When the mayor of Apeldoorn announced plans to convert a vacant primary school into emergency housing for asylum seekers, the reaction wasn’t just bureaucratic pushback—it was a visceral, almost poetic rejection of what locals called “a bizarre solution to a self-inflicted wound.” The phrase, lifted from a parent’s frustrated comment during a town hall meeting, quickly became the rallying cry for residents determined to protect not just their neighborhood’s character, but the remarkably function of the building: a hotel.
This isn’t merely another NIMBY skirmish over refugee housing. It’s a collision of three urgent realities facing the Netherlands today: a chronic shortage of emergency shelter for asylum seekers, a hospitality industry still recovering from pandemic-era losses and a municipal leadership caught between humanitarian obligations and economic pragmatism. What makes Apeldoorn’s case particularly telling is how it exposes the fragility of short-term fixes in a system where long-term planning has repeatedly been deferred.
The school in question, De Windroos, has sat empty since 2021 after declining enrollment led to its closure. Located in the reseeded outskirts of the city near the Veluwezoom National Park, its red-brick facade and spacious classrooms once echoed with the laughter of children. Now, its hallways are slated to house up to 300 asylum seekers—primarily families fleeing conflict in Sudan and Syria—although the city simultaneously fights to keep three nearby hotels operational, arguing they are vital to regional tourism and employment.
“We’re not against helping people in need,” said Marije Vos, a local shopkeeper and spokesperson for the neighborhood association, during a recent interview. “But turning a school into a shelter while begging hotels to stay open? It feels like we’re treating symptoms while ignoring the disease. These hotels employ people from our community. They pay taxes. They’re part of the fabric.”
Her sentiment reflects a growing tension across Dutch municipalities, where the pressure to accommodate asylum seekers often clashes with local economic priorities. According to the Central Agency for the Reception of Asylum Seekers (COA), the Netherlands currently faces a shortfall of over 4,000 emergency shelter spots—a gap that has forced cities like Apeldoorn, Utrecht, and Eindhoven to improvise with schools, office buildings, and even former prisons.
Yet critics argue this reactive approach overlooks deeper structural issues. “The Netherlands has known for years that asylum inflows would remain volatile due to global instability,” said Dr. Elise van der Meer, a migration policy researcher at Utrecht University, in a recent interview. “But instead of investing in scalable, dignified reception centers—perhaps even repurposing underused military barracks or vacant office parks—we keep defaulting to the nearest available building, regardless of its intended use. That’s not policy. it’s panic.”
data from the Dutch Hospitality Association (Koninklijke Horeca Nederland) reveals that the hotel sector in Gelderland province, where Apeldoorn is located, lost nearly 22% of its workforce between 2020 and 2023. While occupancy rates have rebounded to 80% of pre-pandemic levels, many smaller establishments remain financially fragile. The three hotels Apeldoorn aims to protect—Bilderberg Hotel ’t Veluws Hof, Hampshire Hotel – Apeldoorn, and Bastion Hotel Apeldoorn—collectively employ over 120 people, many of whom are part-time workers or students from the local vocational school.
“Losing even one of these hotels would be a blow,” said Hans de Vries, regional director for Koninklijke Horeca Nederland in Gelderland. “It’s not just about jobs. It’s about conference traffic, weekend tourism, the ripple effect on restaurants and transport. When a municipality chooses to house asylum seekers in a building that could otherwise support economic activity, it needs to justify that trade-off with more than just convenience.”
The city’s justification, outlined in a memo leaked to De Gelderlander, hinges on cost and speed. Converting De Windroos is projected to cost €1.8 million and take eight weeks—far less than the estimated €4.5 million and six-month timeline for constructing modular units on municipal land. Officials similarly note that the school’s layout—separate classrooms, a cafeteria, and outdoor play areas—makes it uniquely suited for family units, reducing the risk of overcrowding and tension.
Still, the symbolic weight of repurposing an educational space cannot be ignored. In Dutch culture, schools are more than buildings; they are civic anchors, symbols of investment in the future. To see one transformed into a temporary shelter, even with the best intentions, stirs unease. “It sends a message,” said Vos, “that we value short-term fixes over long-term solutions—for both newcomers and our own kids.”
Meanwhile, the asylum seekers themselves remain largely absent from the public debate. Advocacy groups like VluchtelingenWerk Nederland have urged municipalities to involve residents in planning processes early, not just to build empathy but to counteract misinformation. “Fear often fills the vacuum when information is scarce,” said Fatima El-Mansouri, a community liaison with the group. “When we’ve held open dialogues—showing photos of actual living conditions, explaining vetting procedures, highlighting the temporary nature—resistance often softens. People don’t fear what they understand.”
As Apeldoorn prepares to welcome its first occupants to De Windroos later this spring, the city finds itself at a crossroads. The decision may alleviate immediate pressure on the COA system, but it also risks deepening divisions between those who see compassion as a finite resource and those who believe a society’s strength lies in how it shelters its most vulnerable—without sacrificing the institutions that produce daily life possible.
Perhaps the real question isn’t whether a school can house asylum seekers, but why we’ve allowed ourselves to reach a point where such a choice feels necessary. And until we answer that, the phrase “this place is bizarre” may echo far beyond Apeldoorn’s quiet streets.
What do you think—can communities balance humanitarian duty with economic reality without sacrificing either? Share your thoughts below.
