He is known as a writer of comedy series, such as SamSam and Sunshine in the house, and as presenter of the satirical TV programme This was the news. But during Harm Edens' (59) youth, there was little to laugh at. 'Even though the whole country claps for you, if your parents don't, it's still a loss.'
The 'intelligent lockdown' had only just kicked in last year, or unease was already beginning to creep up on Harm Edens. How was he supposed to proceed with his lectures on sustainability and the filming of his TV show This was the news? 'I could see myself sitting at home for months. A bugbear, because I am an outgoing, busy person; surviving in a jogging suit is not for me.'
'That first week of the lockdown marked the one-year anniversary of my father's death. It was as if the universe was patting my brain: think about all that had happened. My father's death felt like the closure of a period. I thought about my travels to England where I feel at home with that British humour I love so much, and it seemed nice to put that side by side and in perspective: how did I become who I am?'
Thus, in the year, which despite corona would become the busiest of his career, the book Completely unnatural behaviour Born, in which Harm Edens goes back to his childhood. A book about belonging to a family in which he did not feel at home and was always an outsider, about not being seen and not being able to be himself, and about a lack of warmth and connection.
In your family of origin, there was no room for fun and laughter, hugs or touches, the occasional frolic or goofiness. Daily life was serious and colourless, with fear as a major underlying driver. Was that because of your father?
'Yes, my father was central. He was the centre of his own universe and whatever else circled around that had to serve how he functioned. Not out of malice - he was a dead good, intelligent man and gave enough money to the church. But everything was covered by fear: be careful, beware, don't be weird. Above all, don't deviate, because what would the neighbours think! What I also had a lot of trouble with was judging. That colleague is no good, that neighbour spends too much money on an expensive car. Judging, judging, judging. To create a safe island and think that you were doing it right.
Contract
Under that bell jar, I clacked against the glass on all sides. I always just wanted out, out, out. I got good grades, acted in plays, played sports a lot. But it was never together. My parents didn't come to watch games or performances. Never did I hear: 'Gee, you won, how nice.'" When your parents don't hug you, never touch you or put an arm around you... That's weird. It was like a contract was made when we were born: we live within reason, we do the same thing always and every day, we never act crazy and we don't interact among ourselves. That felt strange to me, because I did want to laugh, scream and have fun.'
At 13, you cried out of the window, "I am being brought up here by completely incompetent people with no sense of humour!" How lonely were you?
'When I was at home, I was mostly with myself. Throughout my life, I tried to be seen by my parents. In many ways - a sweet, funny, blunt or angry way - I tried to provoke a reaction. Although I did well in school, in a way my father was always disappointed in me. In their own way, my parents enjoyed a round of cycling; for them, I guess, they didn't have a sour life. But why they had made me up in the process, no idea.'
You felt that your parents and sister formed an alliance to which you had no access.
'Yes, for me they were like a holy trinity. I think with my father maybe some form of autism played a role - never diagnosed - and maybe by today's standards I would have been stuffed with Ritalin because I am busy and have a lot of energy. But back then, all that was not so well known and we just grew further and further apart.'
But you were allowed to do your own thing, then?
'Yes, because they didn't pay attention to that either. As long as I came for dinner on time or let them know I wasn't coming for dinner, it was fine. But so when I got home, I was never asked what I had done that day either. There was just no connection. As a child, that's what you need.'
The British group Monty Python brought salvation. Why?
'I first saw it on my late grandfather's plastic television set, I was watching it - naturally - by myself. Instant recognition: that's how my head worked too! I immediately felt a little less alone; apparently there were more people like me. I didn't even find it all super funny, but that absurdity, what they all did and said: so it was possible! I had the same feeling when I first came to England. I felt at home there, because of the British humour. There, it was normal to have fun, be amazed and astonished. A stark contrast to the daily oxygen-less live-through mode of home.'
And then you also had to come out of the closet. Was your homosexuality accepted?
'I decided not to disclose it until I had passed through my adolescence more than perfectly and there was nothing to criticise about my behaviour. Only when I was already studying and living on my own did I dare to bring this "blot" out into the open. Their reaction was not too bad: they barely addressed it. Even that was not a topic to talk about together. My friend Harm - "other Harm" - was not rejected, but neither was it cordial. My children only met them once or twice.'
Looking back now, what impact did your childhood have on your life?
'Sometimes when I visited my parents, I would often talk about what I was doing, how well I was doing in my studies and later in my job. I kept angling for appreciation, but it didn't come. I made comedies for twenty-three years and they scored insanely well, and often people think I am always cheerful. But this is really the other side. My partner Harm once called out, "How much applause do you really need in your life? There isn't that much applause!' In a way, I still remained a five-year-old child who wants his parents to see him. Even if the whole country claps for you, if your parents don't, it's still a loss.'
Sour ending
'I always felt like an outsider, even though I got a lot of friends during my studies. At parties, I preferred to stand on the side observing, not participating. I really had to learn that. And that judgement, I have that too. At This Was The News that's handy, but otherwise... someone who always knows exactly how things should and shouldn't be done, that's SO irritating.'
Have you come to understand yourself and your parents better?
'Yes. I didn't write this book to settle accounts at fifty-nine, but to give my childhood a place. Because I didn't want a sour ending, the last chapter became a kind of exercise in gratitude. For instance, I took an important life lesson from my mother: stand your ground. Whether I sit next to Al Gore or Maxima or someone from a slum, to me every person is equally valuable and I can have a good conversation with anyone. That mentality has helped me a lot.
Has your family read the book yet?
'No, and they don't know it's coming yet either. That was a conscious decision, because I wanted to tell my story without readjusting anyway. Maybe my mother and sister don't like it, maybe they find it interesting to talk about it. Or maybe they'll get really angry, that's fine too. But of course there is also a chance that nothing will be said about it.'
Did your bond with your mother change after your father's death?
'Yes, she does try harder to let people know that I am her son. But she is now 91 and I do notice that it is fifty-seven years on the late side. We do our best, but it's not suddenly all different. It just can't. And maybe it doesn't have to.'
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