I flew into Siem Reap, Cambodia, on a steamy afternoon in rainy season. Traveling from Bangkok, it was hard to imagine Cambodia as something other than a new leg of Thailand-perhaps a slightly modified cuisine, and of course the famous temples of Angkor Wat, but how else could it be different from its Southeast Asian neighbor?

Cambodia, it turns out, is vastly different from Thailand. The Thai tourist industry is highly developed, equipped to host thousands of westerners with pockets full of strong currency. And Thailand had a fairly placid political history in the second half of the twentieth century, while Cambodia was the target of U.S. aggression during the Vietnam War. In its more recent past, Cambodia suffered the crippling effects of the Khmer Rouge regime. That government perpetrated genocide against its own people.

So while Cambodia serves up the same steaming coconut curries as Thailand, and is also well equipped to accommodate its privileged white guests, the poverty I encountered there remains unspeakable in my memory.

Siem Reap is a modest city that has blossomed into the bustling tourist center servicing Angkor Wat, that famous compound of Buddhist and Hindu temples. Throngs of westerners truck through every day, leaving behind their $40 temple entrance fee and the cost of a hotel room and some Khmer food. Most visitors also leave behind many U.S. dollars-the currency used in Cambodia since their own legal tender bottomed out at 4,000 to one dollar- in the hands of begging children.

The streets of Siem Reap are packed with them: they are small and dirty, and the four year olds carry one-year-old siblings on their backs. They beg for themselves and for their families, as well as for the amputee adults who employ them. In Cambodia, an untold number of people are landmine victims. It is impossible to walk through city streets without encountering someone missing a leg or sometimes two, or an arm, just a hand, both arms, or, occasionally, both arms and both legs.

We spent one afternoon at the landmine museum- an internationally known site, despite it being just a hut with newspaper clippings and piles of disabled explosives. Beside the museum were bunkhouses in which twenty or thirty children-most of them landmine victims-lived together. In a field across the way, many of the children were playing soccer, and after reading the newspaper articles and learning about the international movement to ban landmines, I wandered over to watch them. Many played without arms, and a few played with just one leg. Much smaller children, not landmine victims themselves but probably orphans, were also afoot, thrilled at the very presence of a westerner. They held onto my legs and demonstrated their knowledge of English-numbers one through ten-for my benefit.

And so I struggled, wondering, To whom do I give? And how much do I give? What story do I tell myself to make it okay, so that I can eat lovely meals and snap pictures of their temples, and throw the starving children a dollar before I return to my wealthy life in our inconceivably wealthy country? Don’t we have a responsibility to do something?

I was often moved to tears by the begging in Cambodia, but found no easy solution in simply offering money. When I did open my pockets to them, I found myself mobbed by small children thrusting forward their open hands or tugging at my clothes. If I didn’t give, I walked by with my lips pressed tightly together, ashamed of myself. How could I have so much and give nothing to this hungry one, or that one missing a hand, or the one carrying her baby sister? How could I walk by knowing that the circumstances and wealth with which I have been blessed are the godliest riches to these children? What is a dollar to me, after all, when in Cambodia it can feed a whole family for a day or two?

On my last morning in Siem Reap, I ate with my mom and brother on the patio of a restaurant with a sign boasting its western breakfast. After we ordered-omelets and toast, coffee and mango milkshakes-a woman carrying her son on her back and her tiny daughter in her arms stepped onto the patio and stretched out her hands to us. My mom had determined her own generous policy about begging on our first day in Southeast Asia, when she had marched into the bank to draw out stacks of one-dollar bills. Faced with this mother begging on behalf of her two children, mom reached into her pocket for several dollars. The woman nodded gratefully. And then we watched from our patio dining table as she went to an adjacent food stall and fed her children.

Tears poured from my mother’s eyes. To face another mother in this way was too much for her. She saw herself in this woman, and each of them was mothering her own in the best way she could. Yet my mom had pockets full of dollars, and this woman struggled to feed her babies.

Can we ever give or do enough so that we can hold up our heads, even as we board airplanes back to our First World opulence? What about the starving girl to whom I gave nothing because I had no small bills? And the man missing both his legs who I walked right by, pretending not to see? Is it enough to bring money to their country by visiting, by staying in their hotels, eating in their restaurants, visiting the temples and museums? Is it enough to give a few coins here and a dollar there? After I’ve left, is it okay to forget about the masses of Cambodian children and the endless landmine victims if I gave to them while I was there? What is enough? When can I let it go and know that I did what I could?

I can hope that it was a hungry child’s mother who sold me the baskets, the carved spoons, the bundles of spices and teas. I can hope that having visited, and having given a little here and some there, that that was enough. Or I can let it inform the path I choose in my life. We all have an opportunity to do something; there’s no end to the ways we might use our good fortune to improve the lives of those who are not so blessed. Giving to charities is one way, and volunteering time and energy to causes that we believe in is another, often very effective and fulfilling, way of making a difference. Will that make it easier to look into the eyes of a little boy carrying his littler sister? That, of course, will continue to be heartbreaking. But perhaps I would leave Cambodia feeling a little lighter if I knew it wasn’t just a crumpled dollar bill I had given, but a commitment to work toward a better future.