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In the Shape of Home

In the Shape of Home

In the Shape of Home

How is home made? Through conversations, traditions, shared histories, and the people who choose, day after day, to carry them forward.

by

Cholwe Shilukobo

3 min read

3 min read

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Blog Image
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Cholwe Shilukobo

Cholwe Shilukobo

Cholwe Shilukobo


Music spills from one market stall into the next. Older women stand in clusters, gisting and laughing amongst themselves, shopping bags hooked around their wrists. Stopping to say hello to one auntie and “nice to meet you” to another. Gold jewellery glints from every direction. Bangles stack upon bangles, rings catch the sunlight, and oversized sunglasses sit proudly atop carefully styled hair.


Children weave between tables piled high with fabric, while salon doors swing open and shut in a steady rhythm. Somewhere, an uncle erupts into laughter loud enough for half the Poort to hear. The smell of Pom and Saoto soup hangs in the air, dancing to the sweet tune of Kibbeling sizzling.


This is Zuid-Oost. This is the Bijlmer on a Saturday.


For decades, Amsterdam Zuid-Oost has carried a reputation shaped by headlines, statistics, and second-hand stories. Yet, wandering through the markets of Ganzenhoef and the Poort, another picture emerges—one built not from stereotypes but from people. People selling fabric and baked goods. People teaching sewing classes. People preserving memories. People building lives.


I came searching for stories of inspiration. What I found instead was something quieter: a community of people carrying things forward.


Culture. Memory. Craft. Care.


Home.


At a stall lined with beautiful Congolese fabrics, Liputa, Auntie Angie and Auntie Marie greeted us warmly. They told us about building a life in the Bijlmer, about the challenges of running a small business, and creating opportunities where none existed before.


“It was impossible to get a job,” Auntie Angie explained. “So, I started my own.”


The work is not easy. Market stalls cost money, customers ask for discounts, and taxes pile up. Yet, when asked what she would do instead, she looked almost puzzled.“What do you mean, something else?” she chuckled. “I’m just trying to make this work… I don’t even think about that honestly.”


But what stayed with me was not her description of entrepreneurship. It was the way she spoke about the future.

Auntie Angie fondly related how young girls often stop by to browse the fabrics; “they all look so beautiful!” She described her stall as a meeting point of sorts. People from across the African diaspora and beyond stop by to browse the fabrics, exchange stories and designs, reconnecting with familiar traditions. In many ways, Auntie Angie and Marie’s stall, and those alike, act as informal gathering places; small threads of home woven into the fabric of the city.


“You need to do your best,” she told us. “Be the ministers of Amsterdam.”


Then, pointing first at herself and then at us, she added:

“I know how hard your mothers work for you. When I see you, I see you the same way your mother does.

I’m also your mum. Your success is my success.”


The market is full of these small acts of continuation, these extensions of familiarity.

Cholwe Shilukobo


One stall over, a baker carefully arranged slices of cake for customers. She has been running her business for eleven years, but in many ways, the story began long before that. Her grandmother ran a similar stall in Suriname, a legacy she now continues in Amsterdam. Over the years, she has built a loyal clientele, many of whom return week after week. Before we left, she handed us a slice of cake to take with us. Just because!


Elsewhere, a group of casket dancers gathered around a table, laughing and sharing a drink. We were initially drawn to them because everyone seemed to know who they were. Stall owners waved at them. Shoppers stopped to greet them. They had become a familiar part of the market’s social fabric.


For fourteen years, Alan and his team have performed at funerals across the Netherlands. Many might imagine this work to be emotionally draining, yet they described it differently.


“We bring the party,” they told us.


Their performances, he explained, are not about forgetting grief, but about remembering loved ones with joy. They perform for people of all backgrounds and cultures, helping families celebrate lives rather than simply mourn losses. Again, the conversation returned to the idea of carrying something forward.


For some, it was memory. For others, it was craft.


This same sentiment emerged again at a clothing shop in Bijlmer Poort, Jekah. Ghanian designer Asbon comes from a family with a long history of fashion and craftsmanship. Today, he designs garments, teaches sewing classes, and shares skills with a new generation. For him, clothing is more than fabric— it is storytelling.


What makes the Bijlmer special, he explained, is not simply the preservation of culture, but the way culture is shared. His customers come from everywhere. African prints, silhouettes, and traditions move between communities, connecting people who may otherwise have little in common.



What emerged throughout the day was a picture of a neighbourhood built not on isolation, but exchange. Stories passed between generations. Recipes carried across oceans. Skills taught from one pair of hands to another.

Again and again, people spoke about what they had received— and what they hoped to pass on. As the afternoon wore on, these moments began to feel less like coincidences and more like a language of their own.


Walking through the market, we bumped into my Uncle Endy, who has spent years building a business supplying Nigerian Agege bread and now Chin Chin to shops across the area. Before long, he was introducing us to other business owners, pointing us towards people he thought we should meet.


"Reach out whenever," he said before disappearing back into the crowd.

It was a small interaction, but one that echoed many of the conversations we had throughout the day. The Bijlmer revealed itself not only through businesses or market stalls, but through relationships. People knew one another here. They looked out for one another. They connected one another.


Later, while waiting for her bus, a Ghanaian woman who had lived in Zuid-Oost for twelve years told us about her Saturday routine. Every week she comes to the Ganzenhoef market early in the morning, buys what she needs, and heads home.

