The theater was packed with enthusiastic families—grandparents clutching flowers to be given to the ballet stars on stage, entire families, babies and toddlers barely able to sit upright, stuffed into the velvet seats. I didn’t see a single empty seat before the lights dimmed.

The curtain rose with two young girls seated on stage. A quiet, bucolic scene with minimal movement. One of the girls was Asian, which struck me. Then, two minutes later, the curtain dropped and rose again on another pair—this time, two much older girls assuming the same posture, suggesting that the first two had grown into young women. Soon, two male dancers entered, and the couples moved around the stage in swift, flowing sequences. Notably, the boys were Asian—slim, elegant, their muscles well-formed but their frames more delicate than their Caucasian female counterparts. Almost more feminine.

Then entered the main character—the lady of the house, in this scene portrayed as the spoiled daughter of the estate. And again, she was played by an Asian girl. Judging by her face, perhaps fifteen.

Her movements were precise. Not as dramatic as some of the secondary leads, but her posture, gestures, and facial expressions were exact. Perfection without drama. She appeared in nearly every scene over the 120-minute performance.

Watching her and the two Asian boys move around the stage, tears ran down my cheeks. Pride overtook me. This was the Dutch National Ballet Academy. And the only two male leads were Asian—as was the female lead. Scanning the stage, assessing the movement of each of the 300 performers, it was clear: they were the best. Not selected because their parents donated money, as Western media narratives often suggest. Simply because, by any eye, they stood out. 

They were the best.

Then Arla entered, along with a dozen other six- or seven-year-olds playing children in the snow. Their movements showed no trace of ballet training—and I say this not unkindly, but honestly. The same applied to the others. This scene could have been from a school play, with children who had never taken a single ballet class. The choreography was rough. The children's movements were not synchronized. At one point, Arla forgot what she was supposed to do. Her movement stood out—awkward, offbeat.

And just like that, the performance ended. I found myself in the overly crowded hallway, waiting to pick her up. Cedric’s mother stood beside him, complaining about how long the show had been and how repetitive the movements were. Not a single comment about the leads being Asian. Not a word about how astonishing it was that teenagers—children still—could perform at that level, and as a hobby, no less.

At one point in my life, I believed all humans shared the same basic values. I thought that when someone failed a performance, or saw others do better, it would stir a sense of shame—and a desire to improve. I thought pride should be earned, not felt undeservedly. I believed that when someone truly enjoyed something, they would want to excel at it, to master it. That success could only come through repetition and discipline. That only through hardship could one truly feel pride.

None of those beliefs hold for the group standing over there. This group seems to exist for fun. To feel pride without achievement. To remain untouched by shame.

Shame—God forbid—is considered a sinful feeling here, as the Dutch would say.

Perhaps that is why, out of 300 students at the Dutch National Ballet Academy, the best are Asian.

Yet my children—though they wear Asian faces—live without that same drive.