Our Time in Utrecht: Transnational Reflections

Setting off on an adventure is never easy. It is scary, troubling, and, quite frankly, one of the most excruciatingly hard things to navigate. You face the unknown, the void, you close your eyes and jump. It’s a leap of faith. The first months in Utrecht have been brutal. Battling bureaucracy and the weather of doom? Not for the weak. Adjusting to an entirely different academic system? A game of survival. And yet, it is among the difficulties, the tears, and the ‘I can’ts’ that I have found community, care, and solidarity.

 

Looking back on this past year as a transnational student, I realize that the initial and apparent glamour of living abroad has faded. There’s something deeply tiring about having multiple nests, multiple homes scattered across different places. Of course, there is a significant degree of privilege in living abroad, but once the excitement of a new adventure wears off, you are left facing a new language, new people, and a new bureaucracy (and yes, Dutch bureaucracy can be truly exasperating).

 

The months I spent in Utrecht felt a little like sinking into dark blue water. It was a time of vulnerability. Being in the classroom felt both frightening and safe. Much of the study material, like the university system, was new, heavy, and exposing. I felt vulnerable in the academic environment: I wasn’t used to speaking so much, to writing, and being read. I felt that it was expected to explain where we come from, what our families are like, what kinds of chosen families we are building, and where. In the gender studies classrooms, I searched for a space to listen, read, and learn from those who live, and have lived, under fire. I found a space for grief and reflection, but also a space of comfort and privilege. Studying gender in Utrecht felt like watching a long, beloved film that makes you cry every time – one that connects you to pain, but in a place where you’re allowed to feel it.

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Being open to intimacy and risking being wounded is one of the most difficult but bravest things one can do nowadays. Making yourself vulnerable in a world driven by toxic, painful, and harmful systems that drain and decelerate you requires a lot. Though over and over again, community and companionship pushed me through the systemic sludge that was aiming to make me feel miserable in Utrecht. Looking for and finding genuine connection with people was the bridge I needed when coming to Utrecht and finding myself in a random place I should call home out of nowhere, in the middle of a breakup and a horrendous global political climate. Staying soft in hard times has been a life goal of mine for a long time now, but this last year has reminded me yet again that it is not possible to stay soft with oneself without intimate friendships that hold, balance and catch you. Tough times can’t be dealt with on your own. And there were a lot of tough times, believe me.    

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This work required a reconfiguration, but for long stretches in the Netherlands winter, we couldn’t find our way through. We were trapped in the density of texts, in the thick raindrops made bigger through the impact and speed of our bikes, in a constantly shifting social and political landscape in our classroom, amongst our peers, and beyond. We huddled, stuck in confusion and sticky with commiseration for months. The world is on fire, but the master's tools will never dismantle the master’s house, so what do we do with these words? A constant questioning that our teachers failed to answer, if they even listened to hear us ask. Important liberatory theories stretched above us, out of reach, eluding any application in our bodies or on the earth. 

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As a Gemma, I felt accepted by other GEMMAs and part of the community, but there was the lingering feeling that I was still on my own because everyone had different countries, classmates, teachers, and courses. 

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It feels a little cringy to even write this out, but I was so angry all the time. I think I was flying in rage, constantly, and I wanted to land so badly it made my soul ache. No wonder then that my semester in Utrecht was painful. I smoked more cigarettes than I should have and walked up more stairs than my body was willing to. The wind routinely cut through to my bones; the rain drenched those cuts like alcohol thrown onto a fire. And the protests, and the encampments, and the lecturers complaining about students missing class. Weren’t they angry, too? I kept thinking. Why weren’t they also shooting up, high with rage over the flat landscape of the Netherlands? 

 

At first glance, this picture of two figures putting on their rain jackets in our collage is nothing but an unsuspecting moment of shared routine (although I’ll admit it has caused a hysterical amount of giggles) that could easily be washed away by the greater coming-of-age-movie kind of memories. And yet, the person who chose this picture saw in it something more: the promise of care. Helping each other weather the storm – a simple gesture, an act of care that tells you, “You do not have to face this alone” – you zip each other’s rainjackets up and up and away you go, a little bit warmer, a little bit stronger. 

 

When the glamour of the international experience begins to fade, something far more meaningful takes place: the deep bonds formed with those who truly understand your struggles – because they’re going through the same thing. And so, the glossiness is replaced by something warmer: regular coffee and croissants at “Vegitalia”, where you talk, vent, and comfort one another. You build a nest in this new country – a temporary one, because it is only a matter of time before you must leave and start building all over again.

 

I often felt intimidated by others, and I felt certain that each person, though it takes a great deal of privilege to get there, was guided by a fire inside, a story that deeply motivated them to arrive in that classroom. I think I’m still intimidated by the reasons behind the fire inside me, but I know that this fire is alive. Riding my bike on cold nights to find a warm place where we could share and embrace that mixture of rage, fear, and the desire to build something was essential for me. To me, Utrecht felt like dark blue water, but also like a warm room. I see myself searching for markers on a Saturday night, knowing that even in a new city, there was a house where I could be welcomed. Now those memories feel farther away. Summer is over. I don’t know what our families look like today, or where the connections we built are going. What was that summer for us? And where, now, do we find space to grieve those who did not survive the summer under fire?

