The first time I heard the cry, I froze. It wasn’t the usual chatter of monkeys you expect near the ancient stones of Angkor — no chattering, no rustling in the trees. Just a single, trembling wail that seemed to echo through the forest. I wandered toward the sound, my heart heavy, until I saw him: a tiny baby monkey, curled up on the mossy ground, his eyes wide with fear and confusion. His fur was ruffled, patches missing or dulled — the messy coat of abandonment.
He tried to crawl, but weakly. His limbs shook. He rolled over, then back again. He let out another cry — soft at first, then growing sharper, more desperate. My chest tightened. In that moment I felt something I’ve rarely felt before: raw helplessness. Here was a living soul, so small, so vulnerable — and utterly alone.
Around me, the forest held its breath. The ancient stones of Angkor Wat loomed, silent and still. The temple pillars that had once sheltered kings now sheltered sorrow. No mother in sight. No troop. Just a tiny creature whose world had collapsed.
I crouched a short distance away, uncertain if I should approach. The terrible truth: if this baby’s mother had abandoned him — or worse, been taken — then human interference might do more harm than good. I remembered stories I’d read: that in some cases, captured or orphaned baby macaques are used for content, for clicks. “Cute baby monkey!” the titles cry — while behind the camera, fear and trauma unfold.
I watched him slowly rock his tiny body, arms wrapped around his belly as if trying to hold his small life together. His eyes flicked around, searching — for a mother, a troop, anything that could offer warmth, safety, comfort. When nothing came, he stopped moving. He just sat there — still, defeated, silent.
At sunrise, golden light filtered through the jungle canopy, dancing on temple stones and fallen leaves. It made the scene all the more heartbreaking: a baby’s body bathed in beauty, yet drowned in sorrow. I whispered to myself: “You’re not forgotten.”
As I stood, torn between wanting to help and knowing the dangers of human interference, I realized something ugly but real: this baby’s suffering is part of a larger crisis. Near Angkor, many monkeys — especially infants — are being exploited. Some are torn from their mothers to be filmed, or abandoned when they outlive their “cute” moment.
I tried to picture the life he might have had: climbing trees, swinging from vines, safe among his troop. Instead — silence. Abandonment. Fear.
As I backed away, final rays of sun lit the ruins around us. The baby monkey remained where I had found him. Weak. Alone. Still waiting.
I left with a heavy heart — but also with a promise: I will share his story. I will tell the world: this isn’t “cute.” This is loss. This is pain. This is real life.
