Angkor's Daughter
by Heather Bugni

Gazing and daydreaming among the breathtaking temple ruins of Angkor Wat, having a moment to myself, I was abruptly snapped back to reality. She must have been four years old. Her hair matted and face smeared with dirt. She held her younger sister or brother, it was hard to tell, with one small arm. The plump baby's wide brown eyes were blank, with big doe-like blinks, as she struggled to balance her weight in her sister's arm.

From a distance I had witnessed what I had seen many times. I felt my body cringe and my muscles held the frustration in as I flexed. A big white tourist bending low to take a picture of the young Cambodian children that litter the Angkor temple complex with their sweet smiles and dark skin. The tourist's ideal picture to bring home to hang on the walls of their clean modern world. But what the tourist may not realize is that these children, Angkor 's sons and daughters, are the children of the hawkers selling t-shirts, apsara paintings, postcards, figurines, and cold drinks. These children are not randomly poising on and around the temples for fun but to make money. They do not have the day to play amongst the temple ruins; they are working just as their parents are. They are taught to smile for the camera and then coyly stick out their hands for much needed green dollar bills.

Sitting under a tree to escape the heat of the day I watched the interaction between a young white American man and these two Cambodian children. The four year old sister smiled an unnaturally huge toothy American smile and prodded her younger sibling to do the same. "Sir, picture. You want picture?" The little girl had reeled him in. The foreigner smiled back, feeling special, and bent down on his knee to take the picture. He took a step closer and showed the digital image on the camera's screen to the young faces, expecting them to be delighted. When she held out her grubby little hand his eyes went blank and he turned away, his back to the children.

The little girl was not pleased. She shot up from her picture perfect pose, baby in arm, and began tapping incessantly on his leg. With her little hand outreached it was clear what she wanted. "Money. Money sir. Feed baby. Please. Money." As a four year old she had already picked up the key English phrases. But the tourist continued to ignore her and walked away.

Even from far away I could see the desperation grow in the little girl's face. I had seen this same scene so many times in the tourist hot spots of South East Asia and I felt a strong mix of emotions erupt inside me. This tourist should know better than to fall into such a trap if he doesn't want to pay a few cents to the innocent child. And yet half of me felt no tourists should take these pictures of poising children, for it reinforces the power dynamics of the white person with a dollar bill glued on their forehead. These children don't know any better than to ask for money. Angkor 's daughter had been taught to behave like this, of course she feels wronged. He has so much and she has so little. Was this unnerving situation inevitable?

The beautiful girl wouldn't give up so easily. She followed the young male tourist, her little steps dripping with attitude. Her feet stomping up the thin layer of dust that covers Cambodia . As he continued to ignore her she began shouting in Khmer, her voice a high pitched squeal of a siren, causing other tourists to turn their attention away from the beautiful Banyan trees to her simple request. Looking sheepish he dug into his pockets and pulled out a small coin.

The little girl was not pleased with the lone coin. She threw it on the ground and began picking up rocks and throwing them ferociously at the young man. As I watched pebble after pebble soar through the air I didn't know whether to laugh or cry. The young man, clearly not knowing how to handle this situation, began quickly walking away from the child. After maybe 20 or 30 pebbles he had run away out of reach. Many weary tourist eyes stayed glued on the little girl. Defeated, she sat down in the dust with her baby sibling still in her arms and began uncontrollably sobbing, hitting her small quacking fists onto the ground. The little girls' face was stained with tears, her lips quivering in anger. She lifted her little fist in the air; her fingers tensely grasped together showing her desperation, her feelings of injustice.

The disparity I hear in her cries echoed through the temple walls. The inequality and power dynamics of the tourist and local never seem to fade. I was left sitting under the wise old Banyan tree's shade feeling helpless. What right did I have to be traveling in Asia ? My privilege once more staring me in my face as I watched Angkor 's daughter weeping in the dust.

Heather Bugni is a student at Fairhaven College.

back to top