Mayor of those In-Between hours: When Halsema goes to bed, Wallagh knows no rest¨

¨How many benders do I need to pull to qualify for this job¨ (KT, Head of Slimwriting)

As with most Saturdays that demand a form of labor before the clock strikes the double digits, the day started rough. I was working the morning shift at Café ’t Hooischip, and for the past two hours I had been fighting for my dear life (and the flirtatious idea of a well-timed power barfje). I had been chugging liters of sparkling water, running on paracetamol and an unholy amount of Cola Zero—a lovely combination that made me actively avoid the trays and their compositions of smells and odors– whilst holding on to the bar as if it was my personal life boat. What had I done the night before, you might ask, to end up in this pale, washed-up-corpse-esque, street-rat state? I would love to know. But as my hippocampus seems to have stopped developing after hitting the ripe age of twelve, the only detail I can scrape from my short-term memory is that it must’ve been early summer (read: I remember sweating balls, so it must have been hot). I do, however, vividly remember what happened a few—excruciating—hours into my shift. Luckily for us, while my brain might immediately forget the location of my keys after I put them down, it has a special built-in storage system for memories riddled with shame and regret. 

So there I stood, tucked in the corner of the bar like an off-duty Sim, when a guy around my age stepped over the threshold of the door. Leather pants, slicked-back hair, black eyeliner smudged in the corners of his eyes—he looked as if we’d shared the dance floor mere hours ago. Only where I had apparently crawled home through a ditch, he had gracefully emerged from the night and fluttered straight into the morning sun.

“That’s the Night Mayor,” my manager whispered.

My eyes followed him across the café, and if my pounding headache hadn't kept me from limiting all social interaction to a minimum, I might have asked what she meant. Was that code for a drug dealer? Some sort of influencer? Or perhaps old-school street lingo for “that guy who mysteriously pops up at every after you somehow end up in”? Judging by his preppy mood and the Tilatic-approved amount of leather behind his laptop, it could’ve been all of the above. I decided to park the question for later—when I regained the ability to think. Intrigue, however,  waits for no one. And when the mysterious figure tipped me with festival tickets as he paid (for an atrocious service, I might add, during which I managed to spill every single one of his coffees), I couldn’t resist interrupting his peaceful peukie moment outside:

“What do you mean you’re the Night Mayor?”

Turns out, none of my guesses were even close. Being a mayor is a job you apparently can—and do—take to bed. When (day) Mayor Halsema tucks in, the Night Mayor’s reign begins. No cape, no scepter (tragic), and no magical powers (unless you count the impressive ability to hold political meetings on three hours of sleep):  let me introduce you to Freek Wallagh, Amsterdam’s Night Mayor, a role that sounds like it belongs in a comic book but is, in fact, very real. And very important. 

Turns out, Amsterdam having its very own Night Mayor isn’t as new as it was to me– but something that dates back to the early 2000s, when the city’s nightlife was threatened by rapid gentrification and a creeping cultural bedtime. To defend the night, the city created something in typical Amsterdam style: a mayor for the hours between 22:00–06:00. What started as a reaction to the ¨vertrutting¨ of Amsterdam’s city center led the local Groenlinks faction to start a search for someone who could bring new energy to the capital’s nightlife. And thus, the idea of a Night Mayor was born. Several people from the local nighttime industry were approached for the position—but of course, even concerning unofficial titles, when there’s an opportunity to mock politics, the Dutch take it. So in February 2003, the first Night Mayor election took place –held in Paradiso, of course. A jury chose the collective De Nachtwacht and the job took off from there. Back then, the Night Mayor was mostly a symbolic rebel-in-chief role from the underground: artists, activists, people who could survive on caffeine and idealism. But slowly the city realized: oh wait, nightlife is an actual economy with actual people and actual problems. Over the following years, the city began to take the nightlife more seriously, and in 2014, with Mirik Milan at the helm in 2014, the role became structured, official-ish, and deeply embedded in policy—working closely with the municipality on safety, club permits, and strengthening the creative economy of the night, all without losing its edge. Whereas Amsterdam was the first city to appoint a night mayor in 2003, nowadays numerous big cities over the globe have one. Over the years, the role has grown substantially. What began as a playful, alternative title has become a serious, influential position in urban policy. Today, the Night Mayor is the bridge between sweaty dance floors and sterile boardrooms. Clubs, artists, sex workers, tired residents, and the occasional bureaucrat rely on him to translate their worlds into workable policy—ideally without killing the vibe. Even though the title remains somewhat tricky—recognized but not officially instated by the government—the Night Mayor holds no sceptre, signs no laws, and issues no permits, he yet plays an important role in city policy. Acting as the mediator between nightlife and municipal authorities, he brings the interests of clubs, artists, night workers, and residents to the table. No real political power, but lots of influence. No throne, but certainly a kingdom. One lit by neon lights and the break of dawn.

