Swiss Watching

by Diccon Bewes

  The most extreme form of recycling in Switzerland, though, has to be the graves. Visit a Swiss cemetery and the vast majority of the graves will be less than 25 years old, which partly explains why the graveyards are all so pristine. Apart from family graves, which are usually bought and paid for, most graves are rented for 20–25 years, with keeping the grave neat and tidy a part of the contract. After that the space is used again, very often by the next generation of the same family. Even the headstone is recycled if the family don’t want to keep it; and let’s face it, what would you do with Granny’s gravestone? Put it in the corner of the sitting room? Or maybe make a feature of it in the back garden? Unwanted headstones are broken up to make ornamental chips and gravel. All so unsentimental, but an eminently practical solution to a lack of room; Switzerland is small and doesn’t want to waste valuable land on the dead.

  However, there is one place where the dead get plenty of space and that’s in the newspaper death notices. It’s definitely not a case of discreet three-line affairs, passed away peacefully, much missed, no flowers by request, that sort of thing. In Switzerland it’s more like a quarter-page black-bordered advert, complete with an appropriate quotation, the deceased’s address, details of the service and the names of all the grieving relatives. Dying is a big deal in Switzerland, not least for the broadsheet newspapers, which have whole pages dedicated to the dead, both Protestant and Catholic. In death, as in life, both sides of the Swiss religious divide rest in peace.

  THE PROTESTANT ROME

  The Swiss Reformation began in Zurich but reached its peak in Geneva. Hear that name and you’ll most likely think of peace talks, international conferences, private banks or a lake. Four centuries or so ago, the response would have been very different; apart from the lake, which was around back then too. In those days Geneva was the place to be if you were a Protestant, especially one fleeing the Spanish Inquisition or other Catholic heavies. It was a city republic, allied to but not part of Switzerland, and was the Protestant counterpart to Rome. And that’s largely thanks to a Frenchman, Jean Calvin. He stopped over for a night in August 1536 and the city was never the same again. Under his rule, Geneva became the Iran of its day: a theocracy, with the God Squad firmly in charge.

  From cradle to grave, the people of Geneva were expected to be all work and no play, with a ban on anything even vaguely fun: dancing, gambling, loud behaviour, theatre, drinking, luxury clothes. God was in charge and he was a Puritan with a capital P; his will was enforced by decree, curfew, prison and public execution. But not everything was banned. Hard work was fine, as was prayer and, more surprisingly, so was charging interest on a loan. The age-old religious objection to usury was put aside and, hey presto, the Swiss banking industry was born. For this reason, Calvinism is seen by many as the origin of modern capitalism, though all that endless work might have played a role.

  Arrive in Geneva by train and you don’t get the best first impression of Switzerland’s second largest city. In almost every city around the world the area near a train station is often the least attractive, and Geneva is no exception. True, it’s not London’s King’s Cross, but in Swiss terms it’s definitely down-at-heel, even if those heels are fake Jimmy Choos worn by ladies of the night. Actually they are ladies of the anytime-you-fancy, since prostitutes seem to be one of the few 24-hour services available in Switzerland. In Geneva, with so many diplomats and conferences coming and going, there’s clearly plenty of demand and the supply to satisfy it.

  Just a short walk downhill from the dubious bars is the tourist-board Geneva: a waterfront lined with palatial hotels, modern banks and neon signs, the lake dotted with sailboats against the backdrop of the French Alps, and the city’s distinctive landmark shooting up 140 metres into the sky. The Jet d’Eau is one of the world’s largest fountains but other than looking nice, especially when lit up at night, it does nothing more than give tourists something big to take a photo of.

