Conditional Toleration and Social Peace in Seventeenth-Century Holland Rethinking a Historical Model of Immigration and Diversity

Introduction

In recent years, several scholars have called for a reevaluation of how liberal democracies understand the rights and interests of majorities (Koopmans 2018; Koopmans and Orgad 2023). The Dutch sociologist Ruud Koopmans advocates majority rights as a corrective to liberal paradigms that prioritize minority protection. According to Koopmans, this liberal emphasis has become increasingly one-sided in modern Western democracies. Ongoing large-scale immigration, along with elite and institutional commitments to minority rights, has generated unprecedented tensions for native majorities, whose cultural and political influence in society has become less secure. His colleague Christian Joppke, however, disagrees, arguing that majority traditions should not be shielded from critique. Referring to Ruud Koopmans's national context, Joppke invokes Dutch history. He characterizes Koopmans's argument as “a deep affront to what it traditionally means to be ‘Dutch,’ a world-open, seafaring liberal people at least since the pre-Reformation days of Erasmus” (Joppke 2023, 268).

This exchange illustrates a pattern in contemporary migration debates: historical references are frequently mobilized to legitimize competing normative positions (Bertossi, Duyvendak, and Foner 2021). The Netherlands has more often been praised for its longstanding openness to immigration and diversity, particularly during the seventeenth century, a period still commonly referred to as the Dutch “Golden Age.” This era, characterized by remarkable economic success and cultural growth in the cities of the province of Holland, serves as a touchstone for successful immigration and tolerance in both academic and popular narratives. Forbes magazine in 2017 asked, “What really makes a nation great?”, using “lessons from the Dutch Golden Age.” The magazine contends that “immigration created a society in which it was normal to live and work together with different kinds of people” (Karabel 2017). The article cites the director of the Amsterdam Museum, who links lasting cultural values such as entrepreneurship, creativity, and tolerance back to this historical era. In her historical assessment of tolerance, Amy Chua even states that the “United States is a hyperpower on the Dutch model” (Chua 2009, 325).

Several historians express themselves similarly. In The Cambridge Companion to the Dutch Golden Age, Geert Janssen explains how “newcomers appear to have integrated with relative ease into Dutch society.” Although concerns about crime and healthcare costs were raised, they did not result in open resistance or organized protests. As a possible reason, Janssen refers to “accommodating policies of local governments,” including “an open attitude towards citizenship and the emphasis on judicial equality.” These policies helped build a sense of community with immigrants (Janssen 2018, 56–7). The renowned migration historian Leo Lucassen draws on the past in current Dutch public debates. In 2022, when the newspaper de Volkskrant sought guidance on addressing labor market shortages, Lucassen provided a “historical lesson” from seventeenth-century Amsterdam: “let migrants come and go.” The demand for labor at that time was huge, leading to an “open-door policy.” This caused resentment, but according to Lucassen, it was never politicized: “Amsterdam was not a democracy. The city was run by an elite of regents who ignored that resentment” (Dekkers 2022).

Such references to the past illustrate what philosopher of history Benedetto Croce famously described as “all history is contemporary history.” Historical cases are not only objects of study but also resources for theorizing societal issues in the present. As memory studies have shown, historical narratives are continually used, politicized, and reshaped (Hutton 2016). Today, the Dutch seventeenth century functions not merely as a historical episode, but as an implicit or explicit model of immigrant incorporation: if seventeenth-century Dutch cities successfully managed migration and diversity through openness and tolerance, then why should modern societies not strive to do the same? This paper examines such analogies: To what extent can seventeenth-century Dutch cities be invoked as models of immigration and openness in contemporary liberal-democratic societies? This encourages us to think more broadly about how the past can, or cannot, inform questions about migration and diversity today.

The reason for addressing this question in this paper is that a closer reading of the same historical literature complicates the optimistic narrative. Janssen also points out that not all dissenting groups enjoyed the same level of religious freedom, that strangers were often distrusted, and that some immigrants—especially poor Scandinavians—faced harsh living conditions (Janssen 2017, 246; Janssen 2018, 54, 56). Lucassen mentions religious discrimination and the exclusion of immigrants from political office, characterizing early modern Dutch tolerance as “relative” to the standards of its time (Lucassen and Lucassen 2011, 203–4). A more detailed review of the historical literature reveals an even more complex picture, full of examples that sharply contrast with the laudatory image. By today's standards, seventeenth-century cities in the province of Holland enforced rigid rules of discrimination and inequality against dissenting or marginalized groups, including immigrants.

One element of the positive narrative is, however, firmly established: the absence of significant open conflict or violent clashes between newcomers and natives (Kuijpers 2005, 27; Kooi 2018, 221; Vanhealen 2018, 244; Prak 2023, 128). This is striking when compared to other immigrant societies, such as nineteenth-century France and Italian immigrants, the United States and Irish newcomers, or present-day Western societies and Muslim migrants (Lacorne 2003; Lucassen 2005; Koopmans 2020). The Dutch seventeenth century thus raises a broader analytical puzzle: how can large-scale immigration coincide with relative social peace? The discriminatory and hierarchical regime of early modern Holland suggests that stability cannot be attributed solely to openness, tolerance, or accommodation.

The argument of this paper progresses in four steps. First, it traces the historical development and current use of the congratulatory image of Dutch seventeenth-century immigration and openness. Second, it examines what this construct accurately depicts: the cities in Holland—the main destinations for newcomers in the Dutch Republic and thus the most relevant to study—were indeed empowered by immigration, supported by various forms of openness and accommodation. The third and fourth sections complicate this view by highlighting the exclusions faced by immigrant communities. Section three focuses on religious minorities and the limits of toleration, while section four addresses crime, welfare, governance, and public attitudes toward migrant diversity. Collectively, these sections argue that societal stability during this period was maintained not despite but partly because of exclusionary practices, reflecting a form of regulated and conditional incorporation. Ultimately, these patterns caution against treating seventeenth-century Holland as a model for today.

