Transcript of Caught in Cambodia’s Scam Machine: Part 2

I'm Aisha Roscoe, and you're listening to the Sunday Story from Up First. This is the second of our two-part series with investigative reporter Shabani Mithani, a story about the people who were lured into working in the global cyber scam industry. Now, if you haven't heard part one, you can go back and listen to that now in the feed. You'll definitely want the start of this story. At the end of part 1, Shweibe walked out through the gates of a scam compound after working for almost a year as a scammer.

Right now, we just want to go back home.

Home to Uganda. Instead, he would wind up on the streets of Phnom Penh. Like tens of thousands of others who've been released in government raids on scam compounds across the country, Schweib needed emergency shelter, food, and legal support. But instead of aid, there would be obstacles almost impossible to overcome. Amnesty International is calling the current situation in Cambodia a humanitarian crisis and says migrants are falling through the cracks. Shabani Matani continues Schweib's story.

So after Shoaib walked out of the scam compound, he felt optimistic. His plan was pretty simple. He would go to the airport and get on a plane, just like when he arrived, minus the Lexus. Part of the reason Shoaib was confident was because he had almost completed his year-long contract. Before he left the compound, he talked to his boss.

I told the boss, My contract is over, but I need to go back home.

Shoaib was worried about one thing in particular. He knew he'd come in on a tourist visa and had overstayed it by 11 months. Shoaib's boss wouldn't buy his return ticket back to Uganda, but he told him he'd deal with the complications from the overstayed visa. He'd clear the fines and he'd handle the paperwork. So with that understanding, Shoaib bought a plane ticket.

A quick one.

It cost him $1,300.

$1,300.

Shoaib didn't have a lot of money to spend. He told me he had about $3,600 or so in his bank account when he left the compound. This was the entirety of his savings, both from his previous job in Kampala and the little he was paid in Cambodia. But Shoaib had never bought a plane ticket before. And he booked it so quickly that he misread the departure time. And he missed his flight. So at the airport, he booked another flight. He texted his boss to confirm everything was still good to go. But no reply. So Shoaib decided to give it a few days. He canceled the ticket and he went back to the city center to wait for the go-ahead. 1 hour later. Shoaib had been in Cambodia for almost a year, but he'd only seen the inside of industrial buildings and garish casinos converted into scam compounds. He'd been looking at screens 12 hours a day. He'd seen nothing of the country at all. Suddenly he was in a big city and had time to kill. So he started exploring. He walked the streets of Phnom Penh and let himself spend some of his savings.

To go everywhere, to go in some malls, in some parks, to visit some places, religious temples. I used to go there, 'cause I used to stay near the river.

He moved from hotel to hotel, sharing rooms with a few of the other Ugandans who'd gotten out with him. He told me about one of the places he liked the most.

It's called the Royal Palace.

The Royal Palace, constructed for the king of Cambodia in 1867. It's a sprawling, opulent compound with a silver pagoda.

There is park, there are elephants, there are a lot of beautiful things there. Even that side of the river, there's a place called Night Market. In the morning, it is a normal place, but at night, it is a party place. There are festivals all night, all long.

Yeah. But even as he wandered around, as though he were a tourist. He couldn't stop thinking about getting home. A few days later, Shoaib's former boss got back to him.

You can go to the airport.

He told him to go ahead and purchase a ticket for February 10th, exactly a year to the day that Shoaib had arrived in Cambodia. So Shoaib booked a ticket for February 10th, his third plane ticket.

It was my last, my last money.

So what happened when you got to the airport?

After taking our bags, then we went to the immigration. Because after the check-in, you have to go to the immigration.

After arriving there, they ask you, "Where are your passports?" They scanned his passport, and it was immediately flagged for overstay. Shoaib called his boss. The call wouldn't go through. He'd been blocked. Immigration officials told Shoaib he couldn't leave without paying his overstay fine. It was $10 a day from the moment his visa expired 11 months ago, around $3,500 in total.

The lady was like, "You either pay or you go back." Then we stood there. Then they gave us our passports. Then he told us that, "You go back. You will find your bags outside there." Hmm.

