Territorial Stigma and the Moral Politics of Place: Boundary Work and Social Distance in Disadvantaged Neighbourhoods

Moral boundary work and the construction of social distinction

A pervasive theme across interviews was the drawing of us-them boundaries within the neighbourhood based on perceived social norms and behaviour. Nearly all respondents – irrespective of their own background – engaged in some form of boundary work to distinguish ‘decent’ residents from those who were seen as dragging the area down. In doing so, they often implicitly positioned themselves on the side of decency. This form of boundary work was typically articulated in terms of lifestyle and conduct, rather than overtly in terms of race or income. Respondents frequently spoke about neighbours’ cleanliness, child-rearing, noise, and general respect for the community as key markers separating the ‘good’ from the ‘bad’. By emphasising these distinctions, residents asserted a social distinction between what they considered acceptable and unacceptable ways of living – effectively saying that not everyone here is the same, there are ordinary, respectable folks like ‘us’ and then there are the ‘neighbourhood scum’ (as one interviewee bluntly put it) like ‘them’. This pattern was strikingly evident in all three locales.

For example, Melissa (58, Amsterdam-Noord) proudly identified herself with the orderly side of the divide. She insisted that her judgements had nothing to do with ethnicity but with behaviour:

The neighbourhood is . . . tolerable. The quality is declining. Antisocial people have moved in. And I don’t mean people of colour. For example, above me lives a family from Eritrea, and next door there are Turkish neighbours. That’s not the issue. It’s more about people being antisocial’.(Interviewer: ‘What do you mean by antisocial people?’) ‘Well, the kind of people who call names, curse, and don’t speak in a normal tone. Colour isn’t the issue. I only recognise two types of people: kind and unkind’.

Melissa draws a boundary between ‘antisocial’ and civil neighbours, explicitly replacing a racial with a moral distinction (‘kind vs unkind’). By insisting she ‘only’ judges behaviour, she presents herself as fair and non-prejudiced, while still stigmatising those deemed uncivil. This shows how residents reframe stigma morally: decline is blamed on rude, disorderly people rather than on race or poverty. Many native Dutch interviewees in Amsterdam-Noord echoed this view, portraying newcomers’ lack of manners – not their ethnicity – as the problem. In doing so, they maintained an image of themselves as tolerant ‘good citizens’, while implicitly marginalising certain (often immigrant) neighbours.

Similarly, in the Bijlmermeer, long-time Dutch residents distinguished themselves from what they saw as an unruly new majority. Whitney (53, Dutch, Zuid Oost) lamented the loss of her familiar community and vividly described unacceptable behaviours:

Yes, the neighbourhood has deteriorated. The Dutch used to live here, but they’re gone now. That makes a big difference. I have nothing against Black people, but some of them are real layabouts. I guess they’re used to different standards in the bush. If you walk down the porch, you see how dirty everything is. It’s all so disorderly. They just throw everything into the street. It’s becoming a ghetto – the housing association places all the riff-raff in these houses! When my grandson visits, he looks down on my neighbourhood.

Whitney’s narrative brims with boundary-drawing language. She contrasts ‘we, the Dutch who used to live here’ (implying orderly, higher-standard residents) with ‘they – the blacks – who behave in uncivil ways’. Although she prefaced with ‘I do not have anything against blacks’, her description invokes a colonial trope (‘in the bush’) to explain why her black neighbours’ litter and make a mess, thereby othering them culturally. She blames the housing association for filling the blocks with ‘riff-raff’, externalising some blame to policy, yet at the same time she is clearly stigmatising those residents as ‘riff-raff’. Whitney’s disgust at dirt and chaos (‘dirty. . . disorderly. . . throw everything out’) resonates with what Douglas (1966) classically called ‘matter out of place’ – dirt symbolising social disorder. By painting that picture, Whitney delineates a boundary of cleanliness and propriety that she believes she upholds and others violate. The presence of her disdainful grandson adds a poignant touch: even the younger generation perceives the stigma, reinforcing her shame and anger about the neighbourhood’s status.