  For many Swiss Germans, Geneva is their least favourite city. This isn’t because it feels decidedly un-Swiss (it’s almost totally surrounded by France) or that it can seem as self-important as Zurich. It’s about language. In common with most of the French-speaking part, almost every one of Geneva’s inhabitants refuses to speak German. It’s much like the British speaking French: they learn it at school but promptly forget every word once they’re in the real world. You are more likely to hear English, numerically Geneva’s second language, in the streets and shops. Or maybe it’s not the lingo that’s the problem but the sombre nature of everything and everyone. Too serious even for the Swiss, with no joie de vivre here in any language. The Protestant work ethic seems to have seeped into the buildings, the streets and the people. For sure there are lots of expensive baubles glittering in shop windows, but very few twinkles in people’s eyes. Maybe they are all busy calculating how long they have to work to pay the rent, which in Geneva is about the highest in Switzerland. It’s the main reason why, according to a 2011 survey, Geneva is the world’s fifth most expensive city to live in.8

  The heart of the city is not the lakefront or shops, but the hilly old town, which looks like a film set for The Three Musketeers, only without anyone hanging around in swirling capes and big hats. Much as in Zurich, it feels as if it hasn’t changed in centuries, though the liveliness of Zurich is noticeable by its absence. Even on a sunny weekday, the narrow streets of tall stone houses are shady and almost empty, with the occasional café outnumbered by forbiddingly posh antique shops and shuttered windows. This is a city that forgot how to have fun even after Calvin died, and his influence is evidently still at work – as is the whole population. You only have to see his hard wooden chair sitting in the very bare cathedral to know what he thought about comfort and beauty. It’s enough to give you a numb bum just looking at it.

  The great man himself can be found in the Parc des Bastions. This lovely green space, where the city defences used to be, is home to the world’s most imposing monument to the Reformation. A 100-metre wall of sandstone is dominated by four giant carved statues, all of them looking very severe and judgemental. With their long robes and grim beards they look four Dumbledores, though not on one of his happier days. Of course Calvin is one of them, along with John Knox, founder of Scottish Presbyterianism, who sought sanctuary in Geneva. The Lord’s Prayer in English is carved into the wall, and both the Pilgrim Fathers and England’s Bill of Rights (which excluded Catholics from the throne) are also depicted. A world view of Protestant history, except for the absence of Zwingli, who is demoted to a mere name engraved in a nearby statue-less plinth. The fact that he was Swiss is clearly less important than the fact that he didn’t speak French. Even as a Protestant, he was too Germanic for the good citizens of Geneva.

  Today the city is no longer the Protestant stronghold it once was. The 2000 census showed that only 14 per cent of the population is Protestant, a similar figure to Canton Geneva as a whole.9 It doesn’t have Catholic holidays but is now Protestant in name only. Calvin must be turning in his grave, assuming it hasn’t been recycled.

  OF MINARETS AND MINORITIES

  The fact that barely one sixth of Geneva’s citizens still follow Calvin’s faith shows how much the delicate Catholic–Protestant balance has changed. Until the mid-twentieth century Protestants were the majority nationally, as they had been for ages. Then came the Sixties, the immigration decade, when thousands of Italians and Portuguese came to Switzerland to work. They were Catholic – and they stayed. Today, Catholics outnumber Protestants by a good margin, but only because one fifth of them are foreigners.10 Look at just the Swiss population – that is, excluding all the immigrants – and the numbers are about the same (roughly 41 per cent).11 The thing is, the Protestant–Catholic rift doesn’t really matter any more. It no longer divides the Swiss the way it used to, and a new religious division has appeared instead.

  Forty years ago over 98 per cent of the Swiss population was Christian; today it’s just over three-quarters.12 This nati
onal average hides the extremes, such as Canton Uri at 93 per cent (nearly all of them Catholic) and the city of Basel, where Protestants and Catholics together aren’t even a majority.13 Part of that decline is due to the growth in the number of Muslims, mostly from ex-Yugoslavia and Turkey, who now constitute 5.7 per cent of the population14; almost unbelievably, that’s a higher percentage than in the UK. For a country used to everyone being a Christian, it’s a huge change and the growing pains are still being felt. As we’ll see in the next chapter, Swiss politics has become a battlefield over immigration and integration, with religion a big factor. Switzerland is becoming a multi-faith nation, but its people need time to adjust and not everyone wants to, as the minaret vote of 2009 showed. Swiss change is not a fast process.

