The Netherlands in the 17th century is often remembered as a place of extraordinary wealth, global trade, scientific discovery, and some of the greatest artists in European history.

Rembrandt was painting in Amsterdam. Dutch ships were traveling across the world. Merchants were becoming enormously wealthy, and the Dutch Republic had emerged as one of Europe’s great commercial and naval powers.

Then came 1672.

The Dutch still remember it as the Rampjaar—the Disaster Year.

And during that year, one of the most powerful political leaders in the country was murdered by a mob, his body was mutilated, and eyewitnesses claimed that pieces of him were eaten.

The story is so shocking that it is sometimes summarized as “the Dutch ate their prime minister.”

Technically, the Netherlands did not have a prime minister at the time.

The man at the center of the story was Johan de Witt, the Grand Pensionary of Holland. The title may not sound particularly powerful today, but Holland was the wealthiest and most influential province in the Dutch Republic, and for nearly twenty years, De Witt was effectively its dominant political leader. The Rijksmuseum describes him as having been the most powerful man in the Republic for close to two decades.

And in 1672, an astonishing amount of anger would be directed at him.

A Country in Crisis

For years, Johan de Witt had represented a political faction that favored rule by the wealthy provincial governments rather than concentrating power in the House of Orange.

That put him at odds with supporters of the young William III of Orange, who believed the prince should become stadtholder—a powerful leadership position historically held by members of the Orange family.

As long as the Dutch Republic was prosperous and secure, De Witt’s political system remained relatively stable.

Then several enemies attacked almost simultaneously.

In 1672, the Dutch Republic found itself at war with France, England, Münster, and Cologne. French forces invaded rapidly, towns fell, and the country suddenly appeared to be in danger of collapse. Contemporary Dutch imagery from the Rampjaar shows just how deeply the crisis shook the republic, while political propaganda increasingly blamed Johan and Cornelis de Witt for the disaster.

Fear spread.

So did anger.

The public began looking for someone to blame.

And Johan de Witt became one of the easiest targets.

Support for William III surged. In July 1672, William was appointed stadtholder of Holland, and Johan’s political power collapsed. De Witt resigned from office soon afterward.

But leaving office would not save him.

Then They Came for His Brother

Johan’s older brother, Cornelis de Witt, was also an influential political figure and a well-known supporter of his brother’s government.

On July 23, 1672, Cornelis was arrested.

He had been accused of involvement in a plot to assassinate William III. According to the Rijksmuseum, the accusation was trumped up. Cornelis denied the charge even while being subjected to torture.

Authorities could not obtain a confession.

Nevertheless, Cornelis was stripped of his offices and sentenced to exile.

He was being held inside the Gevangenpoort, the Prison Gate in The Hague, a medieval building that had long served as a prison for the Court of Holland.

On August 20, 1672, Johan went there to see his brother.

Outside the prison, a crowd was gathering.

People were furious.

Rumors spread that the brothers were traitors responsible for the catastrophe threatening the country. Political divisions that had been building for years had become something far more dangerous.

The crowd demanded the brothers.

August 20, 1672

What happened next is one of the darkest moments in Dutch political history.

Johan and Cornelis were brought out of the Gevangenpoort.

They never made it to safety.

Members of the militia and the surrounding mob attacked them. According to the Rijksmuseum’s account, the brothers were shot, beaten, and kicked to death.

But the violence did not end when they died.

Their bodies were stripped.

They were dragged to the nearby execution ground at the Groene Zoodje, close to the Vijverberg in the center of The Hague.

Then their corpses were hung upside down.

The mob mutilated them.

A horrifying painting attributed to Jan de Baen, created shortly after the murders, records the scene. Today, The Corpses of the De Witt Brothers is held by the Rijksmuseum, an unusually graphic visual record of the political violence that consumed The Hague that day.

And then the story becomes even darker.

Parts of the brothers’ bodies were cut away.

Some were reportedly sold as souvenirs.

