For me, the news that the Dutch are euthanizing babies

brings back one of the most unsettling mornings of my life. It is 1990,

and I am riding in the car through the tranquil, pastoral pastures of rural

eastern Holland. My driver is a middle-aged Dutchman who speaks little

English. He is sad, and trying to tell me why. We pass a brick farmhouse. He

points to it and says, “Last night, suicide.” We drive a little further, and

he points to another. “Three months, suicide. And there, another suicide.”

Between my pidgin Dutch and his rudimentary English, I understood that he

could not figure out why so many of his neighbors were murdering themselves.

In his country, they had peace and general prosperity, hardly a material

care in the world. And yet, they were dying from despair. One wonders if a

culture that kills its newborns can survive. One wonders if it deserves to.