"Someone Has to Stay": A Social Worker’s Fight for Children

21 May 2025, BATTAMBANG, Cambodia — The baby was alone, crying on the railroad tracks when the police found him. His mother, lost in the fog of untreated mental illness, had disappeared. His father was nowhere to be found. 

Only one person stepped forward to carry his future — Toem Srey Aun. 

At first glance, Aun seems impossibly young—her long, straight black hair framing a face that could belong to a 16-year-old. She speaks softly, almost whispering at times, as she moves through the crowded provincial office in Battambang. But behind her gentle demeanour lies a fierce determination that has carried her through a decade of Cambodia's toughest child protection cases. 

"These children have no one. Except me," she says in her gentle voice, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. "And my decisions shape their future." 

In a country with only 37 professional social workers at the provincial level and about 200 para-social workers serving in districts, Aun stands among the few shouldering this enormous burden. As a provincial social worker, she supervises district-level para-social workers helping them build their capacity through hands-on technical support, coaching, and mentoring. She trains them in child protection case management through the Primero system, as well as vital soft skills such as communication, problem solving, and interviewing.  Over the years, she has guided and supported more than 3,000 para-social workers across Battambang province—workers like Pov Vanny—creating a stronger community network to identify and protect children at risk. 

"I wouldn't have become certified without the UNICEF Australia funding through UNICEF's support," she explains. UNICEF has been instrumental in developing Cambodia's social service workforce, helping create the Ministry of Social Affairs' Guidelines on Basic Competencies, a Strategic Plan for Training, and implementing the Primero digital case management system used by social workers across the country. 

Her case files in Battambang province overflow with stories of children living on the edge of disaster—abandoned babies, children with incarcerated parents, and families torn apart by poverty. 

One case in particular is Nimol. For the past year, she's made sure Nimol — the baby found by the train tracks at just three months old — receives foster care, regular check-ins, and occasional prison visits to see his father. Each time she carries him into that heavy, locked world, she comes home a little more worn down. 

"I have nightmares," she admits. 

Finding Her Path 

Aun's journey to social work began in childhood, when she witnessed an elderly neighbour harassing children who walked past his home. The man would pull down girls' skirts or boys' trousers if they dared to trespass. This early exposure to intimidation kindled a determination to protect children from harm. 

"I wanted to challenge gender norms that said only boys could do this work," she explains. "My father supported my education, but my mother believed a girl's place was in the kitchen, not an office." 

As a child who experienced violence from older kids in her neighbourhood, she vowed to stop abuse wherever she saw it. But most importantly, "I wanted to help children get back their family life." 

Now at 33, the mother of two young children balances her family responsibilities with her demanding role as a provincial social worker. 

The Children She Carries 

One case still haunts her. Sreynit, a quiet nine-year-old, had begged Aun not to let her mother take her across the border to Thailand for construction work. For three years, Aun kept her safe in a residential centre. The girl thrived—making friends, performing well in school, and dutifully completing her chores. 

Then in 2024, the mother returned. Against Aun's advice, Sreynit was taken away to Thailand. 

"My supervisor advised me to close the case," Aun says, her voice catching. "But you can't close your heart. I haven't heard from her since October of last year." 

Sreynit's father remains in prison for drug offences and domestic violence, a common thread in many of Aun's cases. 

Besides Sreynit and Nimol, Aun also accompanies children like Maysa, a four-year-old who has been visiting her mother in prison for three years. The mother was incarcerated for selling drugs on the streets. 

"Every time I take these children to meet their parents in prison, I come back home depressed," Aun confesses. "The situation is dire and too much for me to bear." 

Her responsibilities extend to managing domestic adoption cases as well. Currently, she handles five adoption processes, three of which have already been placed with Cambodian adoptive parents. 

A System Under Stress

"Social workers like Aun are the backbone of our child protection response," says Chivith Rottanak, Child Protection Specialist at UNICEF Cambodia. "They're often the only lifeline for children facing violence, but there are simply too few of them. We need hundreds more across Cambodia if we're serious about ending violence against children."

Amplifying this concern, the statistics behind Aun's daily struggle tell a sobering story. According to the Cambodia Demographic and Health Survey 2021-2022, 66 per cent of Cambodian children between ages 1 and 14 experience disciplinary violence from adults in their families. Three out of five children face psychological punishment, and 43 per cent endure physical punishment.

Compounding these challenges, even in Battambang province, home to one of Cambodia's highest-ranked child protection systems, the needs overwhelm the resources. Despite a 68 per cent reduction in residential care placements since 2015, Battambang still housed 566 children in 20 residential care facilities in 2024. Most concerning is that three-quarters of these children have at least one living parent who could potentially care for them with proper support services—reflecting the national pattern where 77 per cent of all children in residential care have surviving parents. These circumstances persist as Cambodia works to implement its revised Alternative Care Policy in July 2024, which prioritizes family-based care and designates institutional care as last resort. 

Nationally, Cambodia has made impressive progress, reducing the number of children in residential care by 73 per cent since 2015—from over 26,000 to about 7,000 today, according to the Ministry of Social Affairs, Veterans and Youth Rehabilitation's upcoming Inspection Report of Residential Care Facilities in Cambodia: 2015-2024. As the country continues this transformation, significant work remains. Over one-third of these children (34 per cent) still live in unlicensed facilities, and cases like Nimol’s—the baby found crying alone on railroad tracks whose mother disappeared into illness—illustrate the complex family situation that social workers like Aun navigate daily, working to find the best outcomes for each child.  

Finding Balance

Despite the emotional cost, Aun finds space to breathe through her weekend cooking classes at a local vocational training centre.

"That's where I breathe," she smiles. "It's my meditation."

Her work stretches far beyond forms and files. Despite her small stature, she traverses rugged terrain to reach remote villages, often carrying a backpack that seems too heavy for her frame. She assesses homes, meets caregivers, and works to keep families together whenever possible.

"I keep fighting for these minors," she says, straightening papers on her desk with methodical care. "They have no one except me."

In her small Battambang office, amid case files and school reports, Aun prepares for another home visit. Another chance to change a child’s life. She lifts her worn bag with surprising ease, strengthened by years of carrying others' burdens.

"They always remember if you stayed," she says, gathering her papers and walking toward the door.

And so, Aun stays.