It was not only native-born Dutch residents who drew such moral boundaries; immigrant and ethnic-minority residents also frequently articulated social distinctions, highlighting forms of intra-ethnic fragmentation. Indeed, some residents explicitly distanced themselves from members within their own ethnic or cultural groups, reflecting internal divisions and hierarchies shaped by judgements about respectability and social norms. In Rotterdam-Delfshaven, Umit (58, Turkish man) criticised another immigrant group in terms that mirrored natives’ complaints:

It’s unclean because more migrants have moved into the neighbourhood. Many Moroccans . . . Moroccan children. Moroccan children are dirty. They hang around together until midnight. They don’t think, ‘Let’s go to school’. They just wander around and do nothing.

Here Umit explicitly identifies Moroccan immigrants (and their children) as the source of neighbourhood uncleanliness and disorder. He draws a purity boundary (‘dirty’) and a moral-performance boundary (loitering instead of schooling). By doing so, Umit positions himself (and presumably Turkish residents or earlier migrants) as distinct from Moroccans, whom he stigmatises as uncouth and idle. This intra-migrant boundary illustrates a critical point: the lines of ‘us’ versus ‘them’ do not necessarily align with majority versus minority. Each group – native Dutch, Surinamese, Turkish, and so on – could find another group to label as the problematic ‘outsiders’ within. What unites these narratives is the logic of distancing oneself from those seen to ‘deteriorate the neighbourhood’.

Even within a single broad ethnic category, further distinctions emerged. In the Bijlmermeer, which has a predominantly Surinamese-origin population, Surinamese interviewees themselves differentiated among ‘our own people’. One Surinamese respondent, for instance, noted prejudices among Caribbean groups:

Surinamese and Antilleans from Curaçao don’t get along . . . People from Aruba get along with the Surinamese. Antilleans from Curaçao are different. There’s a lot of discrimination between these groups.

This quote hints at internal segmentations: even groups outsiders might lump together (‘Black Caribbean Dutch’) draw boundaries among themselves, each viewing others as less respectable. The specifics matter less than the general pattern: respondents carved out smaller in-groups of decency and cast others as contributors to stigma. It was a way to say, ‘I may live in a “bad” neighbourhood, but I am not a “bad” person’.

Many emphasised that these distinctions were not about class or ethnicity per se, but about morality and behaviour. This reflects a cultural repertoire of respectable poverty: valuing cleanliness, responsibility, and neighbourliness as universally achievable virtues. Being poor or on welfare did not, in their view, excuse disrespect. As one Dutch single mother said, ‘I’m on welfare, but I raise my children right and keep my house clean – not like some here who make a mess of everything’.

Boundary work thus served as symbolic distancing: residents upheld a moral divide between an ‘us’ of decent people and a ‘them’ of disorderly others. This offered personal dignity, yet fragmented solidarity. As each person claims ‘I’m not one of them’, few accept being ‘them’ – reinforcing stigma and eroding trust within the community.

Moral classifications of deservingness

A second major theme in residents’ narratives was the explicit moral classification of who does or does not deserve support and sympathy, particularly in relation to poverty and welfare. Many interviewees drew a sharp line between what they saw as the ‘deserving poor’ – people like themselves who are struggling due to misfortune or structural conditions and who try to behave decently – and the ‘undeserving’ – those who, in their eyes, exploit welfare benefits, are lazy, or otherwise bring misfortune upon themselves. This age-old discourse of the ‘undeserving vs deserving poor’ was vividly present, showing that even among individuals who are themselves economically marginalised, there is a tendency to adopt and reapply these moral categories to others (Katz, 1989). In our study, respondents frequently portrayed themselves as belonging to the deserving category (‘people in need who want to work or follow the rules’) and cast ‘others’, in the neighbourhood as undeserving freeloaders or cheaters of the system. In effect, they were scapegoating certain neighbours for the scarcity of resources and the stigma of poverty. This reflects Wacquant’s (1993: 374) observation that, under the pressure of stigma, residents often overemphasise their own moral worth and adopt dominant discourses that denounce so-called ‘welfare cheats’ or faux pauvres – as if they can regain value only by devaluing their neighbours and their neighbourhood. One powerful example comes from Amanda (34, Dutch single mother, Noord), who felt abandoned by the welfare system and fiercely resented what she perceived as preferential treatment towards refugees and immigrants. She vented,

Nobody supports us, but migrant neighbours are supported. The government . . . should think about us [single mothers]. They help the refugees coming to the Netherlands, but they don’t look after us. And I’m sitting in this chilly, shitty house. Not that I’m jealous, but . . . Migrants get a house, don’t have to pay for anything, and receive clothes and money every week. They’ve never worked. Migrants are supported, not those in real need!