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Oh, I can’t count the times I was sitting at home, in my room, burning. Burning from anger, frustration, and sadness. But one person after another contributed their little, cooling drop of water to ease my fire, to gently restrict it, to channel it into motion instead of letting it numbly burn me. And for that, I am grateful every day. Grateful that I risked it. Grateful that I found personal, political, and spiritual intimacy that was worth every burn along the way! And who knows, maybe one day, we’ll master the flames and throw them right back at the injustices of the world. Together. 

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Eventually, the light returned, and with cheap coffee (2 euros before 11 am, dankjewell), we got braver and found ways to loosen our focus on the imperfections in our writing and perspectives. When we laughed together, the lofty ideas dripped into our crevices and those between us, gradually saturating and permeating us. Despite the endless rain, a new world began to, at least, feel possible, as long as we had each other. 

It’s the memories with all of us that make this past year so special. In our group, we have grown closer, as friends, humans, and international students trying to navigate life with all its intricacies and hardships. We have shared tears, laughter, hugs, discomfort, joy, and so many more things. But this is why we made it through. Every class, coffee, and meeting at night was an experience of sharing how we felt. I learned how to feel with and through all of you. It is okay to sit with but also share my discomfort. There was so much frustration that we all shared the burden of, but also so many lovely moments, small or big, full of gentle kindness or much-needed life advice. But we are not alone in this, and we also do not have to be. Each of us is good enough with all our complicated, heavy, and happy moments and personalities. This is what spending time in Utrecht has shown me and what I will always treasure. 

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We hugged each other in the damp, clutching onto our keffiyehs and knowing that was all we could do. I was furious. I had so much joy inside me, and I wanted to spread my arms wide and rise into the endless grey, radiant, toward the sun. Instead, I shook in the gales like a protest poster, begging for someone to do something. The only solace I found in this place that was not mine was the sight of you careening across the clouds with me, just as angry, just as tired. I knew you were also full of joy, with it nowhere to go, being choked by everything, everything. I could reach out, hold your hand, and bat my wings a little harder. So maybe you could rest for just a second. 

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Works cited in our collage

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Angelou, Maya. “Alone.” Poem. In Oh Pray My Wings Are Gonna Fit Me Well. Random House, 1975.

Anzaldúa, Gloria. “Preface: (Un)natural bridges, (un)safe spaces.” In This Bridge We Call Home: Radical Visions for Transformation. Edited by Gloria Anzaldúa and AnaLouise Keating. Routledge, 2022, pp. 1-5. 

Blofeld, John, trans. I Ching: The Book of Change. London: Mandala, 1978.

Davenport, Michael A. “3,090 Degrees Fahrenheit.” Oil on canvas, 2025. https://michaeladavenport.art/paintings/

Ferrante, Elena. My Brilliant Friend: The Four Volumes. Translated by Ann Goldstein. London: Europa Editions, 2025.

Glissant, Édouard. Poetics of Relation. Translated by Betsy Wing. London: Penguin Books, 2025.

Hobbs, May. Born to Struggle. Plainfield, Vermont: Daughters, 1975.

Jansson, Lars. Moomin: The Complete Lars Jansson Comic Strip. Vol. 8. Montréal: Drawn & Quarterly, 2015.

Mbaye, Aminata Cécile. Feminist Research Practice: Session 2 (Presentation). Utrecht. September 18, 2024. 

Minoliti, Ad. “Fantasias Modulares.” MASS MoCA | Massachusetts Museum of Contemporary Art, March 9, 2021. https://massmoca.org/event/ad-minoliti-fantasias-modulares/.

Oliver, Mary. “When I Am Among the Trees.” Poem. In Thirst: Poems. Boston: Beacon Press, 2006.

Pillow, Wanda. 2003. “Confession, Catharsis, or Cure? Rethinking the Uses of Reflexivity as Methodological Power in Qualitative Research.” International Journal of Qualitative Studies in Education 16 (2): 175–96. doi:10.1080/0951839032000060635.

Putuma, Koleka. “Graduation.” Poem. In Collective Amnesia: Poems. Cape Town: uHlanga, 2019.

Wynter, Sylvia. “The Pope must have been drunk, the King of Castile a madman: Culture as actuality, and the Caribbean rethinking modernity.” In Reordering of Culture: Latin America, the Caribbean, and Canada in the Hood. Edited by Ruprecht Alvina and Cecilia Taiana. Ottawa: Carleton University Press, 1995, pp. 17-41.

Zhadan, Serhiy. “So That’s What Their Family Is like Now.” Translated by Virlana Tkacz and Bob Holman. Words for War: New Poems from Ukraine, 2017. https://www.wordsforwar.com/so-thats-what-their-family-is-like-now.