In the dark ambiances of Phnom Penh’s beer gardens, lounges, and massage parlors, the real story is not the nightlife hype but the invisible labour that keeps it running. Behind every packed karaoke kâdai (karaoke shop) and buzzing bar are women working 10–12 hour shifts for wages so low they barely cover rent, motorbike payments, and monthly food staples. A recent Kiripost investigation revealed what many already know but few dare to document: entertainment and sex-industry workers in Cambodia are severely underpaid, often unprotected by labour laws, and overwhelmingly excluded from social security systems.
Women interviewed in the Kiripost report described long shifts that stretch past midnight, unpredictable schedules, and no written contracts — a key issue because lack of formal paperwork means no access to overtime, annual leave, health insurance, or compensation if injured. In many venues, the base salary is purposely kept low, with workers pressured to earn “sales bonuses” through drink-pushing targets. If business is slow, pay is even lower. This economic model, common in salaap sra (beer shops) and KTVs, leaves women dependent on customer generosity and employer discretion rather than protected wages.
The lack of social protection is just as troubling. Cambodia’s National Social Security Fund (NSSF) is supposed to cover most employees in the formal sector, but entertainment and sex-industry workers remain largely invisible in the system. Labour activists say that fewer than five percent of workers in the nightlife sector are registered, meaning they receive no health coverage, no injury benefits, and no retirement savings. When sickness strikes — frequent in an industry involving smoke, alcohol, and late nights — these women must either work through the pain or lose a day’s earnings.
Cultural stigma compounds the vulnerability. Cambodian society still carries the weight of Chbab Srey (ច្បាប់ស្រី, “the women’s code”), a set of traditional norms urging women to be modest, obedient, and morally upright. While modern Cambodia is changing fast, the remnants of these expectations often push entertainment workers into silence. Many fear being judged, shunned, or evicted if landlords, family members, or local authorities learn the truth about their jobs. Without public recognition of their labour as “work,” demanding rights becomes an act of courage.
Recent reports from CamboJA News and women’s rights organizations highlight further abuses: forced resignations during pregnancy, discriminatory practices such as mandatory urine tests, and employers firing workers who request time off for health reasons. Some women were dismissed simply for asking about contracts or social security registration. The blurred line between entertainment work and sex work — both stigmatized, both criminalized in practice though not always by law — intensifies the risks.
NGOs such as the Women’s Network for Unity (WNU) have been advocating for years for entertainment workers’ access to labour protections. They argue that these women are workers like any other: they sell services, follow schedules, and depend on wages. The fact that their labour happens at night or involves emotional and social interaction with customers does not make it any less legitimate. Activists have urged the Ministry of Labour to enforce contract requirements, expand NSSF outreach, and regulate venues to prevent harassment and exploitation.
There have been small steps. In the past decade, the Ministry of Labour issued circulars acknowledging entertainment workers as employees under the Labour Law. But implementation remains weak. Employers continue to operate informally, unregistered, and without oversight, knowing that workers rarely complain. Many women, especially migrants from rural provinces, lack the confidence or legal literacy to challenge their employers. Fear of police raids and moral policing adds yet another layer of uncertainty.
As Cambodia positions itself as a modern, emerging economy, the daily reality of tens of thousands of women working in nightlife venues exposes a deep structural inequality. These women cater to tourists, urban professionals, and businessmen — yet remain locked out of the basic protections that formal workers take for granted. Their labour keeps the nightlife economy alive. Their rights, however, are still waiting to be recognized — and respected.
Dear Cambodian friends – I have many – sit down and pour yourself a cold Angkor because Auntie needs to speak plainly. Equal pay and equal rights aren’t luxuries to be gifted like a rich uncle’s New Year ang pao. They are the bare minimum for any woman who gets up every day — or every night — to earn her living. And yet, in Cambodia’s entertainment and sex industry, equality is treated like an optional seasoning: sprinkle a little when donors visit, hide it when customers arrive, pretend it doesn’t exist when workers ask too many questions.
Let’s be clear: these women are workers. Full stop. They clock 10 to 12 hours, follow insane targets, manage customer moods, defuse drunken tempers, keep the atmosphere lively, and maintain the fragile emotional labour that keeps the nightlife economy spinning. They are bartenders, hostesses, dancers, servers, counselors, mediators, sometimes stand-in therapists. But employers still act like they owe them nothing — not contracts, not insurance, not fair wages. That’s not “tradition.” That’s exploitation wrapped in neon and karaoke reverb.
And don’t get Auntie started on pay. You have male managers sitting in air-conditioned offices making three times as much while these women are pushed onto the floor in heels, smiles, and sometimes uniforms they paid for themselves. Equal pay isn’t a radical ask — it’s justice. It’s acknowledging that emotional labour is labour. That service work is skilled work. That being a woman is not a discount category. Why should “night work” magically erase labour rights? Why should a bar girl earn less than the man counting her sales? Why should the ones facing the customers be the ones least protected?
Equal rights? Oh yes, that too. Because until these women have real contracts, access to the National Social Security Fund, maternity protection, proper working hours, and the ability to unionize without retaliation, equality is just a pretty slogan. And don’t throw cultural excuses at me — Chbab Srey is not a labour policy. You cannot preach modesty while pocketing profits from women’s work. You cannot romanticize “tradition” to justify 12-hour shifts with no benefits.
Auntie has seen this across Asia: when women’s labour is visible, the system ignores it; when it’s invisible, the system exploits it. Cambodia is no exception. But here’s the thing: equality begins when society finally admits that these women deserve the same protections as everyone else. Not tomorrow. Not after another “study.” Now. Because the women who brighten Cambodia’s nights deserve security in their days.