In this emotional account, Amanda draws multiple moral classifications. She identifies as one of ‘us. . . single mothers. . . those in need’, implicitly the deserving who have genuine needs and have tried to improve their situation. Opposite her are ‘migrants’ and ‘refugees’ who, she alleges, get housing and handouts without having earned them (‘never worked’). Amanda clearly feels underprivileged relative to others in her same neighbourhood or city who ‘rank prior to them’ in receiving state aid. The subtext is that she has played by the rules and still suffers (cold house, no help), whereas they flout effort and yet are rewarded. This is a classic articulation of the undeserving poor narrative, with a nativist twist (the undeserving are specifically characterised as outsiders – migrants). Her disclaimer ‘not that I am jealous’ underscores that she sees her indignation as righteous anger on behalf of fairness, not personal envy. Amanda’s words also demonstrate how territorial stigma intersects with welfare stigma: she believes her stigmatised location and status as a struggling Dutch woman are overlooked in favour of newcomers, deepening her sense of injustice.

Christopher (mid-30s, Dutch man, Noord) echoed similar sentiments, focusing on welfare and family size. He pointed out neighbours (again immigrants) who appeared financially better off – owning a Mercedes, taking long holidays – and interpreted these as ill-gotten gains from state support:

Maybe they’ll say I’m being discriminatory. But I’d like the government to cut off child benefits. We always had to take care of our own children. If people want to raise more than two kids, they should pay for it. The Turks and Moroccans have lots of children and go on holiday for six weeks. They buy houses – I can point them out – and they drive a Mercedes! It’s outrageous. The government would save billions if they cut those benefits.

Christopher explicitly couches his stance as potentially ‘discriminating’ but justifies it with a fairness frame: he invokes a principle (‘we take care of our own kids’) to argue that large families (stereotypically ascribed here to Turks and Moroccans) should not be subsidised. His depiction of migrant families as living luxuriously (houses, Mercedes, long vacations) implies they are exploiting the welfare system to enjoy a lifestyle that hardworking locals like him cannot. Thus, he labels them undeserving of benefits such as child allowance. His proposal to cap or remove those benefits is essentially a call for punitive measures against the perceived undeserving poor. This narrative plays into a broader social trope that conflates ethnicity and welfare abuse, reflecting how stigma towards an area can merge with ethnic resentment. Christopher’s resentment is sharpened by the comparison – he sees himself as a have-not (‘living in poverty’) and them as ‘ostensible moneybags’ due to unfair state generosity. This inverted perception (the truly poor seeing others among them as actually privileged) reveals how relative deprivation and stigma can distort social perceptions, fuelling horizontal animosity among low-income groups.

Immigrant and minority residents likewise engaged in this deservingness discourse, often flipping the script. For instance, Samir (37, Moroccan man, Delfshaven) believed that the native Dutch received better treatment in housing and thus saw them as the undeserving ones in that domain:

If I request a decent place to live, I won’t get it . . . They say, ‘It’s too expensive for you’. But they give those houses to the Dutch. Suppose we both apply for a flat – you’ll get it, and I won’t. It’s awful . . . always this mouldy old house for me.

Samir draws a boundary between ‘the Dutch’ who ‘easily obtain comfortable houses’ and ‘his sort’ who are left in substandard housing. In his view, the undeserving are the native Dutch who get privileges without needing them as badly as he does – the implication being that he, as an immigrant struggling with poor housing, is actually more deserving of a decent home. This is a mirror image of Amanda’s complaint, illustrating how each group can feel the other is unfairly advantaged. The commonality is that both feel they have been treated unjustly by the system, and both then locate blame in a group of neighbours who are seen as ‘receiving more than their due’.