The paper engages with scholarship on tolerance and immigration in the Dutch seventeenth century, drawing on secondary literature and several well-known contemporary printed sources. It particularly connects insights from specialized literature on religious pluralism and urban governance in cities in Holland to broader questions about migration and integration. The main goal is to assess whether seventeenth-century Dutch cities can plausibly be presented as historical examples supporting openness in modern debates on immigration and integration. Since history is inevitably contemporary history, this paper is no exception: it highlights the importance of historical perspective for current issues, while also revealing a central paradox. In trying to learn from the past, it shows that the act of drawing lessons is often ambiguous and resists the clear-cut conclusions often expected of history.

The Construct

We are fortunate to enjoy the rare happiness of living in a republic where every person's liberty to judge for himself is respected, everyone is permitted to worship God according to his own mind, and nothing is thought dearer or sweeter than freedom. (…) Amsterdam is a fine example of a city that enjoys the fruits of this liberty, with its great growth being the admiration of all nations. In this flourishing republic, this superb city, people of every sect and nation live together in the greatest harmony (Spinoza 2007, 257).

In his Tractatus Theologico-Politicus, published in 1670, Benedict de Spinoza described the Dutch Republic and his hometown of Amsterdam. A descendant of recently arrived Jewish immigrants who had fled the Portuguese Inquisition, Spinoza took advantage of the Republic's remarkable intellectual climate to develop groundbreaking philosophical ideas, making him one of the most influential thinkers of early modern Europe. The book conveyed a message that many of Spinoza's contemporaries might have found paradoxical: governments foster social harmony not by enforcing uniformity but by allowing people the freedom to hold divergent, even opposing, opinions. It was precisely those states that denied such freedoms that were torn apart by internal strife. That Spinoza held up the Dutch Republic as a model demonstrates that the idea of seventeenth-century Dutch tolerance was not a later invention. It was already advanced and praised at the time.

More contemporary writers depicted Dutch cities in such ways. The Olive Wreath of Peace, a 1648 collection celebrating the peace treaty with Spain, praised Holland as a “free haven and hospitable refuge, welcoming foreigners with open gates” (Diverse Authors 1649, 379–80). It claimed that people of different religions and customs lived peacefully together, united by a shared love of freedom. Although mutual hatred might have been expected, they valued each other's freedom and merged into a unified whole, boosting Holland's reputation. Later, an anonymous Letter from Holland discussed liberty of conscience for an English audience, again linking the province's growth to openness and immigration. The “vast Conflux of people” and religious liberty contributed to its success; like bees, foreign merchants and artisans brought honey to the common hive (Simonutti 2018, 1108).

Today's ideals of Dutch tolerance are justified by linking them to history, but this connection was already made at the time. The rebellion against the Habsburgs and the distinct qualities of the new Dutch Republic were seen as a return to ancient liberties. In 1597, Amsterdam burgomaster C.P. Hooft told his fellow officials that religious tolerance reflected “the ancient manner of governing this land and this city.” Later, the political thinker Pieter de la Court expressed regret over what he saw as a decline in tolerance, which he considered a betrayal of Holland's “original maxims” (Kaplan 2002, 11–3).

This idea of notable tolerance was not just about self-image; it also surprised foreigners (Kaplan 2002, 17; Schama 1987, 257–88). During a time when the prevailing dogma held that religious unity and conformity were crucial for social harmony and divine approval, such openness could evoke both admiration and disgust. A Swiss army officer named Jean Baptiste Stouppe, who took part in Louis XIV's invasion of Holland in 1672, wrote a hostile account of Dutch religious life. Although officially a Protestant country, Stouppe described the Republic as a place where everyone had “a complete liberty to celebrate their mysteries,” resulting in a confusing mix of sects and beliefs. He argued that commerce was more important than religion, asserting that Mammon was better served than God, and questioned whether Holland could truly be called a religious nation. What surprised him most was “the complete liberty” given to Judaism (Stoupe 1673, 32, 84–5, 99–100).

A more ambivalent reaction came from former English ambassador Sir William Temple. He expressed a certain contempt for the Dutch: it was a place where tempers were “not airy enough for joy and not warm enough for love.” He described a land lacking refined passions, where one would not want to stay too long; it made a better mistress than a wife. Yet Temple also noted that the state shone like a comet, partly attributing this to its exceptional approach to handling differences. “Men live together like Citizens of the World, associated by the common ties of Humanity, and by the bonds of Peace, Under the impartial protection of indifferent Laws.” Its people were “so easie, among so different Opinions; Of which so many several persons are often in every man's eye; And no man checks or takes offence at Faces, or Customs, or Ceremonies he sees every day.” This attitude maintained ongoing civil peace and was a key factor in the Republic's rapid population growth and its extensive expansion of trade and wealth (Temple 1976, 88–9, 97, 106–7, 133).

By the eighteenth century, religious liberty and economic success were more widely appreciated, influencing opinions about the Dutch Republic. Pierre Bayle called it “the grand arch of refugees,” and Diderot praised its commercial achievements, crediting them to “the liberty of conscience and the mildness of a government that attracts a stream of people from different lands” (Bayle 1720, 1631; Diderot 2013, 80–1). In 1788, Friedrich Schiller depicted the Dutch Revolt against the Spanish Habsburgs as a heroic fight for freedom. It was “a land where freedom unfolded its gladdening banner” amid a “confluence of all peoples” (Schiller n.d., 16). With the rise of nationalism in the nineteenth and twentieth centuries, historiography increasingly focused on the “Dutchness” of the era. Toleration remained valued, but immigration received less emphasis. Even in the late twentieth century, when Simon Schama published his influential The Embarrassment of Riches, immigration played a rather negligible role in his analysis of the cultural formation of Dutch identity (Schama 1987, 587–96).

The resurgence of immigration in the Netherlands in the late twentieth century renewed focus on the topic. This often took the form of what we had already seen in the introduction: viewing the past as a model of openness and tolerance for today. In 1984, a monument was unveiled in Amsterdam for Kerwin Duinmeijer, a 15-year-old boy of Antillean origin murdered by a white youth. Its inscription stated: “Let Amsterdam, once the stronghold of tolerance, continue to carry the torch of toleration” (Kossmann 1987, 48; Gijswijt-Hofstra 1994, 40–44).

