There is something uniquely Dutch about the arrogance of believing you can solve a housing crisis by simply manifesting more geography out of thin air, or more accurately, out of the damp, reluctant silt of the North Sea. The latest 'visionary' scheme involves the creation of ten new cities—ten new monuments to human clutter—to alleviate a housing shortage that is as much a product of bureaucratic flatulence as it is a lack of physical space. It is the ultimate exercise in tectonic hubris. For centuries, the Dutch have been playing a high-stakes game of 'the floor is lava' with the ocean, draining marshes and poldering away the abyss just to have a place to park their bicycles and build overpriced IKEA showrooms. Now, they face the inevitable: they have run out of land, run out of patience, and, most importantly, run out of ideas.

The proposal for ten new cities is less an urban planning strategy and more a cry for help from a nation that has mistaken 'growth' for 'existence.' The 'Crossing Continents' initiative suggests that the answer to the current squeeze is to simply colonize the few remaining patches of grass not yet designated as a 'protected nitrogen-sensitive zone.' It is a classic move from the modern political playbook: when the system you built fails to provide the basic necessity of shelter, don't fix the system—just build ten more versions of it and hope the sheer volume of new construction drowns out the screams of the middle class. The Left, in its usual performative trance, will demand these cities be eco-utopias, filled with communal gardens where residents can collectively pretend to enjoy kale while living in 30-square-meter 'micro-apartments' that cost half a liver per month. They want 'inclusivity' and 'sustainability,' which are merely linguistic cloaks for 'small' and 'expensive.'

Meanwhile, the Right views the 'Ten Cities' plan as a delicious new buffet for developers—the same predatory ghouls who treat housing not as a human requirement, but as a high-yield investment vehicle. To them, these cities aren't places for people to live; they are vertical bank accounts. They will lobby for the removal of those pesky safety regulations and environmental protections, arguing that the 'free market' will naturally provide affordable housing, despite decades of evidence that the market’s idea of 'affordable' is 'slightly cheaper than a medieval dungeon.' The result will be a series of grey, slab-like monoliths where the walls are thin enough to hear your neighbor’s existential dread, but thick enough to satisfy a building inspector’s minimum requirements for a kickback.

Then there is the hilarious obstacle of the nitrogen crisis. The Netherlands is currently in a state of paralysis because the mere act of pouring concrete apparently offends a specific type of moss or a rare variety of bog-beetle. This is the peak of European absurdity: a continent so buried in its own regulations that it cannot build a house for its people because it might disrupt the flatulence of a nearby cow or the delicate sensibilities of a swamp. The government proposes ten cities while simultaneously enforcing laws that make building a backyard shed a matter of international litigation. It is a masterclass in institutional schizophrenia. They are promising a future they have already made illegal to construct.

Let us not ignore the geographical reality. These cities will likely be built on land that is technically below sea level, defended by dikes and pumps that represent a desperate, ongoing argument with the moon. In an era of rising tides and climatic volatility, building ten new cities on sinking mud is the equivalent of rearranging the deck chairs on the Titanic, if the deck chairs were subsidized social housing and the Titanic was a country that really likes licorice. The Dutch are literally building on borrowed time, using borrowed money, to house people who will be underwater—economically or literally—within two generations.

Ultimately, this 'Ten Cities' plan is the perfect metaphor for our global malaise. We cannot manage the cities we have, we cannot fix the economies we broke, and we cannot reconcile our desire for infinite growth with a finite planet. So, we do what humans do best: we propose a grand, shiny new project to distract ourselves from the rot. We will have ten new cities, and they will be filled with the same frustrated commuters, the same predatory landlords, and the same bureaucratic stagnation that defines the current ones. But at least they will be 'new.' For a few brief years, before the mold sets in and the first floor becomes an indoor pool, the Dutch can tell themselves they solved the problem. It is a beautiful, pathetic lie, wrapped in a blueprint and sinking slowly into the mud.