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In the depths of my childhood when I lived in the Netherlands, an incident occurred that has stuck with me to this day. It was a cold day, as is expected in the time when autumn transitions to winter. A blanket of dark clouds smothered out the Sun, their stomachs laden with trillions of offspring, just waiting for the first water to break. Just another reminder of my nation's eternal enemy -- the deep blue gnawing at its borders. But that is a story for another time, my friends. We must turn away from murderous sea, and turn to my childhood home, a small cottage that bordered the slums.
My father was a distinguished chocolatier, whose job often took him away from home for long periods of time, and my mother was a busy housewife. Those factors, combined with my adolescence and my distaste for school work led me to wander around town on my own for hours on end. My travels around the tiny world of my birthplace often took me to the slums, a cesspit of societal misfits and undesirables. Criminals, degenerates, immigrants.
I was on one of these adventures through the city when I came upon that sight. A group of a dozen or so men, women, and children stood in the center of an intersection, surrounded by police bearing the insignia of the immigration services. One of the officers was conversing with one of the immigrant men. A few moments after I had begun observing their interaction, the officer turned to one of his colleagues and motioned toward one of the nearby buildings. In the moment I did not understand what order had been given, but looking back on it, it should have been obvious that it was an order to search the building.