I've heard this story over and over again. Migrants tell me these huge overstay fines are the biggest obstacle preventing them from leaving Cambodia. Aid workers and human rights organizations, including Amnesty International, have criticized the Cambodian government for conducting business as usual. They've called on the Cambodian government to waive the fines. They say people who've been abused, exploited, even trafficked are now being exploited again. The Cambodian government is working with other governments to clear workers of the overstay fines, but on a case-by-case basis. It is excruciatingly slow. When I asked the Cambodian government's Information Minister, Net Piktra, to explain why, he told me the priority is shutting down these compounds. That has to be done first. He acknowledged, though, that many of these migrants are victims of trafficking and can't afford to go home. And he called on their embassies to assist. So at the airport, Shoaib's fine was due on the spot. He couldn't leave without paying. Shoaib said there was no empathy from the immigration official. Was she like apologetic? Like, did she feel bad or?

No.

Like, yeah. She was so rude.

Yeah.

Yeah, she was so rude.

Do you feel like they just like don't understand like what you guys have been through. They just see you as like people who have done bad things or something. They don't understand the situation.

Those from the immigration, they're like the normal local people here. For them, what they know is that we came here willingly and we've been in overseas, internationally.

Shuaib was exhausted. He begged the immigration official to just deport him. She wouldn't help and directed him to another official.

Then the guy told us, "No, there's nothing I can do for you, but you can go to a temple. When you go to the temple, you can sleep there." Shoaib was now broke.

He'd been calling his brother who lived in Saudi Arabia for some help with money. And he'd joined the waitlist for the only shelter for migrants like him. But it was full and the waitlist was long. So Shoaib went to the temple.

It's called Prasat. That's the name they use for the temple. Then we tried to search on the map. That's when we saw there are a lot of prasads. Then we saw one near the immigration offices.

Then we said, "Okay, let's just go here." In sometimes chaotic Phnom Penh, where the rise of the middle class has left so many urban poor behind, temples have long been a refuge. Each neighborhood has one, these spartan and often small complexes. They're nothing like the grandeur of the great temples in Bangkok, with oversized gold Buddhas and manicured grounds. But their doors are always open to the homeless, to the elderly, and rural schoolchildren studying in the city with nowhere to go.

Hello.

Grounds are managed by young monks in orange robes and shaved heads. There's no running water. It's not much more than a safe place to rest for the night amid crumbling statues and the occasional sounds of chanting.

You find a lot of people who just came there to worship. It is peaceful. I slept there for like 3 days. We had nowhere to go.

But this was a real low point for Shoaib. He felt invisible. There was no one and nowhere to turn to for help. He wanted to at least find a proper room. There were guesthouses in the city. They were the cheapest option, often just rooms over modest family homes or shops. But again and again, he was turned away. That's because the Cambodian government had created yet another obstacle. It had announced that landlords who housed foreigners without the right visas would be themselves liable for fines or criminal charges. Locals were afraid. And Shuaib was clearly a foreigner. Shuaib reached out to Ugandan officials. They told him they were working on the overstay fines, but there wasn't much else they could do. He tried the UN's migration agency, the IOM, but they couldn't help much either. So Shoaib started to think outside of the official channels. Maybe he could just get arrested.

So that we can get free space to sleep and free food.

And ultimately, maybe that would lead to his deportation. He went to the Cambodian Immigration Department several days in a row, trying to convince them to deport him. But officials told him again, until he paid the fines, they couldn't let him go. Every day he stayed in Cambodia, he was spending money. He started skipping meals. His stomach ulcers were bothering him again. Then one day, Shoaib met Mek Darah.

My name is Mek Darah. I'm a freelance journalist.

Darah, I've mentioned him before. He's my journalist friend who drives a tuk-tuk and has been helping me connect with stranded migrants in Phnom Penh. That day, Daraa was also at the immigration office, looking for groups of migrants to talk to.

I'm working on this story and what is your situation?

He went up to Shoaib's group and he bought them lunch.

You're listening to The Sunday Story. We'll be right back.

Few people know Cambodia and its scam industry like Mek Darah. Back when I first started reading about it all in 2021, Darah's byline was everywhere. And he really became the guy that foreign media would work with when reporting on the scam industry. Darah has a really unique approach. He sees things structurally. For him, it was never enough to interview someone who escaped a scam compound and just ask about their experience. He wouldn't stop there. He always wanted to take a step further and ask, "Do you know who you worked for? Who were the bosses? Who did they report to? And who owned the property?" But these are dangerous questions in Cambodia. Because they trace back to some of the most powerful people in the country. Cambodia is a single-party state. Political power is sustained by a class of tycoons who have a close relationship with the ruling Hun family. Independent reporting from outlets like The New York Times show that these tycoons have directly profited from the scam industry. Even the prime minister's cousin had a stake in a scam-linked entity. In 2023, the Cambodian government ramped up its repression against non-governmental organizations and others who were vocal about the scam industry, including what was left of the country's independent media.

