In De onvoltooide rechtsstaat (The Unfinished Rule of Law), published on 4 June 2025 to mark his retirement from the Dutch Supreme Court, Ybo Buruma offers a sweeping yet pointed dissection of the Netherlands’ legal journey—and its current disintegration. Part historical reflection, part polemic, the book contends that the Dutch rule of law, once a source of pride, is now under threat from populism, political short-termism, and the perilous belief that majority rule is justice enough.

Buruma charts the evolution of Dutch legal culture from the post-Napoleonic reforms of 1813 to today’s algorithmic judiciary, and he does so through an unexpected lens: six classic Dutch children’s books. Each serves as a mirror to societal shifts—how ideas of authority, liberty, and fairness have morphed over time. The device is eccentric, but disarmingly effective. He draws, for instance, a line from the colonial overtones of Afke’s Tiental to today’s reparations debates, or from the honour-bound heroism of De brief voor de koning to the creeping erosion of judicial independence.

Running through it all is a distinction that is neither new nor yet widely understood: the difference between rule by law (law as a tool of power) and rule of law (law as a constraint on power). Since 9/11, Buruma argues, the Netherlands has leaned ever further into the former. From mass surveillance to emergency decrees and the now-infamous toeslagenaffaire, the system appears increasingly content to trample individuals in service of bureaucratic efficiency or political convenience.

Populism, PVV, and the ‘will of the people’ problem

Buruma saves his most barbed commentary for Geert Wilders and the PVV. Their manifesto proposals—banning the Quran, shuttering mosques, and demanding “Dutch courts for Dutch citizens”—are, in his view, outright assaults on the rule of law. He reprises a controversial 2007 op-ed comparing Wilders’ rhetoric to Mussolini—hardly a diplomatic move during his Supreme Court nomination at the time, and unlikely to have mellowed in reception today.

But he doesn’t stop with the far right. Buruma notes that even establishment figures like Mark Rutte have played fast and loose with legal norms, from pandemic-era emergency rule-making to the government’s refusal to enforce court rulings on climate targets. The rot, he suggests, is bipartisan.

His most provocative claim is that democracy and the rule of law are not natural allies. Hungary and Poland serve as case studies: countries where elected majorities have hollowed out legal institutions while claiming to represent “the people.” “A democracy can wring its own neck,” he quips—a line that will no doubt inflame the PVV’s majoritarian enthusiasts.

Controversies and contradictions

Buruma’s political neutrality has long been a matter of debate. Wilders opposed his 2011 court appointment due to prior involvement with the Labour Party (PvdA), and detractors may seize on this book as confirmation of latent bias. Buruma is unapologetic. He argues that judicial independence doesn’t require muteness in the face of democratic backsliding.

Surprisingly, he offers mild praise for Pieter Omtzigt’s New Social Contract (NSC) party, which has pushed for a “rule of law declaration” in coalition negotiations. It’s one of the few instances in the book where politics is presented as part of the solution rather than the problem.

A manual for resistance—or an elegy?

At 544 pages, De onvoltooide rechtsstaat is hardly breezy reading. But it carries the urgency of someone who knows where the fault lines lie—and sees them widening. Buruma paints a picture of a legal system undermined by polarisation, apathy, and techno-bureaucratic drift. Whether it galvanises reform or serves merely as a final warning depends on whether the Netherlands is still interested in completing the project it began over two centuries ago.

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