A Surinamese interviewee in the Bijlmermeer offered another twist, seeing other immigrant groups (Moroccans, Turks, Tamil refugees) as unduly favoured:

Look at these Turkish families – constantly moving from one house to another. I wonder, how do they manage that, while I can’t? For example, the neighbours downstairs – I don’t know where they came from, some kind of Tamil family. They get a house, flooring, a fridge, everything. The man drives a Mercedes. Their grandmother gets dropped off by taxi every day. I don’t get any favours. We take a step down, and they rank above us . . . Refugees always get the houses.

In this account, the respondent contrasts her lack of support with the perceived abundance enjoyed by her neighbours, stating: ‘we step down, they rank above us’. She interprets her diminished social position as unjust, implicitly framing long-term residents as more deserving than newer immigrants and refugees. Her detailed references to material goods – furnishings, taxis, luxury cars – suggest a suspicion that public or charitable resources are unfairly distributed, expressing a strong sense of relative deprivation.

Such narratives reveal how moral classifications of deservingness help residents rationalise their marginalisation. Rather than generating solidarity, they channel feelings of resentment into moral boundary work. Neighbours who appear to benefit unfairly – whether ethnic ‘others’, recent arrivals, or stereotyped ‘welfare cheats’ – are cast as undeserving, enabling residents to affirm their own virtue and justify social distance.

This pattern reflects Engbersen’s (1990) notion of ‘internal differentiation’, where competition and reference group comparisons within poor neighbourhoods fuel scapegoating (Engbersen and van der Veen, 1992). Our data confirm this dynamic: nearly every group constructs moral high ground by contrasting itself with another – natives versus migrants, long-term residents versus newcomers, or even intra-ethnic divisions such as Hindu- versus Afro-Surinamese. These distinctions cross ethnic lines, reinforcing the widespread appeal of the deserving–undeserving schema and fostering a sense of zero-sum competition.

The consequences are socially corrosive. Labelling others as undeserving undermines trust, discourages mutual support, and fosters isolation. Several respondents admitted to avoiding neighbours they considered freeloaders. These judgements often carried punitive overtones, echoing broader welfare stigma and intensifying internal division. Brittany (40s, Dutch, Noord), for example, bitterly portrayed migrants as habitual tax-dodgers – an attitude that exemplifies how moral outrage, rather than uniting the disadvantaged, further fragments their communities.

While I was homeless, where was my refugee camp? They don’t make any special effort for us – only for those from faraway lands. Look at the Moroccan guy with the café – he’s dodging taxes! All the migrants dodge taxes . . . I think that’s terrible.

Brittany feels a deep sense of betrayal (‘no one made a camp for me’), turning her bitterness on immigrants who she imagines are all cheating on taxes. Her sweeping statement ‘all the migrants dodge taxes’ is a harsh moral indictment, effectively writing off an entire group as undeserving lawbreakers. This shows how stereotypes can be reinforced from within the stigmatised community, not just from outside. Brittany’s stance suggests she would have little inclination to bond with or support migrant neighbours; she sees them as part of her problem.

Moral classifications of deservingness in these neighbourhoods frequently transcended ethnic boundaries and also emerged within specific communities. Residents not only directed blame at other ethnic or social groups, but often expressed concern about how the actions of individuals within their own group might negatively impact the collective image. For example, some Turkish and Surinamese respondents expressed frustration that the behaviour of certain youth or neighbours reflected poorly on the wider community. These dynamics highlight how stigma can fuel internal divisions, weakening cohesion even among those who share cultural or ethnic ties.

These moral distinctions serve as a coping strategy: they allow individuals to preserve a sense of virtue – ‘I’m poor but decent, unlike them’ – but at the cost of fracturing shared identity. Our findings show how deeply the deserving–undeserving narrative has taken root, turning neighbours into moral judges. As Wacquant (1993) observed, residents gain value only by devaluing their neighbours.

Empathetic reframing of stigma

Not all residents responded to the neighbourhood’s stigma by lashing out or blaming others. A notable subset of interviewees adopted a more understanding, empathetic stance towards local problems. In this pattern, residents acknowledged the same negative behaviours or conditions that others criticised, but instead of condemning ‘problem’ neighbours, they offered explanations or excuses for them. We interpret this as a partial internalisation of stigma in a constructive form – an attempt to neutralise the area’s discrediting label by humanising those blamed, rather than reinforcing the stigma. This empathetic response differs from the combative blaming seen in earlier themes: it is an outward-looking but sympathetic reaction, aiming to maintain communal compassion despite the stigma.