The government forced Dara's news outlet, The Voice of Democracy, to shut down. Journalists started dropping out of covering the scam industry. But Dara kept reporting. I think for him it was like a mission. Or a calling. Dara and I met in 2024 when I reported in Cambodia. But about 2 weeks after that trip, I was on vacation in Thailand when my phone started blowing up with just a ton of messages from people in Cambodia saying Dara had been arrested. Ostensibly, Dara was arrested for a social media post that was critical of the Cambodian government. The government eventually charged him with inciting social disorder. And they released a statement saying this case was not related to Daraa's journalism. But many of us who knew the forces at play here believed the government was punishing Daraa for his reporting. He would end up being held in jail for a month. When I was back in Phnom Penh this March, it was the first time, actually, that I'd spoken to him at length about what had happened to him.

They sent a lot of military police, like, I think 3 or 4 cars.

Daraa had been briefly detained in the past, but He had no idea this time the charges were so serious.

I couldn't believe that they sent me to the prison.

He was transported by military police to prison. He remembered that first day in his cell. They gave him some kind of soup and rice, but no utensils.

And I don't have a spoon to eat the food.

And so he had to eat it with the palm of his hand.

I have to use my hand to eat rice and pick up the soup, you know. Is this real? You know, like, I start to feel, and it is really, really horrible situation inside there.

Yes.

He still looked very shaken recounting that to me. Technically, the case against Daraa hasn't been fully dropped. It's still hanging there sort of like an anvil over his head. And I think he's really aware of it. When he was let out of jail, he told people that they'd broken his spirit and he just didn't want to be a journalist anymore. So for a while, Dara laid low and his bylines basically disappeared. Until Cambodia, bowing to international pressure, began its crackdown on the scam industry. And, you know, I think this has created an opening for him to continue his reporting. Because at least for the moment, Cambodia is admitting that they have a big scam problem. And Dara says with such immense need in front of him, he just can't look away.

It's— it is, yes, it is really speechless to— to see this situation.

I would say that I think Dara in this particular moment In Cambodia, he's definitely, to our Western eyes, crossed a bit into a volunteer or an activist rather than just a journalist. After they met, Dara became a lifeline for Shoaib. It started with the little things. He drove him around with his tuk-tuk for free in the city, helped him print out his documents. And when Shripe ran out of cash, Daraa was there.

Brother, I don't have anything to eat. He said, where do you stay? I sent him the location. He said, okay, tomorrow I'm going to come there to bring free food. Then in the morning he calls you, you come downstairs, I'm here.

Daraa was on call.

He just offers the best chicken. Daraa has done a big thing for Mm-hmm.

Shweib and thousands of others like him are facing this immense need for support at possibly one of the worst times for global aid. In Cambodia, there's pretty much only one shelter that's open to victims of human trafficking. That shelter was funded by the US Agency for International Development, USAID, until the Trump administration shut down the agency in July of 2025. The shelter then had to lay off staff and scale back operations. It's now partially funded by the IOM, the UN agency for migrants. It can only accommodate 120 people. This is the shelter that Shoaib was on the waitlist for. The shelter has had to turn away hundreds of people per week since January of this year. Outside of this shelter, some countries like Indonesia have taken steps to deal with their own citizens. The Indonesian government rented a warehouse in Phnom Penh and told people they could go there and get food and some medical support. But when I visited this warehouse in March, it was overcrowded and dirty. The place reeked of cigarettes. So many Indonesians have just preferred to stay outside on the street, close to the embassy. I found another group of people sleeping here and making their bed for the night.

Sleeping overnight on makeshift blankets and pillows. Yeah, it's a really sort of overwhelming sight, actually. Are you waiting for the money to go home?

No money.

The Cambodian authorities have also detained many scam workers for visa violations. Aid workers in contact with migrants inside say these detention facilities are short on basic supplies. Like food and water. And authorities haven't differentiated between criminals and victims. So now, bosses and workers are being held in the same space. A video circulating on social media earlier this year showed them brawling over food. If you only looked at what the Cambodian government and police are posting, you'd think the crackdown is going really well.

Who is that?

Okay, okay, okay.

Go inside, go inside.

