The 10th kring of hell

Although I grew up in the Netherlands, I was raised on a strict diet of Filipino hospitality. My mom, queen of dinner parties, firmly believes that a night is a failure if there’s no karaoke and not enough food to feed a small army. However, as I’ve made more Dutch friends, a welcome side effect has been invitations into increasingly niche Dutch social rituals.

But here’s what blows my mind: a country that’s normally good at partying… Somehow came up with the kringverjaardag.

Now, to the untrained eye, the kringverjaardag seems simple: literally translating to “circle birthday”, survivors know that it’s anything but. There are concentric layers of unspoken social politics that govern the kringverjaardag; it’s an intricate, well-timed dance of social stamina and strategic small talk. 

The trials of the kringverjaardag begin even before you make it into the circular arena: first, you must artfully perform the greeting ritual. You might think you can get away with just greeting the host. Wrong. You have to congratulate everyone. And I truly mean everyone — the parents, the friends, the random acquaintances that somehow made the invite, the houseplant. I unfortunately missed this social cue at my first kringverjaardag, so by the time I tried to offer my belated congratulations, I was basically Rutte on a post-Toeslagenaffaire apology tour.

Fundamental to the kringverjaardag is its formation: a crooked circle of mismatched chairs. Getting this step right is crucial, as one wrong move and you’re relegated to talking about weather patterns for the rest of the night. Sadly for me and my tendency to show up late everywhere, this usually means that all the prime social real estate is already taken. Resultantly, I typically get wedged between the neighbour who is super keen to talk about his five-album collection of "Twentieth-century Dutch cigar wrappers" and the uncle who has been strategically positioned at the outskirts of the circle to minimise his political contributions to the evening.

All is good and well, and you move through the standard list of socially acceptable topics: how do you know the host, what do you do for work, and American politics if you’re feeling particularly adventurous (be careful what you wish for). However, the structural integrity of the kring is volatile, immediately failing when your designated “kring partner” leaves you, and all the people next to you are in conversations.

At this point, you have two options: 1) performing participation in someone else’s conversation that you’re too physically far away to actually join, so instead you must smile along awkwardly, or 2) excuse yourself to get some more borrelnootjes for the third time that evening. Neither is particularly appealing, although I would say the latter is the lesser of the two evils.

Yet, despite how socially awkward or gastronomically underwhelming they might be, it is important to remember that the kringverjaardag is ultimately built on gezelligheid; the deeply sincere desire to make sure everyone, from the neighbour to the houseplant, feels included. And I think I’m starting to get the hang of it: I’ve recently discovered that offering to help the host and being the one distributing the borrelhapjes around the circle grants you an unprecedented level of social clout, and thus mobility in conversations. As it turns out, even the 10th Kring of Hell is manageable — as long as you’re the one who ensures the logistical flow of the leverworst remains uninterrupted.

Marisca Westerhof is the winner of the 2026 Campus Columnist Competition. She has been selected among almost 50 candidates to write a column on DUB's English page every three weeks in 2026.