In his academic assessment of the Netherlands’ so-called “accommodating” immigration policies, Geert Janssen also draws explicit connections to the positive ideas of Dutch tolerance and diversity that circulated during the period (Janssen 2017). While he acknowledges some friction and negative feelings caused by the arrival of newcomers, he downplays them as rhetorical tools used for specific political or religious purposes. In contrast, he highlights efforts to shape shared urban and Dutch identities, with religious organizations serving as support networks. Janssen concludes that “migration was both the cause and the outcome of the Dutch Golden Age” (Janssen 2018, 56–7, 64). In another publication, he highlights the value of migration history, noting that it breaks down “nativist fantasies” and can foster more positive views of present-day immigration (Boer and Janssen 2023, 11).

In numerous academic and popular reflections, Leo Lucassen draws active parallels to today. Late twentieth-century Dutch policies faced criticism for excessive multiculturalism, but Lucassen argues that practices in the seventeenth century went even further. Jews, for example, had a certain level of judicial independence. Multiculturality and migration are “inseparably linked to Dutch history” (Lucassen 2006b, 97; L. Lucassen and Lucassen 2011, 214–5). His overall portrayal is one of ease and openness: during times of economic prosperity, immigrants were welcomed with the attitude of “come right in, you’re most welcome.” In cities like Amsterdam, “it didn't matter whether the immigrant came from Abcoude [a Dutch village] or Kyrgyzstan” (Lucassen 2016). This was a period when “authorities were not kept awake by problems with migrants and their children” (Lucassen 2006a, 14). In a popular presentation, he assures his audience that “civic authorities did not care whether immigrants adapted quickly or not” (Lucassen 2016). Challenges such as crime, healthcare costs, and cultural differences were “accepted as a trade-off.” Integration was achieved quite easily after a few generations (Lucassen and Lucassen 2011, 190, 232).

In publications on Rotterdam's migration history, social scientists Paul van de Laar and Peter Scholten also project the notion of the multicultural back into history. They want to support the view that “Rotterdam has always been a multicultural city,” and they are particularly enthusiastic about the idea of “superdiversity”—a level of diversity so great that no single majority group can be identified. Rotterdam already fit this description in the seventeenth century (Laar and Schoor 2019). Although tolerance back then was mainly pragmatic and Protestant Christianity stayed dominant, Rotterdam was still an “open city” and not unique: Dutch towns were “open to the foreign,” being “the prosperous region that eagerly displayed its diversity” (Laar and Scholten 2023, 14, 30, 45, 50). In a newspaper interview, the historian Judith Pollmann reflects more broadly on early modern peaceful coexistence (Bal 2025). Unlike France, for example, such coexistence in the Netherlands rested on the acceptance of the other's existence. Although fundamental disagreements persisted, “people lived on the same streets and remained in dialogue.” Pollmann contrasts this situation with the current political climate, in which pluralism in the Netherlands is treated as a new phenomenon. In her view, contemporary society shows a diminished willingness to accept others in the same street, “thereby making coexistence difficult.”

Such ideas also appear in historian Dirk Hoerder's comprehensive overview of migrations in the second millennium. He emphasizes “fundamental similarities” across different historical periods, showing the inherent fluidity of culture and identity. The book argues that “Ethnic pluralism and multiculturalism, the catchwords of the 1990’s, have been societal practices throughout history.” One example he provides is the seventeenth-century Netherlands, which, “like any of the European colonial powers at the height of imperial activity, became a multicultured society.” It attracted those seeking greater prosperity and freedom, and, as he quotes Dutch sociologist Jan Lukassen, “the perfect combination of the two.” This historical significance is substantial: it foreshadowed America's ideology of limitless opportunities (Hoerder 2002, 2, 4, 277, 291, 579–81; Lucassen 1994). Like other scholars, Hoerder does not offer precise definitions of what he terms the “multicultural,” yet he nonetheless emphasizes continuity between past and present.

This ongoing celebration of the Dutch “Golden Age” as a symbol of tolerance is notable in at least one way. In recent decades, progressive scholarship has called for a critical examination of the darker aspects of Western history. The Dutch seventeenth century has not been exempt: recent attention to slavery, colonial violence, and other forms of oppression has even caused many to stop using the congratulatory term “Golden Age” altogether (Helmers, Janssen, and Noorman 2021). However, the positive image of Holland as an open and welcoming society for immigrants has endured. Today, this resilience may partly reflect alignment with other progressive values, especially the promotion of a positive and inclusive view of immigration. The next section begins a critical re-evaluation of this positive narrative, beginning with its accurate aspects.

What the Construct Gets Right

The rise of Dutch prosperity in the seventeenth century was not sudden (Blockmans 2002; Prak 2023, 19, 84–5). By the mid-1500 s, Holland's towns already had significant economic power, especially as hubs of international maritime trade. Cities like Amsterdam, Dordrecht, Leiden, and Haarlem had grown large and prosperous, with shipping routes reaching as far as the Baltic Sea. Holland was also a key province within the collective political entity of the Seventeen Provinces of the Netherlands, which was controlled by the Habsburgs and included much of present-day Belgium, Luxembourg, and the northern tip of France. However, its influence should not be exaggerated. Holland was still an economic satellite of Antwerp in Brabant, then Europe's leading commercial center, and its cities had not yet surpassed the historical prominence of Bruges and Ghent. Furthermore, Holland was hardly a place of major scientific or cultural innovation.

The situation around 1670, often considered the peak of the “Golden Age,” was quite different (Prak 2023). By then, Holland had become the leading province of the independent Dutch Republic, which William Temple described as “the Envy of some, the Fear of others, and the Wonder of all their Neighbours” (Temple 1976, 1). Urban growth was enormous. Leiden grew from 15,000 to 72,000 residents, Haarlem from 16,000 to 50,000, and Rotterdam from 7,000 to 50,000. Amsterdam's population increased from 30,000 to 200,000, making it one of the largest cities in Europe (Israel 1995, 328–32). These towns were lively centers of economic innovation, scientific discovery, and cultural development. The province managed a global colonial trading empire stretching from the Americas to the East Indies. Leiden hosted the most prominent university in Protestant Europe, and the relatively open intellectual climate of Holland nurtured and attracted figures such as Grotius, Descartes, Spinoza, Locke, and Bayle. Perhaps most notably, there was an extraordinary burst of painting, which is still visible in international museum collections today. To understand this transformation, one factor cannot be overlooked: immigration.