There are dramatic videos of the raids, of deportations, of groups of people perp-walked through the airport. But there's been no international large-scale response to the dire situation of these migrants. Not from embassies, not from aid groups. UN agencies have a mandate to help, but over the last 6 months, they haven't stepped up in any sort of systematic way. Their piecemeal support hasn't met the overwhelming need. And reports have come out showing that people on the streets are now being re-recruited into the scam industry. All of this has made Daraa extremely angry.

People question me why I'm coming back. Because the people who supposed to do their work, they fail to do their work. I would not come to clean their ass. They do their work properly. You know, like, we have seen NGO, we have seen other journalists, we have seen embassy, we have seen many people. They just, like, they don't care.

And so I think with every call he gets from someone, with every message he gets for help, he takes it so personally, and he feels it so deeply.

It is hard to walk away, people asking for you to help, and then, like, shouting, you hear it. And then you say, "No, I'm not hearing it," and then you keep walking. To me, I'm not that kind of person. When I see— when I heard the people shouting for help, at least I can help.

You know, what Dara has really been doing is holding this kind of one-man fundraiser. He's been hitting up contacts from his years of reporting and his job as a researcher, and in this very informal way has been asking them for money. And then buying basic things like bread, milk, vegetables for the people who are still stranded in Cambodia.

I cannot help them to reach their goal, but to make sure that they are not hungry, they could have tonight, could be they can sleep in the guest house so they feel better. So that is what I have been trying to do.

Mm-hmm. Daraa and Shoaib's bond with each other really struck me when I spent time with them. Any time we were driving around on the tuk-tuk, even talking about some pretty dark and heavy things, there was always a lot of laughter, a lot of jokes. You know, Daraa is very famous. After all he'd been through, it seemed like Shoaib was amazed that someone like Daraa even existed. Someone who cared for strangers instead of taking from them. Even at grave personal risk. Dara, do the police still give you problems?

Oh, I still have to show up at the police.

Show up at the police?

Yeah, I have to go to see the police every month.

I see the same thing that made you to go to jail is the same thing that you're still doing. Yeah, yeah, yeah, absolutely.

Dara is brave, but he's also a little crazy. It's both at the same time.

You're listening to the Sunday Story. Stay with us.

After a long hunt, Schweib finally found a guesthouse. And for weeks, he spent much of his time there, languishing indoors. It was in this really industrial part of Phnom Penh, and so it was always noisy outside. His room was up a narrow metal staircase. He had a reasonable landlord who lived with a family downstairs. It wasn't much. There was just one queen bed and a small toilet. But there was AC and some sliver of floor space for him to set up a portable stove and cook some of his own meals. The room was $10 a day, and he split the cost with his roommate, a Ugandan man called Oscar, who was also in one of the same scam compounds as him. Shoaib spent a lot of time on his phone scrolling, playing Call of Duty, watching YouTube. As they waited, the Ugandan ambassador was making progress on negotiations. In the first week of March, Shoaib heard he was on a list of Ugandans whose fines had been waived. He could now go home—if he could come up with the cash for a flight. Shoaib watched ticket prices rise in the wake of the US attacks on Iran.

The cheapest flights went through the Middle East, a route that was no longer available. So he called home. After this year of being abroad, he had nothing to offer his family. Instead, he needed their help. He needed them to sell his things.

I needed quick money. It was never gonna be enough.

All he had left was his motorbike back in Kampala and his cow. A big brown and white cow that he's had since 2021.

A good grown cow and a healthy one. And their price never go down.

With the money from the sales, he finally bought his ticket in mid-March, 6 weeks after leaving the scam center. His 4th ticket. A week before he was due to fly, Shweibe heard that the shelter he was in line for had space for him. He gathered his stuff and moved again. He hoped it would be for the last time. Dara and I met Shoaib on the morning of March 24th. He was in the same clothes he was wearing when I first met him at Lucky Burgers, the acid-washed jeans and faded t-shirt and the same hat. But this time when he saw us, he was beaming. We spent a few hours that day together. He tried to put a positive spin on things. How did you feel last night, like knowing today is like your last day in Cambodia?

Yes, I was happy that I'm going, though right now I'm still worried how the day is gonna end, you know.

He spoke a lot about his dreams.

My dreams? My dreams never change, just they were delayed. I'm not chasing for the big thing, I'm just chasing for maybe survival.

I left him for a few hours and returned to this chaotic scene of Shoaib, shirtless and sweaty, stuffing his belongings into a hard case suitcase.

