I am not Dutch. I am a visitor to the Netherlands, a guest to the city of Amsterdam and a student at the University of Amsterdam. But I am not Dutch.

I have always wanted to go abroad, so arriving in Amsterdam for my study abroad through MSU was like a dream come true. So much about the city appealed to me — the history, the tolerance and the politics. For the first two weeks I was here, I was in a constant state of awe and curiosity.

That awe and curiosity changed on July 17, when Flight MH17 was shot down over Ukraine. Now I wonder about the people who could have shot down and killed 298 people and how the tension can be settled. The United States, even from across the Atlantic, seems to dominate the discourse over the issue, and Russia seems even closer than before.

The reason I made it clear that I am not from the Netherlands is because grief here seems to be expressed much differently than I’m used to. In the U.S., news spreads quickly, but here, no one quite understood what happened. A plane was shot down? Was it an accident? Who could have done it? How many people on the flight, and how many of our people were on the flight?

In Amsterdam, although there was a cloud of confusion and grief when news started to filter though and more facts were uncovered, life went on. People went to work, businesses remained open, people even escaped the unusual heat wave by going to the beach.

I didn’t quite understand what was happening. While a memorial was being put together in the Amsterdam Airport Schiphol, and many people seemed more somber than usual, there weren’t many signs of grief. People seemed to be waiting for something.

Eventually I realized they were waiting for their people to come home.

There was a march around Amsterdam, circling around the city center to remember and mourn the 193 Dutch citizens who were killed. While only 40 bodies were brought back, the Dutch still held a day of mourning for their greatest national disaster since World War II.

Even though I’m not Dutch, I did not feel like I was intruding on the march. Everyone wore white, and many carried white balloons as well. There was a sense of unity among all of the walkers, no matter where they were from.

I did not quite understand the grief of these people who welcomed me into their city until the march started. It was a silent march, and the air was heavy with the sorrow that everyone shared. There were no people smiling — not the couples, the street vendors nor the children. Even the buses and trams were closed down for the march, something I thought impossible in that area.

There is grief for losing a loved one, and there is grief for losing a family — this was the latter. The Dutch had lost some of their family through an act of senseless violence in a conflict they had no part in. They lost friends, loved ones, community leaders, neighbors and countrymen.

One girl I passed was being led by two others because she was crying so hard. In her hands was a picture of her being embraced by one of the victims.

A family walked with a large cut-out of a white swan with the picture of a child on it, surrounded by a heart.

A woman walked with a bouquet of roses and her head held high even as she cried.

At the end of the march everyone released the balloons they were holding. As the white balloons drifted to the sky there was a quiet, respectful applause. The sound was so reserved that I couldn’t tell what it was at first. They were sending off their family with honor.

Life is going to go on, as it must. I am going to go to class, just as others are going to go to work, and those affected are going to try and figure out how to live without their loved ones. More bodies are going to be brought back home, and families will get closure.

I am not Dutch. But I am grieving with them.

Katelyn Kerbrat is a comparative culture and politics senior. Reach her at krebratk@msu.edu.