Some background in political and religious history is necessary (Kooijmans and Misset 2002). By the 1560s, the Habsburg authorities were enforcing Roman Catholic orthodoxy against the growth of Protestantism, especially Calvinism, in the Seventeen Provinces; executions of heretics had already been common for decades. In 1566, Calvinist iconoclasts attacked Catholic churches, leading to intensified repression. Many Calvinists fled, trying to challenge Habsburg rule from abroad. Their leader, the moderate Calvinist nobleman William of Orange, launched several unsuccessful invasions from the east. However, in 1572, more militant Protestant groups operating from the sea unexpectedly captured several towns in Holland. From there, larger parts of the Netherlands, including wealthy cities in Brabant and Flanders, came under rebel control. Although Calvinists were a minority within this new political entity, Calvinism was established as the public religion. The success of the revolt was partly due to the harsh measures taken by the Habsburgs, which even alienated many Catholics and reduced their willingness to oppose the new authorities.

From a migration history perspective, a key development was that the Spanish Habsburgs reconquered Brabant and Flanders, but not Holland. This led to a large-scale migration from southern cities to the north, implying a significant transfer of commerce from one of Europe's most advanced regions to Holland's already well-connected and growing cities (Briels 1987; Aseart 2004; Obdeijn and Schrover 2008, 31–8). Although not exclusively, many of these migrants were Calvinists. Several towns in Holland quickly recognized the potential of these newcomers and actively sought to attract them. Municipal authorities issued public invitations promising housing in former monasteries, subsidies for the textile industry, relocation assistance, legal protections, and often, free citizenship (burghership). This status granted access to guild membership, political rights, social standing, and social welfare, including orphanages and poor relief. Largely because of this influx, cities like Leiden, Haarlem, and Delft doubled in population, while Amsterdam transformed into Europe's leading commercial hub, surpassing Antwerp, whose population halved.

Due to prior connections, the transfer of commercial knowledge and skills was relatively easy. Immigrant merchants brought networks, capital, and technical expertise. The rapid growth of the textile industry in Leiden and Haarlem, Amsterdam's increasing dominance in the capital and staple markets, and the founding of the East India Company (VOC) all relied on contributions from the south. The immigrants’ Calvinist beliefs strengthened the position of Calvinism in the Republic. According to Simon Schama, a narrative developed portraying the Dutch as a new chosen people, with Holland as a new Israel. However, as Geert Janssen maintains, this self-image was partially shaped by southern refugees (Janssen 2017, 242–3). These immigrants also played a key role in advancing the arts and sciences. Many prominent figures of the era, including the painter Frans Hals, the poet Joost van den Vondel, the scientist Simon Stevin, the architect Lieven de Key, and many professors at Leiden University, came from the southern provinces.

Around 1600, a notable group of immigrants began arriving in Amsterdam: Portuguese Catholics who had once been Jewish but had converted under pressure from the Inquisition. After traveling through various parts of Europe, some of these “Conversos” settled in the rapidly growing city and gradually found opportunities to return to Judaism. This marked the beginning of a sizable Jewish community, which attracted both Sephardic and Ashkenazi Jews and eventually numbered several thousand (Israel 2017; Kaplan 2017; Swetschinski 2017). While Jewish life in much of Europe was forbidden or heavily restricted, with enforced residence in ghettos or mandatory dress codes, Amsterdam offered much more freedom. Jews could settle anywhere in the city, dress like other residents, and potentially gain burghership. Hardly ever were they physically threatened. Starting in 1612, synagogues were built, culminating in 1675 with the construction of a prominently visible Portuguese synagogue, the largest in the world at that time. The city also granted the Jewish community a degree of autonomy, including the right to create their own laws, administer justice, levy taxes, and expel members when necessary.

The economic benefits of this migration were significant. Jewish merchants established networks that supplied Dutch cities with a diverse range of goods, including exotic items like fruits, figs, wine, olives, foreign currency, sugar, and Brazilwood. Leading community members engaged with Christians in business and intellectual pursuits. The scholar and Talmudic expert Menasseh ben Israel was often consulted and highly respected by Christian scholars. Members of the Jewish community also actively participated in civic and national events, including public celebrations and funerals. They wrote prayers and hymns praising the House of Orange, and in 1642, Stadholder Frederik Hendrik of Orange made an official visit to a synagogue (Kaplan 2019, 230–1). This immigrant group also produced Spinoza, although he was eventually exiled from his Jewish community for unorthodox ideas. Inspired by the economic benefits of Amsterdam's Jewish community, other cities, such as Haarlem and Rotterdam, attempted to attract Jewish immigrants, with mixed results. This openness to Jewish life was arguably the most remarkable aspect of Dutch tolerance.

A much larger wave of immigration came from Germany and Scandinavia, including many impoverished people (Kuijpers 2005; Obdeijn and Schrover 2008, 49–67; Manen 2011). The hardship and destruction caused by the Thirty Years’ War made the prosperous Dutch cities attractive destinations. Many migrants provided essential labor across various sectors, especially in maritime trade and the textile industries. They were often admitted to guilds, and participation in different civic associations helped them integrate socially. Most of these newcomers came from Lutheran regions, and their ability to keep their faith made Dutch cities even more appealing. Lutheran churches were established in cities such as Amsterdam, Leiden, and Haarlem. The most notable one was the grand domed church on Amsterdam's Singel canal, opened in 1671 and clearly visible to visitors arriving at the port.

