Unintended Consequences

One of the more readily apparent human rights issues in Cambodia is the culture of child labor. In a country where the average annual income for a family of six is $400, the potential extra income that a child can provide is exceedingly valuable. Selling everything from bootleg books, to postcard packets, to friendship bracelets, young children roam Cambodia’s streets and beaches touting their wares. They range in age from around 5 to 13, and they are undeniably adorable. Throughout our trip, we found makeshift signs and lamented poster from children’s rights NGOs that warned travelers not to buy from child vendors, no matter how cute or persistent. Our patronage would just further affirm the kids’ ability to earn money, and would keep them on the streets, out of school, and vulnerable to assault or kidnapping.

It was difficult not to fall for their gimmicks. The children selling postcard packets would follow us down quiet streets and across picturesque temple grounds, counting out the cards in a rapid succession of various Romance languages. “You want postcards? I give you 10 for $1. See? One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten. Uno, dos, tres, cuatro, cinco, seis...” Our polite declines would invariably be followed by, “You change your mind, you buy from me, okay?” It was obvious that they had been strategically taught to say pertinent phrases in different languages that catered to their wide diversity of clientele.

Sihanoukville, with its constant stream of wealthy revelers and foreign travelers, was a hot spot for child vendors. They roamed the beaches from sunrise until late into the night, touting bundles of brightly colored friendship bracelets and encouraging beachgoers to purchase strands to match their multicolored bikinis and Beer Lao tank tops.

A week into our travels, Meghna and I had thus far successfully heeded the warnings not to give child vendors our money. One particular evening, we had set up shop at a beachfront restaurant in Sihanoukville to watch the sunset and enjoy a few beers.  I’d brought along a deck of cards to pass the time. We’d been lounging for about an hour when a young boy approached us.

“You want bracelet? I give you one for one dollar.”

“No, thank you.” Our polite dismissals were well-rehearsed at this point.

The boy pressed on. “Many colors. You want bracelets?”

Cue the same tight lipped headshake that worked so well to deter vendors elsewhere. He’d probably leave after a second failed attempt.

That was when the boy noticed my deck of cards resting idly on our table. Casting his bundle of bracelets carelessly onto the sand, he dropped to his knees and started dealing the cards out to us.

Enchanted by his innocence, we decided to humor him. The game was some sort of rule-less gin rummy, and we were moved by the young boy’s simple desire to play children’s games instead of hawking wares. Despite the fact that he would sporadically throw us a coy, gimmicky wink as he positioned the cards around the table (a ploy obviously learned as a way to charm his customers) we wanted to believe that, fundamentally, this was a child just wanting to be a child.

Well, we fell for it. After about 20 minutes of throwing cards around playfully and humoring the boy as he tried to explain the rules of his game through the shrouds of language barriers, Meghna and I agreed that we should buy a few friendship bracelets from our new playmate.

What happened next was really just an afterthought on my part. After carefully selecting the perfect design and handing over my dinero, I thought it would be a nice gesture to give the boy my deck of cards. Why not give a gift that helps him recapture his youth? Why not do my small part to reverse the robbery of childhood that Cambodia’s child labor market exacted upon its victims?

“For you.” I smiled, setting the deck carefully in his hand. The boy’s eyes widened in unadulterated excitement as he ran his fingers across the ridges of the cards and slid them into his satchel. With a quick thank you, he was off to his next table of potential customers.  I sat back, feeling good about the gift of youth I’d just bestowed upon the young boy.

At this point, the sun had nestled down beneath the horizon, and we were enjoying one final beer before heading out. Just as we were about to pack up, the little boy came running back to us in obvious distress. He threw the deck onto our table, the cards dispersing in all directions.

What was going on?

The little boy broke into a torrent of agitated Khmer, trying to explain to us what had happened. With his English limited to “you want bracelet?” and our Khmer limited to “Akun” (thank you) we weren’t getting very far in understanding his distress. Finally, the boy resorted to a twisted game of Charades, mimicking the motions of being beaten.

We finally understood that the boy had been scolded and possibly beaten for possessing the deck of cards. With his leader probably assuming that the boy had stolen them from a customer, he had been ordered to return the deck. It was an ironic twist; the gift of one game was returned in form of another “game” to demonstrate mistreatment.

Sheepishly picking up the scattered cards, I tried to process my actions’ unintended consequences. My attempt to challenge the loss of innocence that child labor produces had, in actuality, created further pain for someone already victimized by an oppressive and entrenched system of abuse.

Unfortunately this is a common habit that we Westerners bring to our interactions with foreign populations. Much like the Vietnam War or even the War in Iraq, our moralistic belief that we should intervene to change “oppressive” systems, in many cases, has actually further exacerbated the very situations we were trying to rectify. My experience with the young bracelet seller in Cambodia was a very unsettling personification of the important question that Americans still wrestle with today. In what situations is inaction better than action?