jack: “That’s realism.”

Host: The clock above the bar ticked loudly in the silence that followed — its rhythm patient, indifferent, eternal.

Jeeny: “You’re wrong about one thing, Jack. Policy isn’t theater. It’s memory. It’s how a society reminds itself what it once valued — even when it forgets to act on it.”

Jack: “And what’s the Netherlands remembering now?”

Jeeny: “That compromise can be cowardice. That you can’t manage the climate like a budget spreadsheet.”

Jack: “Then why do they keep trying?”

Jeeny: “Because they’re afraid to admit how much control they’ve already lost.”

Host: A train horn moaned in the distance — long, mournful, like the voice of a future that had missed its stop.

Jack: “You still believe in reform.”

Jeeny: “I have to.”

Jack: “Why?”

Jeeny: “Because cynicism doesn’t plant trees.”

Jack: “Neither does faith.”

Jeeny: “No. But it stops us from cutting them down.”

Host: The rain outside softened, thinning to a gentle drizzle. The city lights blurred into watercolor — orange, blue, gold — reflecting across the wet pavement like the remnants of a dream the earth hadn’t woken from.

Jeeny: “Maybe Fortuyn’s line wasn’t an accusation,” she said finally. “Maybe it was a plea. He wasn’t condemning the Netherlands. He was daring it to remember what it used to stand for — vision, innovation, courage.”

Jack: “And what if that memory’s gone?”

Jeeny: “Then someone has to rewrite it.”

Jack: “With words?”

Jeeny: “With action.”

Jack: “And if action fails?”

Jeeny: “Then at least we’ll have lived by something true, instead of something convenient.”

Host: The camera would drift outward, through the rain-streaked window, past the café’s faint light, up into the restless skyline of Rotterdam — cranes frozen above the port, bridges arched like prayers.

Inside, two figures sat beneath a dying neon sign, still arguing about the soul of a nation and the heart of a planet.

On the wall, Pim Fortuyn’s words remained pinned — rain-speckled, unrelenting, waiting for a generation brave enough to answer them:

“The whole environmental policy in the Netherlands has no substance any more.”

Host: And as the wind moved through the narrow canals and between the tilted houses, the city seemed to whisper back — not defensively, but almost in sorrow:

“Then give it substance again.
Not in papers.
In people.”