Smaller immigrant groups also contributed to the diversity, including Scots, English, Swiss, French, and Armenians. In the late seventeenth century, after the economic boom peaked, thousands of French Huguenots (also Calvinists) arrived, fleeing religious persecution under Louis XIV (Obdeijn and Schrover 2008, 38–42). Dutch cities actively sought to attract these newcomers by offering access to guilds and citizenship. Besides migration-driven diversity, Dutch towns already had significant internal religious variation, with dissenting groups often including very sizeable numbers of Catholics, smaller numbers of Mennonites and Arminians—a dissenting form of Calvinism. This pluralism manifested itself in many civic rituals and institutions that crossed confessional lines, such as commemorations of historical events, Latin schools that often remained generally Christian, and Amsterdam City Hall, completed in 1665, which featured a mixture of general antique and Christian imagery (Frijhoff and Spies 1999, 173; Spaans 2004, 401; Prak 2023, 234). Such structures made it easier for immigrants of different religious beliefs to participate in civic life. Over time, many culturally distinctive features of immigrant groups gradually faded, with Jews as a notable exception. Migrants from the Southern Netherlands often intermarried, and their descendants increasingly identified as locals (Aseart 2004, 317–23). Similarly, Lutheran churches, which initially held services in German or Norse languages, gradually switched to Dutch starting in the mid-seventeenth century (Spaans 2004, 421–23).

The reputation of seventeenth-century Holland for tolerance, therefore, seems well justified. Considering this history, it is even more reasonable to view immigration positively and be puzzled by the current rise in anti-immigration sentiment in Dutch politics. Historian Marijke Gijswijt-Hofstra, however, has already linked the celebratory stories of early modern Dutch tolerance to the concept of “invented traditions,” as developed by Eric Hobsbawm: a supposed historical practice of toleration is used to inspire the present and future (Gijswijt-Hofstra 1994). But as she notes, while personally supporting current practices, a more detailed historical analysis of actual practices complicates the picture. To understand how Dutch society maintained stability and unity despite large-scale immigration, a more nuanced sociological and historical analysis is indeed necessary.

What the Construct Gets Wrong: The Limits of Toleration

In 1610, Amsterdam's authorities faced increasing unrest. The rising visibility of Jews in the city led to rumors that Jewish men engaged in “carnal intercourse” with Christian women, tried to secretly convert Christians, and blasphemed Christ. To reduce tensions and maintain order, authorities imposed stringent measures: Jews were forbidden from all sexual relations with Christian women, including prostitutes, and from “conversing with the women and daughters of these lands.” They were also barred from holding public offices, and citizenship was not hereditary, requiring each generation to re-acquire it (Deursen 1991, 45; Swetschinski 2017, 77–80; Wallage 2023). In 1615, the States of Holland asked Hugo Grotius to write a treatise on the Jewish presence, in which he supported such restrictions. His view was that an overly assertive minority could threaten religious and, therefore, political unity (Wilde 2017).

Jews in Amsterdam faced a rigid system of discrimination (Israel 2017; Kaplan 2017; Swetschinski 2017). Throughout the period, they were excluded from most guilds and trades, denied access to government roles, and prohibited from converting others or criticizing Christianity. The tolerance shown to Jews was always provisional. Seventeenth-century “toleration” differed significantly from modern notions of human rights: it rather implied grudgingly enduring something unpleasant. It thus entailed acceptance under strict conditions, provided Jews accepted their subordinate role, refrained from causing offense, and did not impose a financial burden. When the Jews sought to build their large Portuguese synagogue, they first had to convince city officials that their contributions to the city's peace and prosperity were sufficient and that they posed no threat (Vanhealen 2018, 228). The internal ban on Spinoza can also be viewed this way: the community likely worried that his radical ideas would provoke Christian hostility and threaten their collective standing. These fears were not unfounded. Public discourse about Jews often remained hostile, and Jewish settlement remained forbidden in various towns and the countryside.

As fellow Protestants, Lutherans generally faced fewer restrictions (Frijhoff and Spies 1999, 398–402). They could more often settle in cities, marry locals, and automatically pass burghership to their children. However, they remained excluded from public office and university professorships and faced clear limits on their religious practices. Their churches had to remain modest: located among houses without towers or bells. Authorities enforced these limitations firmly. In 1604, after a Calvinist minister launched a fierce attack on Lutheranism, Amsterdam Lutherans sought support from Hamburg pastor Philipp Nicolai. His pamphlet compared Calvinism to Islam and warned the city's magistrates of damnation if they did not accommodate Lutherans. The magistrates responded by confiscating the pamphlet, banning Lutheran services, and expelling several leaders (Manen 2011, 113–5). Elsewhere, Lutheran expression also faced resistance: in Leiden, the inscription “here is the gate of heaven” above a house church was deemed provocative and removed, while cities like Rotterdam, The Hague, and Alkmaar ordered the demolition of Lutheran churches deemed too prominent or built without permission (Visser and Ch 1983, 45; Frijhoff and Spies 1999, 398–401). These limitations may help explain why many Lutherans converted to Calvinism over time (Manen 2011, 259).

In this context, the claim that it made no difference whether immigrants came from Abcoude or Kyrgyzstan seems questionable. The statement cannot be tested literally, as there is no evidence of immigrants from the latter country. However, since Kyrgyzstan's population was mostly Muslim, their hypothetical settlement would likely have raised concerns similar to those associated with Jews and Lutherans. The issue was not just hypothetical: converting from Christianity to Islam was punishable by death under the law of the States-General. The goal was to mirror the death penalty for apostasy in Sharia law. Although the penalty was never enforced, its existence was used effectively to pressure so-called renegades—Dutch sailors who converted while in captivity in North Africa—not to return (Kaplan 2019, 248–52). Colonial possessions in Asia might have become a new source of Muslim immigrants, but VOC policies were clear: employees could not bring Asian partners, as this would be “detrimental with regard to reproduction” (Niemeijer 2012, 39).

Discrimination was not limited to primarily migrant religions like Jews and Lutherans. Tolerance toward native dissenting communities, such as Mennonites, Arminians, and especially Roman Catholics, was also conditional, depending on whether they avoided causing offense or disrupting public order (Kooi 2018). Catholics were seen as the greatest threat and were only permitted to gather in hidden churches without any outward signs of worship. They often had to bribe local officials to get permission for their meetings. The Reformed Calvinist Church, on the other hand, enjoyed the status of a “public church,” closely connected to civic authority (Spaans 2004, 388–404; Eijnatten and Lieburg 2005, 172–7; Kaplan 2019, 27–8). Its ministers, institutions, and social welfare received state support, and the church participated openly in civic events, such as the appointment of magistrates, public executions, and military ceremonies. Reformed churches were allowed to be prominent in town squares, often featuring impressive towers and bells. Over the course of the seventeenth century, Calvinism also grew significantly among the population (Prak 2023, 140). So while most European societies supported religious uniformity, Dutch cities were among those that chose a more multi-confessional approach, but one based on carefully regulated order and discipline (Hsia, R 2002, 4; Kooi 2018, 209).