On the empathetic side, some residents engaged in what we might call ‘sympathizing with the “troublemakers”’. They showed a willingness to step into the others’ shoes and understand those neighbours whom others harshly judged. Particularly in Amsterdam-Zuid Oost (Bijlmermeer), a number of Surinamese and other long-term residents took a gentler view of the disorder and ‘antisocial’ behaviour around them. They neither fully condoned nor outright condemned the misbehaving individuals; rather, they tried to contextualise the behaviour. This corresponds to what was termed ‘sympathizing’ in the lead author’s doctoral dissertation, which forms the empirical basis for this article – a strategy to neutralise a discrediting mark. For instance, Marissa (45, Surinamese-Dutch, Bijlmermeer), while acknowledging serious problems like vandalism and filth in her building, attributed them to the social and cultural challenges faced by newcomers in the neighbourhood:

They [some neighbours] throw everything off the balconies – sofas, Christmas trees, nappies . . . the lift is filthy. Some people just can’t fit in. I fully understand – they come from a different society where everyone lives outdoors. They have to adapt, and struggle to do so. I think this vandalism stems from financial problems. They don’t know how to cope with limited resources.

Marissa vividly describes the misbehaviour (‘throw everything’, ‘filthy lift’) – she is not denying the basis for the area’s bad image. However, instead of moral condemnation, she responds with empathy: the offenders ‘come from a different society’ and are struggling to adjust to high-rise urban life; their vandalism, she suggests, stems from poverty and an inability to cope, rather than malice. In reframing these acts as stemming from social hardship and adaptation issues, Marissa shifts the narrative from a moral failing (‘bad people’) to a compassionate understanding of circumstances. This empathetic framing effectively neutralises blame: the people causing mess are not simply ‘bad’, but under pressure and lacking guidance. Marissa’s stance implicitly challenges the dominant stigma narrative – she hints that what angry neighbours or outsiders label as ‘antisocial’ might actually have understandable origins if one considers the perpetrators’ context.

Sympathetic voices like Marissa’s were less common than critical ones, but they were present, especially among long-standing residents who had seen multiple waves of neighbours or who had themselves experienced hardship. Another Surinamese interviewee, Leslie (mid-50s, Bijlmermeer), even put a positive spin on the neighbourhood’s situation, directly countering the idea that it’s a ‘bad place’:

Since I moved to this neighbourhood, I’ve found it wonderful. You see many foreigners, just like me. When it comes to discrimination, I feel safe. But in the past few months, the neighbourhood has started to deteriorate – it’s becoming dirty.

Leslie begins by praising the Bijlmermeer. She values its multicultural character (‘many foreigners, just like me’) and even sees the diversity as offering safety from discrimination (implying that in a diverse area, she doesn’t feel like an isolated minority). This is a deliberate reframing of the stigma: she highlights a positive aspect – cosmopolitan diversity and a sense of belonging for immigrants – that outsiders often overlook. Only at the end of her comment does she acknowledge the recent decline in conditions (‘it’s becoming dirty’). Leslie’s perspective illustrates a form of resisting stigma: she maintains a proud, positive identification with her neighbourhood despite its negative reputation. Her slight concession about ‘dirtiness’ shows realism, but she does not let that negate the value she finds in her community.

Residents like Marissa and Leslie represent a more constructive coping strategy in the face of stigma – one grounded in empathy and understanding rather than in accusation. By trying to understand ‘problem’ neighbours or even emphasising the strengths of the community (such as diversity or solidarity), they counteract the purely negative image of the area. These sympathetic responses could even sow the seeds for community solidarity if they were shared more widely. Indeed, a few respondents mentioned small, positive actions: for example, one man said he personally talks to youths who litter, explaining why it’s important to keep the area clean, rather than scolding them. Such acts show that not everyone succumbs to divisive blame; some attempt to bridge the social gaps by fostering understanding.