  What is perhaps more telling is the meteoric rise in the number of non-believers. Over 11 per cent of the population now lists no religion as its faith, a tenfold increase in four decades.15 This development is much more marked in big cities like Basel than in the staunchly Catholic areas of central Switzerland. It’s most likely due to a loss of faith in the church or a decline in Protestant numbers, but I think it could just be a tax dodge. In most cantons you still have to pay a tithe, or church tax, which varies depending on your income, where you live and which church you belong to. It all sounds very mediaeval, especially as the tax is payable even if you don’t actively go to church. The best way to avoid it is to leave the church officially and have no religion. Fine if you’re a person, a bit harder if you are a company – in three-quarters of cantons businesses also have to pay the church tax, and in Canton Zurich it raises about 80 million francs a year.16 The winner certainly doesn’t take it all in Canton Bern, where lottery winnings are subject to an 8 per cent church tax.17 Ouch!

  Of the historic fault lines in Swiss society, the religious one is the least obvious today, mainly because it’s the least clear-cut. There are French-speaking Protestants and German-speaking Catholics, and vice versa. Cantons are not split neatly into two camps, and there’s no east–west or north–south partition. In fact, the jigsaw jumble that is the Catholic–Protestant divide is probably the least significant issue in today’s Switzerland. For most Swiss people, where you live, how you vote and what you speak are all more important. Having helped create the Switzerland of today, Christianity has moved from conflict to consensus. A Catholic nun walking through Bern as the Protestant cathedral’s bells ring would have once been unthinkable; today it’s normal, at least for the locals. To me, it’s still a moment to cherish. Not because of the wonderful bells, which ring at regular intervals all week, or because the only nuns I’d ever seen in England were in The Sound of Music. It’s because it shows what a society can achieve if it tries. How sad, then, that these hard-won lessons of the past are being ignored by those determined to make Islam an issue. Religion could once again divide Switzerland, making the future seem much less certain than the past.

  SWISS WATCHING TIP NO 3: SOS – SWITZERLAND ON SUNDAYS

  Sundays in Switzerland are still sacred, making a Swiss Sunday feel like being in England when it still had pound notes and Opal Fruits. From 5 on Saturday afternoon to 9 on Monday morning (or even 1 p.m. in some places) shops remain shut and shuttered, so that town centres take on a Mary Celeste air. As for a day out at IKEA, think again; it may be out of town, but it’s closed too. The only exceptions are train stations and airports, where shops can open every day of the year. Go on Sunday to a Coop or Migros in a big station like Bern or Zurich, and you’ll probably have to fight your way round and queue to pay. It’s like shopping just before Christmas, but every weekend. In fact, Christmas is the only time shops are allowed to open on Sunday. As with most things in Switzerland the rules are different in each community, but in most of German-speaking Switzerland, for example, the last two Sundays in Advent are designated as shopping ones. It seems that even respecting the day of rest takes second place to making money at the busiest time of the year. For the other fifty Sundays, though, there’s little chance of change. A recent referendum tried to restrict Sunday trading even further by preventing station shops from opening. It failed, thank God. Being used to 24-hour opening, it took me a while to adjust my shopping habits and I often still have to use the station shops for emergency milk. Swiss people, of course, are far too organised to run out of anything.

  It’s not only shopping that’s affected. In many residential buildings you aren’t allowed to do your laundry on a Sunday, or clean your windows, or do any DIY, while moving house is a big no-no. And it may be God’s day, but you’re not allowed to save the planet either. Before I knew any better I once did my recycling on a Sunday afternoon, and was soundly told off by a little old lady. I hadn’t noticed the signs at the bottle bank, making it clear that using them on Sunday (and after 8 p.m. any other day) is not permitted, owing to the unacceptable noise. Heaven help anyone who breaks these rules by breaking some glass.

