As for me, sitting here safe, upwardly mobile, and somewhat disillusioned, I am humbled for the millionth time by the distance between my ideals and my actions. I’m still wearing cheap clothes probably made in sweatshops by the same slaves I crossed the globe to protect. I’m still, frequently, paying more attention to my damned phone with the cobalt battery mined by child laborers in the Congo than I am to my own precious, deliciously cooing little girl. I’m still happily cherishing the security of my stateside private property, my paycheck, my (now unfrozen) bank accounts that promise a life of undeserved comfort amid a suffering world.

An insider reckons with complicity and compromise in Cambodia’s aid industry.