She wished she could stay longer and talk with us, but her bus was arriving. Before she left, she gave us both a hug, wishing us well.


If you recall, it was not the first time that day we had been treated like family.


The more people we met, the more difficult it became to think of the Bijlmer as simply a neighbourhood. It felt closer to a living archive: a place where memories, traditions, recipes, skills, and stories are carried from one person to another.

Perhaps that is what makes a place feel like home. Not the buildings or the streets themselves, but the people who choose to invest parts of themselves into it, and into each other



What emerged throughout the day was a picture of a neighbourhood built not on isolation, but exchange. Stories passed between generations. Recipes carried across oceans. Skills taught from one pair of hands to another.

Again and again, people spoke about what they had received— and what they hoped to pass on. As the afternoon wore on, these moments began to feel less like coincidences and more like a language of their own.


Walking through the market, we bumped into my Uncle Endy, who has spent years building a business supplying Nigerian Agege bread and now Chin Chin to shops across the area. Before long, he was introducing us to other business owners, pointing us towards people he thought we should meet.


"Reach out whenever," he said before disappearing back into the crowd.

It was a small interaction, but one that echoed many of the conversations we had throughout the day. The Bijlmer revealed itself not only through businesses or market stalls, but through relationships. People knew one another here. They looked out for one another. They connected one another.


Later, while waiting for her bus, a Ghanaian woman who had lived in Zuid-Oost for twelve years told us about her Saturday routine. Every week she comes to the Ganzenhoef market early in the morning, buys what she needs, and heads home.

She wished she could stay longer and talk with us, but her bus was arriving. Before she left, she gave us both a hug, wishing us well.


If you recall, it was not the first time that day we had been treated like family.


The more people we met, the more difficult it became to think of the Bijlmer as simply a neighbourhood. It felt closer to a living archive: a place where memories, traditions, recipes, skills, and stories are carried from one person to another.

Perhaps that is what makes a place feel like home. Not the buildings or the streets themselves, but the people who choose to invest parts of themselves into it, and into each other


As we prepared to leave the market, Auntie Angie reminded us not to forget her and Auntie Marie:


"We're your aunties," she said.


Looking around the market one last time, it was hard not to smile. The women selling fabric. The baker continuing her grandmother's legacy. The dancers keeping memories alive. The designer teaching the next generation. The uncles introducing neighbours to neighbours. The aunties making sure nobody leaves without a hug.


I came to the Bijlmer looking for inspiration. What I found was something quieter, but far more meaningful. Inspiration was not hidden in extraordinary achievements or grand success stories. It lived in the everyday acts of care that stitched this community together— in the businesses built from necessity, the traditions kept close at heart, and the people who continue to make a home for others.


For all the stories told about the Bijlmer, this is the one I will remember, the one we must remember: a community rich in culture, generosity, and care. A place built by people who have carried their histories across oceans and transformed them into something shared.


Here, home is not inherited. It is made.

Cholwe Shilukobo

Cholwe Shilukobo

As we prepared to leave the market, Auntie Angie reminded us not to forget her and Auntie Marie:


"We're your aunties," she said.


Looking around the market one last time, it was hard not to smile. The women selling fabric. The baker continuing her grandmother's legacy. The dancers keeping memories alive. The designer teaching the next generation. The uncles introducing neighbours to neighbours. The aunties making sure nobody leaves without a hug.


I came to the Bijlmer looking for inspiration. What I found was something quieter, but far more meaningful. Inspiration was not hidden in extraordinary achievements or grand success stories. It lived in the everyday acts of care that stitched this community together— in the businesses built from necessity, the traditions kept close at heart, and the people who continue to make a home for others.


For all the stories told about the Bijlmer, this is the one I will remember, the one we must remember: a community rich in culture, generosity, and care. A place built by people who have carried their histories across oceans and transformed them into something shared.


Here, home is not inherited. It is made.


One stall over, a baker carefully arranged slices of cake for customers. She has been running her business for eleven years, but in many ways, the story began long before that. Her grandmother ran a similar stall in Suriname, a legacy she now continues in Amsterdam. Over the years, she has built a loyal clientele, many of whom return week after week. Before we left, she handed us a slice of cake to take with us. Just because!


Elsewhere, a group of casket dancers gathered around a table, laughing and sharing a drink. We were initially drawn to them because everyone seemed to know who they were. Stall owners waved at them. Shoppers stopped to greet them. They had become a familiar part of the market’s social fabric.


For fourteen years, Alan and his team have performed at funerals across the Netherlands. Many might imagine this work to be emotionally draining, yet they described it differently.


“We bring the party,” they told us.


Their performances, he explained, are not about forgetting grief, but about remembering loved ones with joy. They perform for people of all backgrounds and cultures, helping families celebrate lives rather than simply mourn losses. Again, the conversation returned to the idea of carrying something forward.


For some, it was memory. For others, it was craft.


This same sentiment emerged again at a clothing shop in Bijlmer Poort, Jekah. Ghanian designer Asbon comes from a family with a long history of fashion and craftsmanship. Today, he designs garments, teaches sewing classes, and shares skills with a new generation. For him, clothing is more than fabric— it is storytelling.


What makes the Bijlmer special, he explained, is not simply the preservation of culture, but the way culture is shared. His customers come from everywhere. African prints, silhouettes, and traditions move between communities, connecting people who may otherwise have little in common.


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