  Public holidays also count as Sundays, at least in terms of what’s allowed and what’s not. So no Boxing Day sales, no mowing the lawn on May Day, no taking your empties to the bottle bank on New Year’s Day, and no family outings to a DIY superstore. And it follows that the day before a public holiday is a Saturday (even if it isn’t), when shops have to close earlier than normal. For example, in most cantons Maundy Thursday is a Saturday in shopping terms because the next day is Good Friday, which is a holiday, so a Sunday. But when the day before a holiday is actually a Sunday, then it clearly can’t be a Saturday, since Sundays take precedence. This only happens on date-related holidays, such as Christmas, New Year and Swiss National Day (1 August), which wander through the week. Christmas Eve, New Year’s Eve and 31 July are thus logically always Saturdays, except when they fall on Sundays, when they stay as Sundays. Got that?

  This is all second nature to the Swiss, but it can be rather confusing to strangers, whether visiting for a week or staying for a year. It’s easy to get caught out by shops and museums shutting early when you least expect them to, such as on the day before Ascension Day. Just to make it even more challenging, when the mobile holidays fall over a weekend there are no automatic replacement days to make up for that. A weekend Christmas in Britain means a four-day holiday, but in Switzerland it’s merely another weekend and you go back to work on Monday 27. The only concession is the shorter hours on Christmas Eve, which, as we have seen, becomes a Saturday even though it’s really a Friday. The double whammy is that when Christmas falls over a weekend, so too does New Year. Cue another normal weekend, another Monday return to work. There’s no such thing as a free holiday in Switzerland.

  With all these Saturdays and Sundays, real or otherwise, you’d think it would be chaos on the public transport system. Don’t be silly, this is Switzerland. The main train network operates the same timetable every day of the year, including Sundays and all holidays, since they are exactly when many people want to travel. There’s nothing more illogical to a Swiss person than the trains shutting down on Christmas Day, as they do in Britain. As for a ‘Sunday service’, in Switzerland that could only be in a church, not on a train. On Sundays the trains are packed, with skiers in winter, walkers in summer and tourists pretty much all year round. It’s only at a local level, such as on city buses or suburban commuter services, that you get a reduced timetable on Sundays and holidays. The sole nationwide transport restrictions on Sundays are for heavy goods vehicles, which are not allowed out on the roads, including motorways. Now that is a good idea.

  For the Swiss, Sundays are about rest and relaxation. They love seeing a film, going to church, being with family or going for a walk. Or maybe indulging in a bit of culture. Most museums open, though many close on Mondays to make up for the stress of having to stay open all weekend. So while some people, such as train drivers and cinema attendants, work like on any other day, for most Sunday is a day of rest, just as the good Lord intended. And for the bellringers it’s the busiest day of the week, which is saying a lot as Swiss bells seem to ring all t
he time. The Swiss like nothing more than to wake up on Sunday morning to the sound of church bells, no matter what flavour of Christianity is involved.

  FOUR

  ASK THE AUDIENCE

  Thick slabs of holey cheese and floury homemade ravioli, stylish bouquets of flowers and air-dried ham, rustic knobbly loaves and fresh-pressed apple juice. All that plus a bountiful array of seasonal fruit and vegetables, plump to the point of bursting. Nearly all the stallholders in Bern’s Saturday market are farmers from the surrounding countryside, who come to sell their goods whatever the weather. It isn’t so different from markets all across Switzerland, except for its memorable location – on the Bundesplatz, or Federal Square, the political epicentre of the country. It would be like setting up stalls in Westminster Square or on the steps of Congress – unthinkable for us, but normal for the Swiss.

  That’s not to say that politics isn’t important in Switzerland – far from it – more that the Swiss are very practical about their land use. The Bundesplatz is no Tiananmen or Trafalgar Square; it’s much more intimate. But its compactness hasn’t stopped it being used for a multitude of purposes. It was once a car park, until a much-needed makeover gave it a smart (and very expensive) stone floor. As well as the market, the space hosts political rallies, open-air concerts, beach volleyball tournaments and the national Christmas tree. A summertime pavement fountain with 26 vertical jets, one for each canton, is a source of endless delight for children wanting to cool off.