Where Did the Suks Come From?

         For generations Suk parents have been telling their children that they are descended from Roma (popularly, “gypsy,” though the word is now often thought of as prejudicial). In the end, genetic testing through sites such as Ancestry.ca and 23andMe, as well as my own failed, but deep, searches of genealogical documents for a “Roma” ancestor show that this claim is mistaken. And yet, there is a fascinating story, or three, that can account for this old story.

         For starters, this story was told by Roelf Suk (1896-1971) both to his children, and his nephew, William Suk (1932-1986). Roelf must have heard it from his father, Willem Suk (1864-1911). His wife, Jantje (1870-1933) lived, for some time, after her husband’s death, in Muntendam, which will become relevant to remember later on. In any case, that brings the story back to at least 1900 or so—three generations for me, and about 125 years ago.

         But my research uncovered a second clue as to how old the Roma story is. This same story about Roma ancestry is told in other branches of the Suk family that have had no contact with each other for much longer. Sem Kok, a Dutch genealogical researcher with Suk ancestors, wrote a history of the Suk family based on his studies. Our last shared Suk ancestor was Roelf Tammes Suk (1791-1847). Roelf Tammes was Willem Suk’s grandfather, and so my three-times great grandfather. Thus this story was passed down, and independently preserved, in two separate Suk family lines, since about 1830 or 1840—and perhaps even earlier. That makes the Roma story almost 200 years old!

         A side note here. Willem Suk’s name in the Suk genealogy came from Roelf Tammes’ wife, Aaltje Willems Bosch, whose father was a Willem, too. So, this is where the name William entered into our branch of Suks. 

         So, the Suk’s Roma story is very old. How do we account for it? There are three, very possibly related, explanations. And though they do not suggest that the Suks were descended from Roma, these three explanations do explain why the Suks had Roma-like stories to tell. So, in turn, the three explanations, with the most important coming last.

A.    Suks lived near “Het Egypteneinde.” 

Het Egypteneinde is a former hamlet of about 35 very poor family homes between Muntendam and Veendam. Old and unverified folklore had it that the hamlet was named Het Egypteneinde because Roma used to stop and camp there. Roma were (mistakenly) thought to have originated in Egypt, hence the name. A Lukas Suk actually ran a coffee shop nearby in the nineteenth century. And as we shall soon see, Suks lived in Muntendam, too. Sem Kok says that the Roma story might have come about because either the Suks, or those who knew them, figured they must be descended from the Roma who passed through that area.

B.    The Suks were Muntendammers. 

For at least a few years, Willem Suk’s widow, Jantje Smit-Suk, lived in Muntendam, a tough neighbourhood. Why she moved there from Veendam isn’t clear, though Suks descended from the first Suk to move into the Veendam area had lived there on and off for two hundred years by the time Jantje moved. Muntendam, according to Sem Kok, was a town of rowdies who partied, fought, and stole from the rich. A 1904 article in Het Noorden (a paper still published today) notes that it had the reputation as “the most notorious place in the Netherlands.” It went on to say that Muntendam was renowned for the rough Scheepsjagers (men who pulled ships through the canals) culture, for its many unmarried couples cohabiting, gambling, begging in the streets, raids on rich people in the surrounding areas, and so on. It adds, importantly, that Muntendammers had darker skin than most Dutch people and believed they were descended from Roma. The main Hervormde Kerk even put a “Mission Building” in the village to reform it. It is possible that the Suks from several branches picked up the notion that they were Roma from this popular (but mistaken, based on genetic evidence) notion of a Muntendammer Roma heritage.

C.     The Suks were Hollandgaengers (Holland-goers). 

From about 1620—in the midst of the Thirty Years War, though some sources say from about 1650) poor northern German farm workers began making an annual pilgrimage to the Netherlands to find work as hay mowers, peat diggers, fruit pickers, and general laborers. Many would plant their crops on leased land in Germany, trek to the Netherlands, and return in time to harvest their own crops. This itinerant movement lasted until at least the mid-19^th century (and until the 1920s by other accounts). The illustration, to the left, is of a Hollandgaenger, along with a poem that celebrates his sharp scythe and quick work.

Contemporary accounts suggest that these itinerant workers, like many others in human history, were badly treated while on their dangerous treks and did not often find open arms when they landed in the Netherlands. Naturally, some of these itinerant workers—probably those without land to return to—stayed in the Netherlands. This would have been especially so when the Veendam area opened up for peat digging. In fact, one of the earliest Suks on record, Roelf Jans Suck (about 1676-1738) married Aaltjen Lucas (b. about 1680) and their marriage license says she is from “Munsterland,” where many Hollandgaengers came from. Other early records suggest more connections between the Suks and Hollandgaengers. And this is where it gets interesting. In the North German village of Lingen Schepsdorf (or Schepsdorf Lingen—both names are in use) a bronze placard posted at the village well commemorates the annual  “Durchzuege” of the “Hollandgaenger.”

