Emigrating from Switzerland – Zia, 47 and so done with this place

I am Zia. And this is my blog.

Forty-eight, born in the canton of Bern, currently stranded in the bureaucratic limbo of the canton of Solothurn.

Officially, I’m Swiss. But at the moment, my passport is the most Swiss thing about me.

I am the second of two children and come from a family that worked its way up into the lower middle class in the early 1980s – a place where cheese rarely comes in triplicate and the hope for «more» is usually dashed by the budget.

My father grew up in a working-class family in Biel – born in Cité Marie, a neighborhood that the poor themselves described as „not so great”. No heating, no hot water, but plenty of reality. An apprenticeship? Unattainable. So: factory work to the point of exhaustion – for a monthly wage that was barely enough for the next month. The reward after 35 years? A watch and a wet handshake.

My mother comes from Seeland. Her parents belonged to the exploited lower class of agriculture – my grandfather was a Child victim (i.e. free labor with a place to sleep), my grandmother a maid who at least completed a housekeeping apprenticeship – a bachelor’s degree in housekeeping, so to speak.

Social background, upward mobility, and constant uncertainty

The fact that all four children received vocational training was a small social miracle. Especially for my mother: polio at the age of nine, nine years in hospital, countless operations, a spine like an anatomical model. She did her commercial training – naturally – in hospital. And because she felt too moral to receive disability benefits, she also worked part-time. Welcome to the edge of the middle class – always three bills away from ruin.

Money was the soundtrack to my childhood. It took me years to realize how hard my parents worked just to keep us afloat. „Hardworking people“, as they say. As if that were a medal. And what did they get out of it? No property. No savings. Just worn-out bodies and a sad little sausage from the butcher for their 35th anniversary.

This background is important because it was my starting point. And it is unimportant because it no longer defines who I am.

Because: I’m tired of being labeled by other people.

Stigmatization is a recurring theme in my life.

I spent years trying to fit into Swiss society, dutifully fulfilling all the criteria, bending and bending until I almost broke. The harder I tried, the more labels were pinned on me. I don’t fit in here. And – hand on heart – I don’t even want to anymore.

I am not a „good Swiss”. Everything that is considered a virtue here – time clocks, compulsory taxation, obsessive cleanliness – makes me nervous.

I refuse to spend my life maximizing corporate profits or propping up broken systems. The capitalism practiced here is cannibalism in pretty packaging – and I have lost my taste for human flesh.

Yes, Switzerland has its beautiful sides. But when you’re broke, it’s not a home, it’s a high-security wing with a view of the Alps.

And many of its inhabitants – sorry, not sorry – are snobs with world-class denial skills.

So I pull the plug.

Why I am leaving Switzerland – my personal break

My „Migration Lite” adventure begins – at the earliest – in fall 2025.

I’ve been officially „work shy” since April – by my own choice, for the first time in years – and (surprise!) I feel pretty good about it.

Waiting is still a challenge. So I write. To clear my head. To document my own journey. To let off steam. And because my suitcase is already packed in my head – with sunscreen, longing and a little bit of hope – for a life in Tunisia, maybe in Sousse, maybe somewhere where I can breathe again.

Stay tuned if you want to see how this develops.

Or read along if you sometimes feel like an alien who has accidentally landed in Switzerland.