Unlike today's nationally and internationally regulated immigration policies, seventeenth-century Holland and the Dutch Republic left such matters largely to local authorities. The Dutch provinces united first under the Union of Utrecht (1579), and its treaty guaranteed freedom of conscience and banned persecution (Kaplan 2019, 178). This gave immigrants some leverage to appeal to higher authorities: when Amsterdam initially refused Lutherans a place of worship, they petitioned the States-General, which pressured the city to change its stance (Hiebsch 2016, 10). Towns were also forbidden to enforce unique clothing rules for Jews (Wilde 2017, 430). Still, the States-General emphasized that the level of toleration was primarily determined by local authorities, who adjusted their policies based on local conditions. For example, Delft, Gouda, and Schiedam excluded Jews entirely. Enkhuizen, a mainly Calvinist town, allowed little room for dissent, while Haarlem, where Calvinists were a minority, offered more space for others (Spaans 1989; Manen 2011, 163).

The Lutheran case in Amsterdam already shows that minorities were not just passive recipients of policies (Frijhoff and Spies 1999, 179–82). They actively negotiated their roles, trying to expand opportunities and test boundaries. When Amsterdam initially denied Jews the right to establish a synagogue and cemetery, they started negotiating with rival cities. Concerned about losing Jewish merchants, Amsterdam made concessions. The construction of the grand synagogue in 1675 also followed negotiations, with Jewish leaders again suggesting they might leave (Wallage 2023, 51, 60). In Enkhuizen, lobbying by Lutheran immigrants eventually led authorities to loosen their harsh restrictions (Manen 2011, 163). However, the balance of power in this give-and-take was not equal: Calvinists remained the dominant force, while migrant minorities kept a low profile. To avoid trouble, the Jewish nation maintained strict internal control, forbidding its members from debating Christians or mocking their faith (Kaplan 2017, 164–5; Swetschinski 2017, 95–6). Lutheran preachers regularly expressed themselves similarly, and in 1633, Lutheran leaders in Amsterdam typically chose not to install an organ in their new church, fearing it would provoke Calvinist opposition (Manen 2011, 152–3, 170).

Historians of religious pluralism have long recognized that Dutch toleration was far more limited than contemporary or later celebratory accounts suggest. Some argue that it was mostly a myth, or a concealed form of intolerance, and that, as far as toleration existed, it was a pragmatic arrangement aimed at serving economic and political goals (Gijswijt-Hofstra 1994; Israel 1995). Andrew Pettegree describes it as a tool that “could be used as ruthlessly and cynically as persecution and intolerance to advance particular political ends” (Pettegree 1996, 183). Others caution against judging by modern human rights standards, promoting a more descriptive and contextual approach that recognizes various motives, including genuine opposition to fanaticism, as well as pragmatic concerns of commerce and politics (Kooi 2018; Kaplan 2019). Since Calvinists were initially only a minority, efforts to enforce religious uniformity could have ignited a civil war with unpredictable outcomes in a hazardous international environment. Thus, authorities had valid reasons to ignore militant Calvinist demands for further restrictions. Conversely, granting even more room for dissenting minorities would likely have provoked harsher resistance from those more confrontational Calvinists. Civic regents thus continually balanced measures to prevent disorder. While city regents were unelected, they stayed close to those they governed and remained attentive to public opinion (Prak 2023, 6).

Benjamin Kaplan argues that the presence of a public church next to more covert religions “maintained a semblance, or fiction, of religious unity” (Kaplan 2019, 185). It created undesirable but still endurable conditions for both Calvinists and dissenters during a period of religious instability. Christine Kooi points out that Dutch toleration was not a planned policy but rather “evolved, bumpily and haphazardly,” as a result of local circumstances (Kooi 2018, 213). Raingard Esser has shown that Amsterdam chorographies from the early seventeenth century, like those of other cities, emphasized unity and largely ignored immigrants and religious diversity (Esser 2006, 270–2; 2012, 62–3, 83–5, 132). Only later in the century did they sometimes start to portray diversity as an asset. This reflects a broader trend: in the early decades of the seventeenth century, limitations were often stern, but they gradually relaxed after religious coexistence proved manageable and immigrant communities showed their value to the cities. Tellingly, the Amsterdam Lutheran church of 1671 was much more prominent than that of 1633. Still, even throughout much of the eighteenth century, Dutch public discourse remained far more appreciative of religious concord than of religious pluralism (Eijnatten 2003).

These reflections in the academic literature mainly focus on multi-confessionalism, but their insights still need to be fully applied to migration research, understanding how Dutch cities managed to avoid large-scale conflict despite significant immigration. In many modern immigrant societies, public religious expression by immigrant groups often triggered nativist outrage and violence, as seen in nineteenth-century Britain and America, where Irish Catholic processions, parades, and churches sparked nativist anger and violence (Lacorne 2003; Lucassen 2005). In contemporary Europe, the public visibility of Muslim communities remains a key point of populist protest. The relative absence of such confrontations in seventeenth-century Holland cannot simply be explained by policies of “accommodation” or “judicial equality”. Instead, civic authorities ensured there were very few public displays that could offend the natives. This regulatory framework, we will see, extends to other potentially inflammatory aspects of immigration.

What the Construct Gets Wrong: Mechanisms of Exclusion

One of Rembrandt's most moving drawings, dating from 1664, shows a young woman hanging on a pranger with a small axe beside her. Later research identified her as Elsje Christiaens, an 18-year-old Danish girl. She was an immigrant from Jutland who had unsuccessfully searched for work in Amsterdam. Unable to pay the rent, Elsje faced her landlady's threat to seize her belongings. The situation escalated when the landlady started hitting Elsje with a broom. In retaliation, Elsje struck the landlady with an axe, causing her to fall down the stairs to her death. Elsje was arrested and sentenced to death. After a public strangling at Dam Square in Amsterdam and several blows with the axe, her body was displayed outside the town next to the murder weapon “to be consumed by the air and the birds” (Kuipers and Prak 2004, 189–9; Schmidt 2020, 1–2). What makes Rembrandt's work stand out compared to that of many of his artist colleagues is that he captures the tragic end of this short-lived migrant life in a tenderly humane way.

