The morning light had just begun to slip through the towering silk-cotton trees of Angkor Wat when I heard a sound that stopped me in my tracks—a tiny cry, sharp and trembling, echoing through the cool forest air. At first, I thought it was just another baby monkey calling for its mother. That’s normal here. But the next sound—soft, panicked, almost like a whispered scream—carried a different kind of fear.
That was the first time I saw Baby Nala.
She was so impossibly small, her little fingers trembling as she clung to the rough bark of a mossy root. Her eyes were wide, still carrying the newborn softness of a baby who believed the world was kind. Yet her body shook with a fear far too big for her fragile frame.
Before I could even move closer, the bushes behind her rustled. Out stepped Mama Bonita, a strong and famously protective female in this troop—sometimes protective in ways the other mothers did not always welcome. Her posture was rigid, her eyes locked on Nala, and the forest suddenly felt colder.
Nala’s body stiffened. Even though she was barely old enough to walk, she instinctively knew something was wrong.
And then it happened.
Bonita lunged forward—not violently, but with a force that overwhelmed the tiny baby. She wrapped her arms around Nala and pulled her tight against her chest. The baby let out a cry so desperate that it echoed through the ancient stones behind us.
It was the sound of confusion.
The sound of fear.
The sound of a baby who didn’t understand why she was being taken.
As Bonita carried her away, Nala’s little arm stretched out toward the path she had been clinging to, fingers open… reaching for help, for safety, maybe even for her real mother.
Her eyes met mine for a brief second.
And I swear—just for a heartbeat—it felt like she was begging:
“Don’t let her hurt me… please.”
I followed at a respectful distance. Bonita wasn’t being intentionally cruel; she was desperate. In the shifting dynamics of monkey families, some females lose their infants, and heartbreak causes them to cling to any baby they can hold. It’s instinct, sorrow, and confusion tangled together.
But Baby Nala didn’t know that.
She only knew she had been taken.
The troop moved deeper into the forest, climbing over the fallen stones of a collapsed Angkor terrace. Bonita kept Nala hidden against her chest, but every now and then, I saw the baby’s small face pressed sideways, eyes scanning the forest for something—maybe someone—familiar.
Minutes stretched into what felt like hours.
Every cry made my chest tighten.
The forest, usually alive with playful shrieks and rustling leaves, felt strangely silent. Even the cicadas seemed to pause, as if nature itself was watching the strange drama unfolding.
Then, in the golden shade of an ancient temple doorway, something unexpected happened.
Another female—Nala’s true mother—appeared.
Her posture changed instantly. She puffed her chest slightly, her gaze sharpened, and she moved with a tense mix of fear and determination. She approached Bonita slowly, carefully… but her eyes never left her daughter.
The standoff lasted seconds, but it felt like time had frozen.
Finally, Bonita loosened her grip.
Baby Nala slid from her arms, wobbling as her tiny feet touched the stone. Her mother immediately scooped her up, pulling her close, cradling her with a depth of tenderness that made my eyes sting.
Nala pressed her face into her mother’s chest.
Her tiny fingers curled into fur she recognized.
Her crying softened into quiet whimpers of relief.
It was a moment that reminded me why I return to these forests again and again.
A reminder that every life here—every baby—is a small universe of emotion.
As they disappeared into the temple shadows, sunlight caught Nala’s face one last time. Her eyes were still wet, but the fear was fading. Replaced by safety. By warmth. By love.
In that moment, I understood something simple but powerful:
Even in the wild, every baby just wants the same thing—
to feel safe in the arms of someone who loves them.The morning light had just begun to slip through the towering silk-cotton trees of Angkor Wat when I heard a sound that stopped me in my tracks—a tiny cry, sharp and trembling, echoing through the cool forest air. At first, I thought it was just another baby monkey calling for its mother. That’s normal here. But the next sound—soft, panicked, almost like a whispered scream—carried a different kind of fear.