And eyewitnesses claimed that members of the crowd consumed pieces of their bodies. The Rijksmuseum specifically notes that cannibalism was reported by eyewitnesses, while surviving historical prints also associate the aftermath with cannibalism.

That is where the infamous story that “the Dutch ate their prime minister” comes from.

It is worth being careful with that phrase. Johan de Witt was not technically prime minister, and historians cannot reconstruct every gruesome claim surrounding the mob with certainty.

But the lynching, mutilation, removal of body parts, and contemporary reports of cannibalism are very much part of the historical record.

How Did Things Get This Far?

That may be the most unsettling part of the story.

Johan de Witt had not been some fringe political figure.

For almost twenty years, he had helped lead one of Europe’s wealthiest and most successful republics.

Yet within a matter of months, war transformed the political atmosphere.

Military defeats created fear.

Fear created blame.

Political propaganda intensified existing divisions between supporters of De Witt and supporters of the House of Orange.

By the summer of 1672, many Dutch citizens believed that the political system associated with De Witt had failed them.

William III became the alternative.

The Rijksmuseum’s surviving medals, prints, and political images from the period show how strongly public opinion was shifting toward the young prince and against the De Witt brothers. One contemporary medal depicted a wounded Dutch lion seeking safety beneath a young orange tree—an unmistakable message that William III was being presented as the man who could save the country.

Johan and Cornelis became symbols of everything people believed had gone wrong.

And on August 20, political hatred became mob violence.

William III Rose as the De Witts Fell

The deaths of the brothers also marked a major shift in Dutch political power.

Johan de Witt’s political era was over.

William III became the dominant figure in the Dutch Republic and led the resistance against France.

His story would eventually become much larger than Dutch history.

In 1688, William crossed the English Channel during the Glorious Revolution. He and his wife, Mary, eventually became joint monarchs of England, Scotland, and Ireland.

So the events of 1672 helped reshape not only Dutch politics, but the political future of Britain as well.

Meanwhile, the murder of Johan and Cornelis de Witt became one of the most infamous episodes of the Dutch Golden Age.

It is a striking contrast.

This was the same society that produced extraordinary paintings, scientific discoveries, global commerce, elegant canal houses, and immense wealth.

Yet it was also capable of political violence so extreme that two of its most prominent leaders were killed and mutilated in broad daylight in the center of The Hague.

You Can Still Visit Where It Happened

Perhaps the most remarkable part for travelers is that the place where the story unfolded still exists.

The Gevangenpoort Museum in The Hague occupies the former prison where Cornelis de Witt was held and where Johan came to see him on the day both brothers were killed.

The museum specifically identifies the murder of the De Witt brothers in 1672 as one of the major events in Dutch history connected to the building.

Inside the museum is even an object directly linked to those final hours.

A small book belonging to Cornelis de Witt was discovered in the room where he had been imprisoned after his murder. It contained mainly French comedies, including works by Molière, and is now part of the museum’s collection.

It is such an ordinary object to survive such an extraordinary day.

A book left behind in a prison room.

Two brothers walked outside.

Neither came back.

The Dark Side of the Dutch Golden Age

It is easy to look back at the Dutch Golden Age through paintings, canals, windmills, merchants, and beautiful historic cities.

The murder of the De Witt brothers reveals another side of that history.

In 1672, one of Europe’s most successful countries suddenly believed it might not survive.

War created panic.

Politics became deeply divided.

A powerful leader became a scapegoat.

And an angry crowd gathered outside a prison in The Hague.

By the end of the day, Johan and Cornelis de Witt were dead, their bodies hung upside down and mutilated before a crowd.

More than 350 years later, the story remains shocking precisely because it seems so difficult to reconcile with the Netherlands we picture today.

But history is rarely as neat as the postcards.

And sometimes the strangest stories are true—or, in the case of the most infamous detail, disturbing enough to have been reported by the people who were actually there.

In the middle of the Dutch Golden Age, fear and political hatred turned one of Europe’s most prosperous republics against two of its own leaders—and gave history one of its most disturbing political stories.