Mayor Frederik Zevenbergen spoke at the Geuzen Graves

On Friday, March 13, 2026, Mayor Frederik Zevenbergen delivered a speech during the commemoration at the Geuzen Graves on Emaus Cemetery. Read the speech below.

Dear ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, family members of the Geuzen, dear Mayor Karácsony,

In recent months, as a newly appointed mayor, I could not and did not want to ignore the Geuzen. The justified pride in these resistance fighters among fellow citizens and regional residents is impressive. Their story lives on.

Last Saturday, I walked a section of the Geuzen March. In the spirit of the Geuzen, a group of people walked from the Waalsdorpervlakte via the Oranjehotel to the Geuzen Monument.

And now we stand here, at the graves of the Geuzen who were executed on March 13, 1941.

On this morning, exactly 85 years ago, these men sat in their cells in Scheveningen. Some still had hope, even though they had been sentenced to death by the German occupiers more than a week earlier. Clemency requests had been submitted. Relatives had visited them.

“Next time, bring the children,” one of them asked.

Another asked for new shoes, a new suit, because everything was so worn out.

But around noon, hope faded. That was when the eighteen condemned Geuzen were taken from their cells. Fifteen were told their death sentences would be carried out that afternoon at five o’clock. Three of them, the youngest, received clemency and life imprisonment—a punishment that later turned out to be a hellish journey through concentration camps.

In their final hours, the men wrote farewell letters. Cigarettes were shared. Relatives who had not been reached earlier still managed to visit. Friendship, humanity, and dignity prevailed. And defiance.

Bernard IJzerdraat put on a pajama top that, with a bit of goodwill, could be called orange. To the 18-year-old Bill Minco, who received clemency, he said:

“Take revenge for us.”

The Geuzen comforted a comrade who, in his fear of death, had betrayed them. They forgave him. They did not want to die with hatred in their hearts.

As the German commandos approached, they knew the moment had come. One of the men started singing the Dutch national anthem. The others joined in.

As they left their cells, IJzerdraat led the way, wearing his orange jacket.

Prisoners left behind shouted, “Stay strong,” “Good luck,” “See you soon.”

And as they walked outside, they sang. The psalm verse grew louder and louder:

“Now I go up to God’s altars.”

Not long after, on the Waalsdorpervlakte, they were taken from trucks, along with three February strikers.

Soon after, the rifle volleys rang out.

Their lives were abruptly and cruelly ended.

What these men never knew was the impact of their deaths. The news of their execution shocked the Netherlands deeply. The poet Jan Campert wrote “The Song of the Eighteen Dead” about it.

And when the Germans left their bodies dishonored, a Katwijk dune planter took a great risk. As a dune manager, he was allowed into the restricted area. He planted marram grass on the spot where the men lay, so they could be found and reburied after the war.

The Geuzen Resistance fueled the fire of resistance in the Netherlands.

We know the story of Bernard IJzerdraat, the Schiedam teacher who, as early as May 15, 1940—just one day after the bombing—wrote his first Geuzen message. He called on Dutch people to form a Geuzen army and resist.

IJzerdraat had lived near the German border. He knew early on what Nazism was capable of: intolerance, discrimination, and the scapegoat policy that blamed Jews everywhere.

And we know the story of the men from the Flardinga hiking club in Vlaardingen. On May 14, 1940, they went to bombed Rotterdam to help. When they heard the Netherlands had surrendered, they immediately felt: we have to do something.

Through Arij Kop and his comrades here in Vlaardingen, the Geuzen Resistance began to organize. They gathered intelligence, made maps, and carried out sabotage. The network grew—not only in Schiedam, Vlaardingen, Maassluis, and Rotterdam, but in dozens of other places.

It is admirable that the Geuzen who survived the war kept their story alive. In honor of their fallen comrades and because their own wartime experiences marked them for life.

That is also why this year, for the 40th time, we are awarding the Geuzen Medal to someone who, like the Geuzen then, stands tall for freedom, human rights, and democracy: the mayor of Budapest, Gergely Karácsony.

Dear friends,

Later today, Mayor Karácsony will open the Minimuseum De Geuzen in our historic town hall. With this, we take another step in keeping their story alive.

Because that story must continue to be told.

The Geuzen were canaries in the coal mine. Ordinary men who instinctively reacted to injustice.

Thanks to their courage, we today live in a free country. A country where no single ideology is imposed and where people are free in their faith and in whom they love.

But we also know that hatred and intolerance from a small group can poison the minds of many. That is why we must remain vigilant.

As we see a global resurgence of autocratic leadership, wars, and threats of war, I will end with a question each of us can ask ourselves in silence:

Who today could be a new Geus?

Thank you for your attention.