The first person Maria* called when she found out she was pregnant was her doctor. The second person was a lawyer. The single mother of one was in shock, and considering terminating the pregnancy. But she first had to make sure that she wasn’t about to do something illegal, because all she knew was that abortions were forbidden where she lived. “On top of the emotional mountain that was already there, I also had to deal with this,” Maria told me.
She also knew she wouldn’t get any information about abortions in her own country – that’s illegal too. After making her decision, she drove to a clinic across the border. It was a stressful, if short, 45-minute drive, at the end of which another hurdle was waiting: “Oh, you’re from Liechtenstein?” the receptionist said, according to Maria. “Then you have to pay immediately – 680 Swiss francs (£620) please.” She was taken aback and asked: “What if I can’t pay that right now?” The receptionist replied: “Then you’ll have to come back tomorrow.”
Liechtenstein has one of the strictest abortion laws in Europe. This is probably not something you know about my “micro-state” – you might think of its banks, of Alpine scenery and castles fit for a Netflix romance. But in between them live real people with real lives, and every year, an estimated 40 women who wish to terminate their pregnancy on their own terms cannot do so in their country.
But if you ask Liechtenstein’s regent, Hereditary Prince Alois, our prime minister, or random people on the street, many will tell you the same thing: there is no problem at all. Since 2015, women are legally permitted to have an abortion outside the country, and the external border is never more than a 15-minute drive away. And anyway, it is allowed if the woman was raped or if her health is at risk, so what more could you ask for?
What I, and others who are part of a new people’s initiative are simply asking for is what is already standard in most European countries: decriminalisation of abortion up to 12 weeks, repeal of the national ban on information about abortions, and for the procedure to be covered by health insurance. A recent poll shows that 62% of voters would be in favour of it if a vote were held. It should be a done deal. But no matter what the people say: the hereditary prince has already announced that he would veto any change in the law, long before a single vote has been cast.
Liechtenstein is not your typical European monarchy, and the prince’s power is anything but ceremonial. Alois can veto any bill, dismiss the government or individual ministers, appoint judges, and propose changes to the law. He usually exercises this power with restraint, and has never actually used his veto. He has only threatened to use it once, in 2011, which was the last time a popular initiative tried to legalise abortion. With the prince’s veto looming over the vote, it was rendered effectively pointless, leading to a historically low turnout, and a 52% vote against.
A national debate over the monarchy’s role ensued, culminating in a vote in which more than 76% chose to preserve the prince’s veto power. This happened though after Alois and his father, Prince Hans-Adam II, had threatened to leave the country if the vote didn’t go in their favour – a move that would have plunged our nation into a severe crisis.
This is why it continues to be the case that speaking out in favour of legalising abortion is regarded as speaking out against the monarchy.
Alois says that the present laws are there to protect unborn life, even though he acknowledges that the abortion ban doesn’t actually prevent any abortions. And our prime minister, Brigitte Haas, says she’s pragmatic and doesn’t see a problem with sending women across the border. I have one question: have they ever spoken to a single woman who had to cross the border for an abortion? Because if they had, they would know that the abortion ban is indeed harming those affected in several ways.
Since 2022, I’ve conducted more than a dozen interviews with women from Liechtenstein who had to seek abortion care outside the country. Their stories have several things in common.
Just like Maria, Liechtensteiners who seek abortion care are completely on their own. A ban on information – the last one of its kind in Europe – prevents local groups and professionals from giving advice about procedures and where to go. Pressured for time by the 12-week limit for abortions in Switzerland and Austria, they have to make phone call after phone call to find the right clinic, for which they have to pay in advance, up to 2,500 Swiss francs (£2,360). They fear legal consequences, because many don’t realise that under Liechtenstein’s law only doctors are criminally liable. And they feel stigmatised by a law telling them to deal with their problems elsewhere. As Maria puts it: “You feel so awful when you want to do it, because it’s so taboo in this country. You feel like you’re a monster.”
Alois’s veto announcement may have been intended to discourage people from signing the initiative or to demotivate us campaigners. The opposite has happened: many people felt even more motivated to sign, and in a country of about 41,000 people (only around 21,000 with voting rights), we received 4,970 signatures, the second-largest tally of signatories for a popular initiative in the country’s history – equivalent to 10.5m signatures in the UK or 13.8m in Germany.
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A few weeks ago I went collecting some of those signatures in the streets of Vaduz. A dad with his two kids told me he had already signed, and his young daughter asked what we were doing. I said we were collecting signatures for a cause, and if we collected enough of them, all the people in the country could vote on it. Her father added: “Well, one person has already cast his vote.”
There is only one man we have to convince. We hope a very clear vote might do the trick.
*Maria’s name was changed to protect her privacy.