Withdrawal and internalised stigma

In contrast to the empathetic minority, many other residents reacted to the neighbourhood’s stigma in a resigned way, effectively withdrawing from community life. This withdrawal pattern involved a sense of helplessness or futility: people felt that little could be done to change the situation, and so they retreated from engagement in the neighbourhood. Rather than actively blaming others, these individuals internalised the area’s negative image to some degree and gave up on collective solutions. Their response was more inward-looking – characterised by disengagement and resignation.

Several interviewees described pulling back socially as a self-protective response. They limited their interactions to a small, trusted circle (family or a few friends) and avoided broader community contact. Others spoke of a mental or emotional withdrawal – ‘giving up’ on the neighbourhood. They stopped investing in improvements or voicing concerns, focusing instead on personal survival or hoping to eventually escape the area. Kristen (38, Dutch, Bijlmermeer) provides a stark example of this withdrawn stance, coupled with internalised stigma. After years of negative encounters (including incidents she attributed to local Surinamese teens and men), she admitted how her outlook had changed:

When I first moved to this neighbourhood, I considered myself non-racist. But after so many negative experiences, I now avoid the Black Surinamese. I mean, the Hindustani women are fine, but the men treat you terribly . . . None of them has ever apologized. It seems the neighbourhood has changed my worldview.

Kristen’s testimony is troubling: she explicitly acknowledges that the neighbourhood experience turned her from someone ‘non-racist’ into someone who now harbours prejudices (avoiding ‘Black Surinamese’ men). This is a case of negative internalisation of stigma. Rather than questioning the stereotype that ‘Black Surinamese are troublesome’, she has come to accept and personally reinforce it (‘the neighbourhood has changed my worldview’). In withdrawing from interaction with a whole subset of neighbours, Kristen illustrates how territorial stigma can breed further stigma among residents themselves – a vicious cycle noted by classic studies (Elias and Scotson, 1994[1965]). Her withdrawal is both social (she keeps to herself except for a few she trusts) and attitudinal (she has given up on bridging inter-group divides, retreating into distrust). It shows how prolonged exposure to a stigmatised environment, especially through negative incidents, can erode a person’s openness and solidarity, leading them to resign from community engagement and adopt prejudiced generalisations in the process.

Another form of withdrawal was a widespread sense of resignation and loss of investment in the neighbourhood’s future. Several long-term residents described the area as a place they had come to accept as hopeless. One man from Delfshaven explained that over time, he had stopped complaining and focused solely on his own affairs. This kind of passive acceptance reflects an internalisation of stigma: agreeing with the neighbourhood’s negative image and abandoning any attempt to push for change.

In policy terms, such resignation often translates into low civic engagement. As Silver (1994) suggests, prolonged exclusion may lead people to exit public life – if not physically, then psychologically. Residents who withdrew in this way typically redirected blame upwards, pointing to government or housing authorities rather than to fellow residents. In doing so, they avoided neighbourly conflict but also refrained from collective action, viewing everyone as trapped by systemic failure.

One older Dutch respondent illustrated this dynamic, stating that the authorities – not the people – had caused the decline, and that residents had lost hope because ‘nothing ever changes’. While this view sidesteps interpersonal blame, it still fosters inertia: when resignation is widespread, no one takes the lead, and community mobilisation falters.

In some cases, withdrawal extended beyond psychological disengagement to actual departure. Those with the means or motivation often chose to leave. Although our sample includes only those who remained, many interviewees referenced neighbours who had ‘fled’ over time. Notably, it was often the more resourceful or community-oriented residents who left as conditions deteriorated. As one respondent from Noord put it, ‘The good people leave, the rest stay’ – a stark expression of a self-reinforcing cycle. Those best positioned to uphold social norms or drive improvement are also most likely to exit, removing role models and local leadership. Their departure deepens decline, echoing Wilson’s (1987) insights. In this sense, withdrawal is not only psychological but demographic: a selective out-migration that leaves behind a concentration of demoralised or immobilised residents.

Ultimately, this pattern of withdrawal undermines community cohesion. Although disengagement may reduce overt conflict, it erodes the social fabric. As residents retreat into private life, everyday interaction and mutual support decline, and collective mobilisation becomes nearly impossible. Several interviewees highlighted this fragmentation, noting that people tend to isolate themselves and that neighbours can no longer be relied upon. This resignation not only mirrors internalised stigma – it reinforces it: by accepting the area as beyond repair, residents unwittingly weaken the very solidarity needed to challenge that perception.