Elsje's story was as exceptional in its tragedy as it was typical of the age (Schmidt 2020). Like all European societies, the cities of Holland punished criminals in ways that seem brutal by today's standards. Penalties included public executions by hanging or beheading, the breaking on the wheel, as well as corporal punishments like whipping, branding, or cutting off ears, and humiliating displays at the pillory. For a long time, it has been claimed that immigrants were not unfairly targeted (Lucassen and Lucassen 2021, 50). Detailed studies now challenge this idea (Kamp and Schmidt 2022; van der Heijden, Luk, and Sint Nicolaas 2025). Gaps remain, yet the emerging picture suggests that immigrants faced harsher interrogations, fewer settlement opportunities, and a higher chance of expulsion and physical punishment. Migrant women, in all likelihood, also faced even more severe treatment on average.

Next to criminality, potential economic burdens can be a major concern about immigration. Dutch authorities recognized that large-scale immigration contributed to economic growth, but they also aimed to prevent newcomers who might strain community resources. By the standards of that era, Holland's cities had strong social institutions, including orphanages and almshouses for the elderly and infirm (Prak 2023, 121–35). “Charity seems to be very National among them,” observed William Temple (Temple 1976, 88). Yet there was a persistent fear that outsiders would overwhelm these institutions, leading to exclusionary measures at various levels. City walls were closed at night, but during the day, people could enter through the gates. In Amsterdam, the most open city of Holland, guards were repeatedly instructed to keep beggars and vagabonds out. In the port, ship owners faced fines if beggars entered the city via their ships (Kuijpers 2005, 121–3). Within the city, the methods of deterrence were especially harsh from today's perspective: begging was illegal, and those caught faced a nearly rightless existence in houses of correction, where they endured forced labor, such as beating hemp or rasping tropical hardwood. The orphanages and almshouses also systematically prioritized natives. Official burghers received the most comprehensive care, followed by regular native residents, with newcomers coming last (Spaans 1989, 186; Kuipers and Prak 2004; Kuijpers 2005, 288–324). Overall, research indicates that many immigrants reaped little benefit from the wealth they helped create, and Dutch cities during the seventeenth century experienced increasing levels of economic inequality (Kuijpers 2005, 12–4; Kennedy 2017, 147–8; Prak 2023, 122–4).

Another important method used to prevent economically burdensome immigration was alluded to earlier: religious migrant communities generally had limited or no access to public welfare institutions and were largely responsible for supporting their own members in need (Spaans 2002; Kuipers and Prak 2004, 235–8; Israel 2017, 102–3). Complaints about begging Jews or Lutherans were forwarded to community leaders, who understood that their existence depended on the rule of not causing too many burdens (Hell 2024, 347). In Amsterdam in 1628, impoverished Lutherans complained that they were excluded from public alms and redirected to Lutheran poor relief (Kuijpers 2005, 307–8). The regents also threatened to expel poor elderly Lutherans if the Lutheran community did not cover expenses (Spaans 2002, 263). Migrant groups were thus turned into “problem owners” of economically troublesome immigration. This had clear effects; communities increasingly built their own social institutions and took steps to prevent the poor from settling in. In 1620, for example, the Amsterdam Jewish community offered up to 70 florins to individual poor Sephardic Jews if they agreed to leave Amsterdam. Hundreds of Jewish migrants were thus transported by boat to other cities (Wallage 2023, 58–9). Still, all of this also provided an advantage to Lutherans and Jews, as it helped preserve internal unity (Kaplan 2007).

Another important aspect is the political influence of immigrants. Could they be disloyal or threaten to seize political power? Various measures were taken to prevent that. Leiden, for instance, demanded certificates from newcomers’ places of origin, declarations of good behavior, and an oath of loyalty (Aseart 2004, 273–4). When becoming burghers, immigrants in all cities had to swear their undivided loyalty and obedience in so-called “burgher oaths” (Frijhoff and Spies 1999, 182–4; Kuijpers 2005, 125). Serious violations were met with fines, expulsions, and harsh punishment. Additionally, not only were immigrants with a non-Calvinist background automatically excluded from holding political office, but also wealthy Calvinists. Newcomers were seen as less knowledgeable about the land and its people, and less connected, loyal, or reliable (Frijhoff and Spies 1999, 190, 196; Aseart 2004, 260–1). As Amsterdam burgomaster C.P. Hooft explained: government positions required certain qualities, like seriousness and a peaceable disposition, that were found more often among natives, “than among those who had come here from other lands and regions” (Deursen 1991, 50). When Southern Calvinist immigrants arrived in the 1570 s and 1580 s, some exceptions to this older rule were made. However, radical Calvinists in Leiden, including several immigrants, plotted a violent coup in 1586. The perpetrators were beheaded, and this incident led to tighter restrictions on immigrants holding public office (Mueller 2016, 86–9).

There is some debate among historians about whether we can genuinely call southern migrants immigrants—overall, the term can be difficult to translate into a context without modern national borders. These people came from the same overarching political entity, normally spoke Dutch, were often Calvinists, fought a common war against the Habsburgs, and frequently already had ties to the cities of Holland; in a sense, they were compatriots (Schepper 2000, 32; Aseart 2004, 23). Yet these exclusion rules reveal that they were still perceived as outsiders, and public discourse frequently framed them as such. In 1614, Amsterdam minister Jacobus Trigland warned that southerners sought “to adorn and display outward beauty, forgetting meanwhile to cultivate the inner and heavenly adornment of the inward person.” The adoption of such habits would provoke divine punishment. Plays and poems described them as vain, dishonest, and excessive (Briels 1987, 59–66).

