What started as a dream job with promises of U.S. dollar salaries and lightning-fast visa processing turned into a digital nightmare for hundreds of Indians.
Lured by lucrative offers of data entry work in Thailand, young job seekers—some fresh graduates—found themselves caught in the crosshairs of one of the world’s most insidious cyber scam networks operating across Thailand, Myanmar, and Cambodia.
Instead of swanky offices in Bangkok, the recruits were taken on a chilling detour—eight-hour road journeys, boat rides under the cover of darkness, and ultimately to the heart of Myawaddy, a lawless town at the Thailand-Myanmar border.
There, “scam farms” with innocuous names like KK Farms awaited them—massive facilities that resembled call centers, but operated more like digital sweatshops, or worse—cybercrime factories.
The Great Lie: From Dream Jobs to Digital Prisons
Two men from Haryana, among hundreds lured into this deceitful web, recounted their harrowing ordeal to ThePrint. Hired by a firm called “Taiwan 7 Star,” they expected a legitimate role in IT. Instead, they found themselves under surveillance, working 16-hour shifts, and being forced to operate fake identities of women on dating and matrimonial apps.
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These weren’t just catfishing schemes—they were calculated, layered operations run by a hierarchy of fraud professionals:
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Developers: Scouted targets and gathered personal data.
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Receptionists: Built emotional rapport and scripted romantic narratives.
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Killers: Laundered stolen funds across borders and converted them into crypto.
Using identities like “Ankita Mishra” or “Anika Mishra”, Indian scammers were asked to chat with victims—mostly men—on platforms like Shaadi.com, Tinder, and Jeevansathi.com. A Pakistani, Delhi-based, or Thai model’s picture served as the bait. The operation was ruthlessly effective.
Once the relationship was built, the victims were enticed with a fake “dropshipping business” scheme—a get-rich-quick model where initial fake payouts built trust, leading to investments of thousands of dollars. Some victims lost their life savings. One man from Mumbai reportedly invested over Rs 2.5 crore, believing he had found true love and a lucrative future.
Even after discovering the con, many victims still clung to hope, desperate to keep talking to their “love interests.”
Despite a major repatriation effort by the Indian government—bringing back over 500 Indians via IAF aircraft in March—investigations have hit a wall. The scam farms are run across sovereign territories, often under the protection or indifference of local militias. Indian law enforcement has arrested only a handful of agents and mule account holders, barely scratching the surface of this billion-dollar industry.
Failure to meet “targets” wasn’t an option. “No deliverables, no food,” said one repatriated worker. Others witnessed more sinister punishments—like a pregnant woman’s husband from Rohtak being given electric shocks for refusing to work.
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The scale is industrial. Hundreds of people working shifts, monitored by Chinese handlers through translators, and trained to manipulate, defraud, and disappear into the web of global finance and digital crime.
Security sources say many who went abroad were either misled or eventually became complicit, lured by high pay and the ability to send money back home. But even as stories surface, and victims return, the masterminds behind the scenes remain untouched.
The calls for international collaboration and crackdown on these cybercrime syndicates are growing louder. Yet, this story—of love, lies, and lost identity—remains a stark warning: not all that glitters online is gold. Sometimes, it’s a trap.
