Inside the Trenches: An Insider’s Perspective from the Forced Labour Casework Frontline

By a dedicated casework advisor, written at 6:07 a.m. amidst stress and sleeplessness.

It’s hard to put into words the weight we carry every day. Working in the forced labour department means confronting human misery, systemic corruption, and the harsh realities of modern exploitation. Our job isn’t for the faint-hearted—every day, our hearts race not only from the adrenaline of the rescue missions but also from the constant pressure and despair that defines our work.

A Daily Battle with Despair and Pressure

Every shift in our department is a race against time and circumstance. Many nights, we stay awake until the early hours of the morning, fielding desperate calls from victims trapped inside scam centers—places designed to exploit, intimidate, and rob people of their hope. Some of these victims are so overwhelmed by fear and mistrust, fueled by relentless negative media stories on corruption, that they reject any help offered. In these moments, we find ourselves not only as caseworkers but also as the sole source of comfort, a role we take on with a heavy heart.

The stress of the job often translates into physical symptoms: a racing heartbeat, high blood pressure, and the constant gnawing feeling that at any moment, the weight of responsibility could become too much. For many of us, these aren’t just metaphors—we feel it in our bodies every day.

The Complexity of a Crisis

Our challenges come from multiple fronts. On one hand, there are the victims of forced labour, trapped in environments where brutality is a daily reality. Many have endured unspeakable violence—beaten into submission until they no longer dare to hope for a rescue. On the other hand, we encounter victims of scams who, after suffering financial losses, sometimes behave like children—screaming accusations and demanding that we choose one crisis over another. The fractured trust, even among those we aim to help, creates an atmosphere of division and frustration.

The scars of this work don’t just mark the victims—they mark us, the casework advisors, too. We grapple with an internal tug-of-war, especially when some ex-colleagues, driven by a need for recognition, craft exaggerated heroic narratives that stray from the raw, unvarnished truth. Some even display traits akin to narcissistic personality disorder—overstating achievements, inflating their importance, and seeking constant admiration from the media. But the reality is far less glamorous. Our work is about coordination, offering assistance, and enduring the painful truth that this field remains chronically underfunded and undervalue.

Funding Woes and Unjust Systems

One of the greatest ironies of our work is witnessing the rich grow richer while those who are exploited remain voiceless and forgotten. Our funding is painfully scarce, as many organizations and donors prioritize supporting research institutions over the ground staff who risk their lives to protect victims. This chronic underfunding comes at a significant human cost, affecting not just victims but also the advisors who sacrifice to keep the work going.

Personal sacrifices are a common reality for our casework advisors. In one case, an advisor ended the month with only US$30 after paying for a victim's extended stay in a shelter. To ensure the victim had three daily meals, she herself survived on just one meal a day. In another instance, an advisor missed celebrating Chinese New Year because her entire salary had been exhausted supporting a surge of victims. These moments starkly highlight how frontline workers often bear the brunt of systemic neglect, putting the well-being of others before their own.

To provide more context, we receive approximately US$1,500 in monthly funding, with an additional US$400 allocated for an apartment. This apartment serves as both housing for the advisor and a temporary shelter for one victim until they can safely return home. The remaining funds cover transportation, meals, and other vital support for victims. In some cases, these funds are also used to assist victims of scams who are fighting civil lawsuits against money launderers. However, unlike wealthier NGOs, we lack the luxury of separate departments or specialized staff. Our casework advisors are responsible not only for managing complex cases and supporting victims but also for writing related articles, managing social media, and leading prevention efforts.

As frontline workers, we often share first-hand accounts to inform the public of new and emerging threats. In better-funded organizations, casework advisors would be able to focus solely on helping victims, while other staff members handle media outreach and awareness initiatives. Unfortunately, with limited resources, our advisors must juggle all these roles, stretching themselves thin to ensure both prevention and intervention are prioritized.

One of the biggest strains on our budget is the cost of meals. We spend about US$5 per meal, and with drinks, this cost can rise to US$7. The situation becomes even more difficult when we support multiple victims living in different locations. For example, when two victims are housed 30 minutes apart, transportation costs quickly escalate with each trip. Visits to police stations or hospitals, sometimes another 40-minute journey away, add to the financial strain. These logistical challenges often push our already limited funding to the breaking point.

Despite these challenges, we continue to stretch every dollar to meet the needs of those in our care. It’s a constant balancing act, but for the victims who rely on us, every sacrifice is worth it. Still, moments like these are a stark reminder of how desperately this work needs more recognition and support.

Political decisions have also taken a toll. For instance, despite our department not directly relying on U.S. funding, the ripple effects of the Donald Trump administration’s budget cuts have been felt through our partners. Many shelter houses and local organizations, once a lifeline for victims, have been forced to close their doors, leaving us scrambling to find alternative resources.