And who is this mayor of the in-between hours, the one who takes over when the daylight turns grey? That brings us back to the protagonist of my fever-dream-like shift all those months ago. When Halsema hits the hay, Freek Wallagh guards those who stay. At just 26, Freek Wallagh is the youngest Night Mayor Amsterdam has ever had. He’s part poet, part activist, part political scientist, part punk-scene veteran—basically the entire job description of a Night Mayor compressed into one extremely caffeinated human being. He grew up between squats, raves, and kraakfeesten. He started interviewing people in the Red Light District at fifteen, became politically active at sixteen, helped block Holocaust-denier David Icke from entering the Schengen Area, and continues to prove that Gen Z did not come here to play. As you might guess, becoming Amsterdam’s Night Mayor isn’t something you just stumble into. Freek discovered the role through his love of poetry and the late poet Jules Deelder, who happened to be Rotterdam’s first Night Mayor. Combined with his passion for—and deep familiarity with—the Amsterdam nightlife, plus his training as a political scientist specializing in the power dynamics of cities after dark, he quickly became the perfect candidate for the role. 

So what has he been busy with since the 2023 election? One major topic for him is sex-work locations. His proposal? Not fewer—more. He suggests opening more sex-work spaces around the Red Light District to spread visitors out, relieve pressure and improve safety. He also focuses on protecting squatting communities and experimental artists, because underground culture is culture—and ideas need physical space to breathe. Another important issue is Amsterdam’s night-time infrastructure. Right now, he argues, the night is “not accessible for many Amsterdammers”, whether it’s people finishing work at dawn, heading to early shifts, or just going out. The disappearance of night buses has made the city less accessible and less safe. Freek has been fighting for better night transport for years. If you’ve ever wondered who helped ensure you could take the metro home late during ADE nights—thank Freek. During ADE’s experimental night-metro run, people loved it (no surprise: sweaty club kids are not meant to walk home). But accessibility doesn’t stop at transport: he also focuses on affordability and age restrictions. Young people under 21 have fewer and fewer places to go. Freek notes they tend to stay home more, even though the night is a place where you learn, grow, and find your people.

This reminded me of something  else I had noticed. While I was getting ready to begin my little background investigation a few days ago, I was bombarded with articles screaming the same message in all caps from my screen —DE NACHT STAAT ONDER DRUK. But what does that actually mean? As Freek puts it: “The night is becoming a privilege.”

Amsterdam may be a global nightlife capital, but according to Freek, the night is slowly shrinking—both physically and spiritually. Clubs are expensive. Rents are sky-high. Creative spaces get replaced by shiny new buildings. Minimum ages keep creeping upwards (“Students are literally being aged out of the party,” Freek jokes). And many young organizers can’t find anywhere to host anything new. Meanwhile, spontaneous chaos—the good kind—is disappearing. “We’re becoming a bit prudish,” he sighs. “Less curious. Less willing to wander.” Which is tragic for a city that has always thrived on curiosity, mischief, and accidental discovery. But it’s not all doom. Speakeasies are popping up like mushrooms after rain. Illegal raves remain gloriously ungoverned (little shoutout to Slimfest last summer). Punk and squat culture still pulse in the city’s corners. The Nightlife isn’t just clubs, according to Freek. It’s bars, night supermarkets, snack bars, sex work, 24-hour restaurants, metro lines, and all the people who make the night function. Nightlife is alive—just more fragile than ever before. When Freek won the election, he told the press that ‘‘the night gave me so much; this is my chance to give something back’’. To him, the night is a place where people shed daytime labels. Where strangers chat like cousins in smoking areas. Where bathrooms become confession booths. Where the city feels more intimate, more equal, more possible. But that freedom isn’t guaranteed. There’s still racism, misogyny, homophobia, transphobia, violence. The night isn’t automatically a utopia, Freek stresses. But the potential for solidarity is bigger. And that’s worth defending.

And luckily for us, the night is in good hands.