Illustration Ida Götz / NZZ
Most people think it could never happen to them. But can they really be so sure?
Last November, Rafael matched with an attractive woman on the dating app Tinder. Her name was Rolyn. Rafael, 29, lives in eastern Switzerland and works as a motorcycle mechanic. Before long, they were messaging every day. Less than two weeks later, he had lost all his savings.
For this story, Rafael shared his entire chat history with the NZZ. Rafael is not his real name. He asked to remain anonymous.
Half a world away, in the Philippines, Aung – a former scammer – is sitting in front of his laptop. He, too, has requested anonymity. But he is willing to explain, in detail, how he and his colleagues swindled people like Rafael.
For months, media outlets have reported on highly organized scam centers operating out of Southeast Asia that target victims in Europe and the United States. These schemes now generate billions in revenue. The people behind them are often tied to Chinese organized crime. The Chinese term they use for this treacherous practice is «pig butchering.»
Many still picture a scam as a clumsy email from a stranger offering a surprise inheritance or the so-called grandparent scam, in which fraudsters pretend to be a grandchild in urgent need of cash. Familiar tricks, easily dismissed. The victims, we think, must be naive, elderly, vulnerable.
We tell ourselves: «That could never happen to me.» But can we really be so sure?
1. Finding a pig
Rafael is single. Every few months, he downloads Tinder to his phone. He chats with women, meets up with a few, then deletes the app again.
In early November 2024, he matches with Rolyn. She says she’s originally from the Philippines but now lives in Manchester. She looks like a model – Rafael tells her as much. She says she feels comfortable talking with him. Soon she asks for his phone number, and they continue messaging on WhatsApp.
The scam known as «pig butchering» comes in many forms. Rafael fell for what’s called a romance scam – a scheme that plays out largely on dating apps. It’s all about emotion.
«Every character needs a sad story,» Aung says. An attractive photo, a name, a local phone number – and, right from the start, a tale of hardship.
Aung is 28 and originally from Myanmar. He fled the country’s civil war and eventually ended up working at a scam center in the Philippines. He spent several months in the business before walking away. He’s still living in Manila.
There are hundreds of such centers across the Philippines, each employing up to a thousand scammers. Along the Thai border with Myanmar, Laos and Cambodia, entire high-rises are packed with people working the same trade. Local authorities, who profit from the illegal trade, often turn a blind eye to their activities.
Online scamming took off during the COVID-19 pandemic. One reason: Traditional revenue streams for Chinese organized crime in Southeast Asia – like casinos and hotels – dried up during lockdowns. Another: The pandemic had very different consequences in different parts of the world. In Asia, many young people lost their jobs and scrambled for income. In the West, the crisis left many people isolated and lonely – and more willing to turn to dating apps. It was the perfect breeding ground for «pig butchering.»
According to Aung, the scam centers are run like ordinary companies: open-plan offices, an IT department, even human resources. But there’s one crucial difference: Workers aren’t allowed to leave. In most centers, forced labor is the norm. Employees are punished with beatings, confinement or electric shocks if they fail to meet their quotas. «Once, two guys from Indonesia fell from the roof,» Aung recalls. «The managers said it was an accident, but it definitely wasn’t.»
Many of the workers – from Myanmar, Indonesia, Kenya and Nigeria – were lured by fake job ads, often for positions in marketing, modeling or sales. They need to speak English, and they need to be young. «No one in those scam centers is over 30,» Aung says.
Human trafficking is part of the business model. Still, many of the employees are aware of what they’re signing up for. «I’d say it’s about half and half,» Aung says – half are coerced into scamming, the other half scam willingly. «There’s a lot of money to be made in this industry. I hate to say it, but all it takes is one dumb European or American – and you’re rich.»
Aung earned $1,000 a month, plus a commission – 1% to 2% of whatever he managed to swindle. The incentives are clear: The more you scam, the more you make. Aung says that some of his friends become genuinely wealthy.
2. Fattening the pig
The first step is assessing whether a victim is worth the time. Scammers begin by casually asking what someone does for a living – an innocent question that sets off a chain reaction behind the scenes. The scammer looks up average salaries for that profession in the victim’s country. «We saved contacts with names, ages, phone numbers and estimated annual income,» Aung says. If the number is high enough, the game continues. Then comes the hard part: How do you make someone fall in love with a stranger on the internet?
Most of the profile pictures used in these scams feature Asian or Eastern European women. Scammers know exactly which stereotypes to play into, Aung explains – the ones Western men associate with these women. Every morning, he would wish his victims a wonderful day. Every night, he’d say goodnight. He regularly asked if they’d eaten, called them pet names like «baby» or «darling,» threw in the occasional «love you,» and sent a steady stream of kiss emoji.
Rafael was flattered by Rolyn’s sweet messages. What started as flirtation soon turned into something deeper: genuine affection.