Navigating Corruption and the Shadows of Rescue

Corruption isn’t an occasional hiccup in our field—it’s a constant, gnawing presence. I still remember a lawyer dismissively saying, "Every country has corruption, even yours—so why do you all keep attacking us?" That phrase epitomizes the deflection and denial rampant among those in power. Recent cases, such as the arrests of industry heroes Chen Bao Rong and Mech Dara in Cambodia—despite their courageous efforts to expose scam centers and conduct rescue operations—reveal a painful truth. Their unjust downfall is not a victory for justice but a stark reminder of the pervasive, corrupt networks that enable forced labour and scams, often targeting those brave enough to fight back. Meanwhile, institutions like the Cambodian police and Myanmar’s military, both notoriously corrupt and far wealthier than the frontline workers, dismiss these concerns by insisting we simply live with it. This attitude not only perpetuates injustice but also leaves the most vulnerable to suffer the consequences of a rigged system.

In the field, we sometimes find ourselves compelled to bypass official channels. On more than one occasion, we’ve had to pay a small bribe—typically around US$2.50 from our own pocket—to obtain permission to send essential items through local police stations or immigration offices. These payments aren’t simply fees; they’re a mandatory condition enforced by an unspoken rule—if you don’t pay, you simply cannot send items like women’s period pads, medication, and shirts. Though far from ideal, these “bribes” are born of necessity rather than choice, as we race against time and bureaucratic obstacles to ensure that those we’re trying to help receive the support they urgently need.

There is a troubling trend emerging in the rescue industry. More organizations are branding themselves as “rescue” groups while charging hefty fees for what is essentially a service. In many parts of the world—especially in places like Myanmar—paying a ransom or fee to local person "rescue" group, who risk their lives negotiating with captors, has become the only option available. But let’s be clear: charging for a service is not the same as performing a noble rescue. When a family pays, say, US$30,000 to secure a loved one’s release, the captors simply let the victim go. In this scenario, no one truly rescues anyone; the family merely buys back their loved one with hard-earned cash.

The Divided Fronts of a Common Enemy

Despite our shared hatred for scam centers and the exploitation they propagate, our industry remains divided. Victims of forced labor simply want to escape their ensnarement; yet even when freed, many vanish without a word of thanks—sometimes even returning to the very activities we fought so hard to free them from. Similarly, victims of financial scams, who yearn only for restitution, often view our efforts as a competition for scarce resources. In some cases, these individuals even express jealousy when they later regret not joining lawsuits against money launderers, as if they've forgotten those who relentlessly fight on their behalf. This dynamic adds yet another layer of complexity to an already volatile situation.

Within our ranks, the dynamics are just as fractured. Some advisors are motivated purely by the need for recognition—crafting narratives that highlight their individual heroism rather than the collaborative effort required to combat these crises. Meanwhile, the unified front seen within the scam centers starkly contrasts with the infighting and lack of cohesion in our own circles.

"Scam centers are more united than all NGOs, law enforcement agencies, and tech companies combined. Although we clearly outnumbered them, we ended up losing on every front." - Quoted by a law enforcement friend.

Realistic Acknowledgment

In our work, the word "rescue" holds no glamour. There are no dramatic triumphs for headlines. Most days are spent in the shadows—quietly gathering intelligence, coordinating with fractured systems, and offering fragile lifelines. Our victories are often invisible, marked only by a faint change in fear or a whispered "thank you" before silence takes hold again.

To our live chat colleagues: you are the first line of hope in someone’s darkest moment. You answer desperate pleas from victims teetering on the brink of ruin. You race to stop that final transfer, to break the chains of manipulation—juggling multiple cries for help at once. When your replies are late, it's not because you don't care; it’s because every moment is a desperate fight to prevent irreversible loss. You endure scolding, anger, and heartbreak but still, you carry on—knowing that a person's hope or life savings hangs in the balance.

To those who work unseen: you don’t ask for praise. You sift through endless evidence, connect the dots, and write reports that may never see the light of day—all for people you will never meet. Your quiet sacrifices often go unrecognized, but today we pause to honor your unwavering dedication. Without you, everything would crumble.

We live in a world where human lives are traded, discarded as commodities. And yet, we push forward—not because we are fearless, but because turning away would be unthinkable. The obstacles are relentless: corruption, trauma, the crushing weight of an underfunded system. Every call for help tears at our resolve, every delay feels like a failure. But still, we do not give up.

There are moments, however rare, when victims begin to reclaim their stolen dignity. Inch by inch, they rise. In those moments, we feel something powerful—a fragile, breathtaking strength that reminds us why we fight. These moments anchor us, refusing to let us sink into despair. Hope, stubborn and defiant, clings to life even in the darkest places.

We carry on even when no one notices, even when no one claps. We carry on because someone, somewhere, waits in fear—praying that someone like us is listening. And perhaps, in that moment, we can become the lifeline that gives them another chance to live.

To every NGO on the ground across Southeast Asia fighting cybercrime and forced labor: thank you. Your courage, your sacrifices, your tireless compassion—it all matters. You may not hear it often, but you are heroes in ways that words can never fully express. Together, we will keep listening, keep fighting, and keep being the hope they desperately wait for.