While all four patterns appeared across the three neighbourhoods, some variation emerged by location. In the Bijlmermeer, Surinamese residents more often expressed pride and empathy, citing shared festivals and ‘our own culture’ as sources of resilience. This contrasted with Amsterdam-Noord and Delfshaven, where blame and resignation were more common. The Bijlmermeer’s cohesive Surinamese majority – with shared language, culture, and history – seemed to foster mutual recognition and solidarity. This pattern may also reflect recruitment bias, as interviewers actively sought contact with the Surinamese community, potentially amplifying narratives of cultural pride and cohesion.

Theoretical contributions: revisiting territorial stigma

This article advances territorial stigma theory by conceptualising stigma as a relational and moral force actively reproduced within marginalised communities. Building on Wacquant’s (1993, 2008) foundational work, we identify four interrelated mechanisms through which residents engage with territorial stigma: (1) moral boundary work, (2) moral classifications of deservingness, (3) empathetic reframing of stigma, and (4) withdrawal and internalised stigma. Together, these mechanisms illustrate how stigma operates not merely as an externally imposed label, but as an embedded social logic reproduced through everyday practices and moral distinctions.

Through moral boundary work, residents construct symbolic divisions between ‘orderly’ and ‘disorderly’ neighbours, invoking behavioural norms rooted in cleanliness, parenting, and civic conduct. In line with Bourdieu’s (1984) theory of distinction and Lamont’s (2000) conceptualisation of boundary work, such practices reflect attempts to preserve respectability in conditions of material scarcity. The accumulation of symbolic capital in this context allows residents to maintain self-worth, but also reorders neighbourhood hierarchies along moral lines.

Deservingness narratives further reveal how residents differentiate between the ‘strivers’ and the ‘cheats’, echoing Katz’s (1989) account of welfare moralism. These classifications function as mechanisms of symbolic affirmation – residents defend their worth by aligning themselves with dominant norms of responsibility and effort. However, as Skeggs (1997) and Anderson (1999) argue, the pursuit of respectability as symbolic capital can come at the cost of reciprocity, as it often entails exclusionary judgements and the reproduction of stigma within the community itself.

Empathetic reframing complicates this moral logic by illustrating how residents occasionally resist the binary of the deserving and undeserving. Drawing on Goffman’s (1963) insight that stigma can be negotiated, this mechanism highlights efforts to humanise deviant behaviour by situating it within structural constraints such as poverty, migration stress, or marginalisation. While such empathy can soften social judgement and foster emotional understanding, it typically remains confined to individual acts of interpretation rather than collective mobilisation or political contestation.

Withdrawal and internalised stigma further deepen our understanding of symbolic violence (Bourdieu, 1989) and the disciplinary workings of stigma (Tyler, 2020). Here, residents internalise negative representations of their neighbourhood, resulting in disengagement, resignation, or retreat from public life. This mechanism shows how stigma not only discredits individuals but also regulates their aspirations and participation – normalising exclusion through embodied self-restraint.

Taken together, these mechanisms reposition territorial stigma as a form of symbolic power rooted in moral classification and relational practice. Rather than merely undermining solidarity, they reveal a complex interplay of self-defence, status-making, and everyday judgement. Stigma operates not only as a form of devaluation from above, but as a moral economy enacted from below – structuring neighbourhood hierarchies, regulating interaction, and shaping the micropolitics of worth within stigmatised urban space.

Limitations and future research

While offering deep insight into the Netherlands in the late 1990s, this study has limitations. The historical data warrant updated research on whether similar dynamics persist under new economic or migratory conditions. Comparative work could assess whether moral boundary work is universal or shaped by welfare regimes and local institutions. Future studies might examine neighbourhoods that overcame stigma: what leadership or conditions fostered solidarity? Ethnography could capture real-time boundary work in daily life. Finally, more attention is needed to those labelled ‘undeserving’ to understand how they experience, resist, or internalise stigma and to inform more inclusive interventions.