The woman in the photos Rafael fell for actually does exist. She’s a Filipino influencer, though her name isn’t Rolyn. The selfies and videos Rolyn sent were lifted from the influencer’s social media accounts. She likely has no idea her image is being used by scammers. Multiple messages from NZZ went unanswered.
Using her photos, the scammers have created fake Instagram and Facebook profiles under the name Rolyn. On Facebook, her friends list consists entirely of men – most of them from Europe. NZZ reached out to several of them. One man in London believes he’s in a serious long-distance relationship with Rolyn from Manchester. He even had her name tattooed on his neck and sent a video to prove it.
It’s no accident that Rolyn is never in the same city as her victims. The story is always similar. She told Rafael she was visiting family in Zurich – but flying home the next morning. «You must never be in the same city,» Aung says. «Otherwise, the men will want to meet you.»
When conversations with his victims began to lose steam, Aung turned to artificial intelligence for help. The goal was to make the victim believe they shared common interests. Thanks to ChatGPT, Aung could chat about movies and books he’d never even heard of.
Three days – that’s how long the fattening phase usually lasts, Aung says. Then comes the kill.
3. Leading to the slaughterhouse
The woman Aung pretended to be during his time as a scammer was attractive, marked by hardship – and mysteriously wealthy. Even during the early flirtation phase, she would drop hints about a lavish lifestyle: designer handbags, luxury watches, expensive restaurants. Then comes the moment everything has been building up to. The victim asks: «How can you afford all this?» The answer is always the same: «High-return investments in cryptocurrency.»
«Sometimes the guys aren’t interested in making fast money,» Aung says. «Then we sell a dream: Wouldn’t it be nice to earn money for our future together?»
Rafael hesitates. He tells Rolyn that crypto isn’t really his thing, that he’d rather save his money or spend it on motorcycles. Rolyn takes the disinterest personally. She says he’s belittling her work – after all, she’s a financial adviser. He doesn’t trust her. All she wants, she insists, is to deepen their relationship, to build something together.
It’s their first fight, after so much sweetness. Rafael feels guilty. He wants to make it up to her. He buys $125 worth of cryptocurrency. It doesn’t seem like a big deal, he tells himself. If it’s gone, it’s gone. Rolyn then persuades him to make a second purchase on another platform – this time for $628.
Rafael uses legitimate crypto exchanges to make the purchases. From there, Rolyn instructs him to transfer the coins to a different site – the one she says she trades on. She tells him to open an account there.
The website looks shady. Rafael notices. But when he starts asking Rolyn questions, she snaps again. He asks for her address, her full name. He wants to be sure she’s real, that he’s not being scammed. Rolyn offers more than he asked for: a photo of her passport. «No one just sends their passport out of the blue,» Rafael says now. «I felt awful.»
Rolyn’s passport was a fake. The photo matched, as did the name, the date of birth, and the security features. But the expiration date was off – not 10 years minus one day from the issue date, as is standard, but 10 years plus one day. A detail so subtle that most wouldn’t catch it.
«My characters were so convincing; no one would believe they weren’t real,» Aung says. When he posed as a female banker in Singapore, he gave the name of a real bank – one you could look up on Google Maps. If a victim asked for a video call, the scam center was ready. From the start, they used photos of models who worked with the scammers. During the video call, the model would appear on a set designed to look like a kitchen or living room, dispelling any final doubts. If the victim was about to invest a large sum, the model might appear in a nightgown or lingerie.
Passports, employers, video calls – even the most skeptical targets were eventually convinced that they were speaking to a real person. To someone who was genuinely interested in them. To someone who wanted to build a future – and make money – together.
4. The slaughter
On the very first night, Rafael earns a profit of $87.
Rolyn walks him through each step, click by click. She tells him she has years of experience and access to insider knowledge about the crypto market. But he mustn’t tell anyone. This is a secret, she says, the key to fast money – and she’s sharing it with him.
Rafael doesn’t understand everything. But the website where he’s sent his cryptocurrency displays charts and numbers that make it look as if he’s trading successfully. In reality, his money isn’t doing anything. The scammers are manipulating the graphs and figures behind the scenes.
From noon until midnight, he chats with Rolyn. They trade declarations of love, joke about a future together – marriage, children – all while supposedly trading crypto. It all blurs together. He even tests whether he can withdraw funds from the platform. It works. The scammers had planned for that. The first profit is real. Victims are allowed to keep it to build trust – and stoke greed.
With Rafael, it works. He’s never had much money. After an apprenticeship as a bookseller, he started college, dropped out after a few months, and began training as a motorcycle mechanic. In 2024, he finally graduates and earns his first full salary – 4,000 Swiss francs, or $5,025, a month. To supplement his income, he works weekends as a nightclub bouncer. He lives frugally and manages to put aside several thousand francs. He wants to use the money to travel to South America.