As it turns out, the name “Suk” may well be derived from the word “Durchzuege.” The first part of this word,Durch, means “through.” And the second part, zuege (same root as the English word tug), means “train, procession, migration.” So, this word, used to describe the movement of Hollandgaengers means “the passage through,” or “migration,” of these German workers. Zuege is also (often) spelled (of old) as Zug or Zuge, and is pronounced (transliterating it into typical English spelling), “tsuk,” or Suck, or Sock, or Suk—all with a crisp “k.” A Hollandgaengerwho stayed in the Veendam area might well be called a migrant, as in Roelf Jans “the migrant” (Roelf Jans the Suck). Remember, the Dutch and Germans in Groningen and Munsterland spoke the same version of old German.

There are other explanations suggested for the provenance of the name Suk. Sem Kok, in his booklet, says that one other possibility is “suiker,” the Dutch word for sugar, though he discounts it. He notes that the University of Groningen suggests the name might be derived for the Old German word for pig, zeug, as in “pig farmer.” But I like my suggestion best.

So, Which Story Is the Right One?

My best guess is that first two stories worked to support the much older Hollandgaenger story. The Hollandgaenger migration continued through much of the nineteenth century, so the fact that there were Hollandgaengerswas a living reality. The Suks also married Hollandgaengers (at least once), and were likely Hollandgaengers themselves (they were “Zuegs” after all). I think the notion that they were descended from migrants was passed on from generation to generation, but also evolved on account of other stories in their world—stories that supported a “Roma” notion. Suks long lived in the “Roma” village of Muntendam, and lived close to the Roma landmark, Het Egypteneinde. 

In the end, the Hollandgaenger story is ancient, romantic, and fascinating. It wouldn’t be so surprising if the Suks unconsciously melded it into the Roma stories that circulated in their environment to create their own imaginative version. 

My Wallet

            Just over forty years ago my grandfather, Arend Schuil--Opa, as we used to call him—put on a heavy apron, picked up his sheers, and cut into a piece of rawhide. He knew what he was doing, since he had spent his life cutting leather to make the special orthopedic shoes he sold to customers all over the Netherlands. But now that he was retired, the shoe molds and rubber soles that used to fill his shop were long gone. Instead of leather uppers, this time he cut the leather to make wallets for his grandchildren. I received mine, my last gift from him, in 1967.

I still have that wallet in a drawer of my desk. I keep special papers in it. Opa sewed it together using tiny, perfectly symmetrical, stitches. Even now, the leather is soft and supple—the softest thing I own.

I only met him twice, for a few weeks each time, on his rare visits to Canada. He taught me to play chess on long summer afternoons under a shade tree beside our house. We didn’t talk much, since my Dutch was poor and his English non-existent. Still, it never felt awkward. Quiet with him was restful, relaxed and happy.

Genealogy is my hobby, so by studying old church and civil documents in the Netherlands, I’ve learned that my Opa’s ancestors had been making shoes in the Dutch province of Groningen for the better part of three hundred years. But now my wallet is the only tangible link I have left to all those centuries of toil.

I’ve also learned that some Schuils wanted more out of life than making shoes. Among my great- and great-great grandparents there was one who helped buy a new house for the local preacher. Others were volunteer organists and choir directors. My grandfather would have loved to become a preacher himself.

But back then most people didn’t have a choice about what they would do with their lives. Formal education was a luxury. Most people did what their fathers did; you took up the business and learned as unpaid child labor. And that was if your family had a trade. My grandfather on the Suk side had to quit school to work the potato fields as a day laborer by the time he was eleven or twelve. His father peddled groceries door to door out of a dog cart. They got by, but sometimes only barely.

And my wallet reminds me of all that. My wallet is like a hinge, really. It connects me—with all my opportunities, choice, and postgraduate education—to an era in the very recent past when what you did with your life, workwise, wasn’t a unique “calling” you had the luxury of making a decision about. No, in those days, people didn’t have “callings.” They had “tellings,” and did as told, workwise, whether they wanted to or not.

That wallet reminds me that having the opportunity to go to school, and choose a career is a big privilege. Thinking back on my family history, my hope is that my grandkids will understand just how great a privilege that choice is. Of course, they’ll have to study hard borrow money and work hard to make their dreams come to pass—but I’ll urge them to do so.

             But, at a deeper level, that wallet also reminds me that whatever job I land on God’s good earth, my ultimate vocation there—and always—is to “do justice, and to love kindness, and to walk humbly with [my] God,” (Micah 6:8). Just as my grandfather, the last of the shoemakers, always tried to do no matter what he did to earn a living.