A while ago, I conducted a research project that stayed with me long after the interviews were transcribed and the findings written down. It explored a question I’ve carried since I left Bulgaria myself: what role does corruption play in why people leave—and whether they ever come back?

I interviewed 29 Bulgarians living in Germany and the Netherlands—a mix of students, professionals, and young adults building new lives abroad. While their stories were personal, a pattern began to form. Corruption wasn’t just something they experienced—it was something they escaped. And trust in institutions wasn't just something they hoped for—it became the foundation of their new sense of safety.

More than a job: migration as a political response

To understand this phenomenon, I used two major migration frameworks.

First, Lee’s Push-Pull Theory helps explain why people leave (push factors like corruption and instability) and why they choose a particular place (pull factors like job prospects, democracy, and safety).

Second, Hein de Haas’s Aspirations-Capabilities Framework, which goes further—showing that people migrate only when they want to (aspiration) and can (capability). This lens acknowledges that people don’t just react to hardship—they plan, resist, and reach for futures they find meaningful.

Corruption, in this view, isn’t just a push—it’s a signal that aspirations at home aren’t achievable. One participant, S.F., a lawyer in Amsterdam, captured this tension: “Even if you study and work hard, you still need connections to get anywhere.”

This quote reflects a core theme in my research: the collapse of meritocracy in Bulgaria. Participants didn’t flee poverty alone—they fled systems where effort no longer translated into progress. Corruption wasn’t just unfair; it made ambition feel irrelevant.

The emotional weight of everyday corruption

Some forms of corruption were direct—bribes, nepotism, and rigged job applications. But more often, participants described a wider, ambient sense of institutional breakdown. It wasn’t always one moment—it was years of knowing that fairness had no real place.

U.H., a 31-year-old working in German foreign policy, told me: “Back home, people say, ‘I’m not stealing—I’m just borrowing.’ That mindset is so deep, it makes it hard to even see corruption as wrong.”

This quote hits on two layers from my analysis. First, the cultural normalization of corruption—something I examined through institutional culture theory (Inglehart, de Jonge). Second, the emotional detachment from the state. People no longer felt responsible for public life, because the state had long abandoned them.

In my coding tree, this was linked to the theme of "moral fatigue." People described feeling either complicit or powerless—until they left.

And there’s one sentence I still carry with me—something a participant said that I can’t forget: “I will never forgive Bulgaria for making me an immigrant.”

I don’t know if it stayed with me because I saw myself in it or because he truly meant it with every word. Maybe both. But that line speaks to something bigger—a country at the edge of Europe, rich in talent, full of potential, and yet lacking the systems that could turn it into a place where its own people feel they can belong.

It’s not the absence of opportunity that hurts the most. It’s the betrayal of what could have been home.

Institutional culture shock—in a good way

Living in countries like Germany or the Netherlands created what I refer to (alongside Juárez Jensen & Bjørnskov) as a "benchmark effect." Suddenly, migrants were living in systems that worked—and it changed how they saw their past.

B.L., a psychologist in Groningen, put it bluntly: “In the Netherlands, you know where to go, what paper you need, and what day to submit it. In Bulgaria, the system is designed to confuse you—so someone can offer you help, for a price.”

What B.L. is describing is not just inefficiency. It’s what scholars call institutionalized dependency—when corruption is baked into how people get through the day. In contrast, the clarity of host-country institutions offered not just order but dignity. My participants described a sense of being treated as citizens, not clients.

Return migration: the decision that changes over time

Many participants initially said they wanted to return to Bulgaria. But as they spent more time abroad, their standards—and expectations—shifted. C.P., a doctor in Germany, shared: “I went back for a summer. Within two weeks, someone tried to bribe me to skip a queue at the hospital. I couldn’t unsee it.”

This quote embodies what my research labeled as a reintegration shock. Living in a low-corruption context not only shapes expectations—it makes previous norms feel alien. The longer someone stays abroad, the more difficult it becomes to re-enter systems that once felt familiar but now feel absurd.

And yet, emotional ties remain. Some participants spoke of being “trapped between two systems”—one that feels fair but foreign, and another that feels like home but unjust. This tension was especially visible in their return plans, often suspended in what I called “aspirational limbo.”

When institutions become a source of safety

What emerged most clearly was a redefinition of safety. Participants no longer measured it just through physical security but also through emotional, legal, and institutional stability.

J.W., a logistics worker in the Netherlands, said: “Here, if something goes wrong at work, I have protection. In Bulgaria, you’re on your own—unless you know someone who knows someone.”

This quote speaks directly to one of my findings: functioning institutions are a form of protection. When people no longer trust courts, police, or education systems, it creates a deep sense of exposure. In contrast, even basic public infrastructure in the host country became a source of psychological safety.

Corruption as a migration catalyst

This research confirmed what I had long sensed: corruption doesn’t just push people out—it also pushes them not to come back.

Migration is more than economics. It’s an emotional and political act. It’s a decision to reject a system that doesn’t see you—and to invest your trust elsewhere. For many participants, that trust had been restored—slowly, quietly—in the policies of another country.

What began as an escape from dysfunction often became a new definition of dignity. And until institutions back home can offer that same sense of fairness, accountability, and protection, the choice to stay away will remain not only rational but also deeply human.