But now it seems like his struggle is finally over. Rafael watches as his money appears to multiply on the crypto platform. «I thought: Now it’s finally my turn to be happy,» he says. He begins to imagine a new life – maybe even cutting back on work.
He invests another $2,500. Then another $2,500. Rolyn appears to lend him money so that he can achieve VIP status on the platform and earn even more. When his savings run low, she convinces him to increase the limit on his credit card. She even encourages him to use his roommate’s card. He invests another $3,140. All of this happens within just six days.
At first, Aung says, he felt guilty about scamming strangers on the other side of the world. «But it’s like brainwashing,» he says. He worked in an open-plan office with 200 other scammers, a computer in front of him and 10 smartphones at his side. Every morning, they stood at attention. The shift leader would shout the day’s motto, and the workers would repeat it in unison: Let’s get rich! «It gave you goose bumps.,» he says. «You felt genuinely fired up.» He compares the atmosphere to The Wolf of Wall Street, the Hollywood film starring Leonardo DiCaprio in which a pack of young stockbrokers hustle ordinary people out of their savings with risky deals.
Just like in The Wolf of Wall Street, Aung’s scam center had everything to dull the senses: coke, meth, prostitutes – «whatever you wanted,» he says. On the wall of the office hung a whiteboard. Whoever brought in the most money that day was listed at the very top.
A study by the U.S. Institute of Peace estimates that scammers in Southeast Asia steal some $43.8 billion a year worldwide. Precise figures – including for Switzerland – are hard to come by. «Pig butchering» scams are typically categorized under general cybercrime, meaning the perpetrators remain statistically invisible.
Switzerland’s national crime prevention office believes the number of unreported cases is high. Many victims never come forward, out of shame, writes Beatrice Kübli, deputy director of the organization, in response to an inquiry. «The problem is that victims desperately want to believe in the happiness they’ve found – and ignore any doubts when they arise,» Kübli writes. She’s calling for stronger prevention efforts – from police, banks, the media and dating platforms. But more technical safeguards are also needed, she says, to prevent transfers to fraudulent sites in the first place.
Several Swiss banks are warning customers about this scam tactic through websites and brochures. A spokesperson for Zürcher Kantonalbank, the fourth-largest bank in Switzerland, wrote that romance scams are «common,» and that perpetrators span all ages and genders.
A spokesperson for the dating app Tinder confirmed a rise in romance scams. The company is trying to raise awareness, warning users against moving chats too quickly to other messaging platforms, for example. Suspicious accounts are regularly shut down; in the first quarter of 2023 alone, Tinder says it deleted five million. The app also offers a video verification feature, though it’s optional. In parts of Europe, ID-based verification is expected to be introduced this summer – but Switzerland isn’t among the countries included.
After 10 days of chatting and investing, Rafael decides it’s time to withdraw his money. According to the platform, he now has more than $50,251 in his account. To him, that feels like enough. But the site’s customer service responds with a new demand: For profits that large, a tax must be paid – 20% of the gain, to be transferred in advance. Rafael checks his bank account. He only has $30 left.
Rolyn urges him to ask his family for help covering the tax. Rafael doesn’t want to go to his parents, so he turns to his brother – who agrees to help, but also alerts their parents. That weekend, the entire family shows up at Rafael’s apartment, posing questions about the woman from the internet and the money he’s been investing at her suggestion. Rafael still doesn’t want to believe what’s happening. He messages Rolyn to talk it through.
Shortly after that conversation, Rafael begins making trades on the platform without Rolyn’s guidance. Within hours, he’s supposedly a crypto millionaire. Rolyn turns curt, almost dismissive. There’s no dramatic reveal, no confession, no confrontation. The scam doesn’t end in flames; it simply fades away, like any other cold Tinder flirt. On day 13, the contact breaks off completely.
The original crypto transfers Rafael made to the scammers can still be traced. But, after that, the money disappears. It’s gone – for good.
Rafael knows he was duped. «How stupid I was, how naive,» he says now. In December, he was supposed to fly to South America. But that trip has been canceled. «The crash from feeling rich to realizing I’d lost everything – it was a terrible feeling. And no one likes to admit they’ve made a mistake.»
A police officer in the Swiss canton of Schaffhausen advised Rafael not to file a report. It wouldn’t be worth it, the officer said, and referred him to the federal police. But in a statement to NZZ, a spokesperson for the Schaffhausen police offered a different message: Victims should always file a report – otherwise, the scale of the scam will remain unknown.
In the end, Rafael is grateful he didn’t lose even more. And he’s thankful to his brother for stepping in. «I don’t think I would’ve been smart enough to get out on my own,» he says. «I thought I understood how the internet works – I mean, I’m not some old guy.»
One last question for Aung, the scammer: Do lonely men in Europe and the U.S. stand any real chance against the professionals operating out of Southeast Asia? «Not really,» he says. «The tech keeps getting better, and so do the tricks. You know, everyone needs money. Everyone falls for it.»
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