Around 1618, theological and political disputes between Calvinist hardliners, known as the Gomarists, and the more lenient Arminians nearly led to a civil war in the Dutch Republic. Migrants and locals participated on both sides, but Arminians often accused Gomarists of being mostly southern immigrants who brought fanaticism to traditionally moderate Holland (Aseart 2004, 292). During political conflicts as late as 1672, Pieter de la Court, the son of Flemish migrants, opposed the House of Orange and was slandered by Orangists as a foreigner—a “stinking and rotten Walloon” (Mueller 2016, 122–3). In his defense, De la Court minimized his migrant background by emphasizing that he was born in Leiden (Westeijn 2013, 20). Johannes Mueller and Geert Janssen argue that we should interpret such smears as opportunistic rhetoric rather than signs of principled anti-migration feelings (Mueller 2016, 84–123; Janssen 2017, 244). That is indeed plausible, but it remains telling that public discourse so easily fell into xenophobic frames.

Many more examples could be included. A magistrate in Leiden argued that people should not compliment immigrants too frequently, as it might make them overly demanding (Briels 1987, 78). A play by Bredero contained a typical sentence directed at a young woman: “he is a stranger, you a burgher's child. He is held in little grace, you are dearly smiled” (Kuijpers 2005, 119 “Hij is een vremdelingh, ghy bent een burgherkint, Hy is hier niet geacht, ghy syt hier seer bemint.”). A popular genre in the theatre was short comedies mocking Germans. These migrants were often called derogatory names, such as “mof” or “poep,” and portrayed as dumb, rude, drunken, and greedy, often outsmarted by Dutch characters (Luk 2019; Kuijpers 2005, 38,181,194). Reformed ministers publicly criticized Jews as shameless, untrustworthy, and eager to deceive Christians (Kaplan 2017, 162). Among the discourses used by immigrants, especially those from the South, are expressions of dissatisfaction with ongoing discrimination and a lack of recognition of their contributions (Briels 1987, 79; Deursen 1991, 59, 60; Aseart 2004, 295, 31). However, immigrants often expressed gratitude to Holland, which they said had welcomed them so generously (Mueller 2016, 106–7, 117–9; Kaplan 2017, 168–9). Considering the standards of the time, these compliments might have been sincere, but we should also consider the risks for immigrants who did not express approval.

Concerns about crime, burdens on social institutions, political influence, and disloyalty are some of the most inflammatory native fears associated with immigration. As seen in today's Western societies, these issues can provoke open resistance and organized protests. The fact that Dutch cities did not experience such resistance, again, cannot simply be explained by “accommodating policies” or “judicial equality.” Compared with today's Western immigrant societies, the Dutch civic authorities in the seventeenth century took firm measures to prevent the native population from suffering too many negative impacts. This also highlights the relevance of this historical case in modern heated debates.

Conclusion

In the seventeenth century, the cities of Holland managed to avoid major conflicts between locals and newcomers amid substantial migration and religious volatility. Considering the tensions surrounding immigration in today's Western societies, it is understandable that observers look to this period for guidance. Then, as now, a common explanation highlights “soft” values and policies: immigrants allegedly faced a government that was gentle and prioritized judicial equality, accommodation, and toleration. Some scholars today frame this in multicultural terms, with diversity being openly displayed and resentment ignored. From this perspective, the Dutch seventeenth century appears to offer a historical argument in favor of openness today.

Yet, such interpretations rest on a misunderstanding. By seventeenth-century standards, Dutch cities were indeed open and tolerant, and to contemporary visitors they may have appeared remarkably stress-free in their treatment of religious and cultural differences. But that was a low standard: the period was marked by sectarian conflict and strident intolerance. Policies toward dissenters and marginalized groups, including immigrants, were restrictive and hierarchical by today's norms. Understanding the social stability of seventeenth-century Dutch cities, therefore, requires attention not only to accommodation but also to regulation and institutional inequality.

Conflicts between natives and newcomers can escalate when either group resorts to protest or violence. In the cities of Holland, such outcomes were unlikely. Immigrants understood that their presence and freedom of worship depended on conditions: if they became an economic burden or disturbed civic peace, they risked collective punishment, including restrictions or expulsion. Communities such as Lutherans and Jews developed internal discipline to avoid offending locals and to care for their own poor, preventing them from becoming a burden. Civic authorities thereby protected native residents from potential harms of immigration—crime, welfare costs, or cultural disruption—rather than accepting them as unavoidable trade-offs. Local governments, with broad regulatory authority and minimal interference from external institutions, could shape policies suited to local circumstances.

Interpreting this case in modern terms is complicated. Current uses of terms such as “tolerance” and “multicultural” cannot be easily applied across different historical periods. Dutch cities welcomed immigrants from diverse cultural backgrounds, but their approaches were by no means “multiculturalist” in today's sense. Neither was it always clear who might count as part of the dominant majority or as a migrant minority. For Christians and Jews, the distinction was straightforward. But Calvinism was initially heavily influenced by people from Flanders and Brabant, who were seen as somewhere between strangers and compatriots. This complicates the “native majority”–“immigrant minority” divide. In many cities, especially in the early seventeenth century, Calvinists were not a majority, and even when they came from outside, they could have more privileges than native Catholics or Mennonites. Still, established residents generally held advantages in political offices, welfare systems, and public representation.

The seventeenth-century Dutch cities show how far Western societies have come in their treatment of immigrants. Restrictions that once seemed obvious—such as bans on sexual contact or public conversations between migrant men and native women—would be unthinkable today. Freedom of religious expression and the right to critique dominant worldviews have shifted from conditional privileges to established legal rights. Immigrants now have significant access to public welfare rather than being responsible for caring for their own poor. In seventeenth-century Holland, established populations were institutionally protected and privileged in ways that go far beyond what is compatible with modern liberal-democratic norms. Greater weight should therefore be given to historical differences than to presumed continuities.

Ultimately, seventeenth-century Holland shows that stability amid diversity relied not on liberal multiculturalism avant la lettre, but on a particular early modern mix of openness, institutional hierarchy, and social control. Immigration was permitted, but within a framework that protected established populations and imposed clear conditions on minority communities. Reading this case today calls for caution: the absence of large-scale conflict did not mean equality, and relative tolerance did not translate into symmetrical inclusion. Using seventeenth-century Dutch cities as models for contemporary accommodation risks overlooking the regulatory structures that underpinned that coexistence. This historical comparison can shed light on current challenges, but only if it recognizes the institutional asymmetries that made past stability possible.