But already fucked, just—

It was only 3 in the afternoon and his flight wasn't until after 10 at night. But he was running late. Because this wasn't going to be a normal airport experience. Do you want me to call a cab? Yeah, yeah, yeah.

Should I call?

Quick, quick. All this stuff is stuff you brought from home, or is it?

No, I just came with only one bag.

Shoaib continued stuffing things into his suitcase. Small gifts for his sisters, some clothes, his Quran.

Book?

Quran. He needed Dara to use brute force to hold the suitcase together before he could zip it.

5, 6.

Dara helped him maneuver the suitcase down the narrow set of metal stairs.

10.

As we drove to the airport, he was visibly nervous. He tried to keep things light, joking with Dara that if this failed again, he would just give up. He'd find a Cambodian woman to marry and find a way this day. We got to the airport around 4 in the afternoon. It's a beautiful, modern new structure which only opened last September. It has these dramatic golden arches and a giant Buddha right in the middle. Schweib strapped a neck pillow around his neck, rolled his bags into the entrance, when he hesitated for a bit. He stopped and took a selfie, smiling. He posed for about 5 minutes, taking various selfies. Once in a lifetime. He'd also dressed up. He'd put on this nice pleather jacket and had sprayed some cologne. When I asked him why, he told me to look around. So many of the other Ugandans were dressed really well, some even with new shoes. New shoes and clothes. They wanted to project success. They wanted to go home and tell people that they'd actually done well, even if that was far from the truth. In that moment, they actually looked like tourists. For 6 hours, Shoaib and the rest of the group just stood waiting as immigration officials processed their documentation in a separate area of the airport.

When I looked around, I saw other groups groups too. A big group from Nepal, another from China. Shwe would get tired and sit on the baggage trolley, listening to music through his oversized headphones. They were knockoff Apple AirPod Maxes. As they waited and the sun began to set, groups of Cambodian villagers started streaming into the airport's departure hall. Some were definitely there to say bye to travelers, but so many others were just there to hang Kids were really enjoying running around the smooth floors, screaming like this was an indoor playground. To them, this new airport was a symbol of modern Cambodia. New, clean, air-conditioned. But Shoaib didn't want to spend a minute longer there. When officials told him it was time to check in, he jumped up from the baggage trolley. It was time.

Hello.

The Bangkok Airways attendant took his passport, printed off a boarding pass, and loaded his bags. Shoaib was still cautious. We walked together to the immigration checkpoint where he was turned away the last time.

Take care, brother.

Brother, you come back to Cambodia?

Yeah, yeah.

I will come back to Cambodia.

Take care. The officer scanned his passport. The gates opened. And he was through. He just turned around and waved goodbye at us. And he appears to be clearing security and going through immigration. So I think he's home free, finally.

Finally.

I feel like he's quite emotional. It wasn't quite the end. When I was in my taxi on the way back to my hotel, Shoaib sent me a video. He was in the waiting area. Everything had been stamped and so he was good to go. But among the stamps officials put in his passport was a deportation stamp. He'd been banned from the country for 3 years. The system had decided. Shoaib, despite all he'd been through, was a criminal, not a victim. When Shoaib landed in Kampala, he called me. Our phone connection was terrible and kept cutting off. You can still hear me?

Yes, I do hear you.

Tell me, how have things been like since you got home?

Do they call it broke or bankrupt? I guess I'm like bankrupt.

They call it both, broke and bankrupt.

Maybe, I don't know how you call it.

Shoaib had nothing left, nothing to show for his year in Cambodia.

That's why sometimes I say that I'm on zero.

He was ashamed, enough so that he didn't tell his family he was coming back home.

I arrived at the airport. No one knew that I'm coming.

When he stepped off the plane in Uganda, there was no one to welcome him home.

Sometimes you feel like— you feel like to give up since every time you try, there's nothing good that comes out. I just have to keep on going because I have to survive. I have to become something good.

That was investigative journalist Shibani Mittani, reporting from Phnom Penh, Cambodia. This episode of "The Sunday Story" was produced by Justine Yan. It was written by Shibani Mittani and Justine Yan. It was edited by Jenny Schmidt and mastered by Jimmy Keely. Special thanks to Mark Taylor and Ling Lee. [SPEAKING VIETNAMESE] The Sunday Story team includes Ben Rapoport, Andrew Mambo, and our senior supervising producer, Liana Simstrom. Irene Noguchi is our executive producer. I'm Ayesha Rascoe. Up First will be back tomorrow with all the news you need to start your week. Until then, have a great rest of your weekend.

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