I still remember the moment I first saw her – a tiny, fragile baby monkey, trembling under the dappled sunlight of the Angkor Wat forest, just minutes old, but already alone.
That morning, I had slipped quietly through the ancient trees that hug the ruins of Angkor Wat, chasing the soft calls of macaques deep in the jungle canopy. It was humid, sticky, the air thick with the scent of moss and old stone. Tourists were still scarce; dawn had just broken. I carried my camera, hoping for a peaceful glimpse of the wild residents that make this temple complex their home.
Then, I heard the faintest cry – a soft squeak, almost lost among the rustling leaves and distant birdcalls. I froze, heart pounding. I followed the sound, ducking under huge twisted roots, climbing over rocky patches. And there she was: her fur still damp, her tiny chest rising and falling as she gasped softly for air.
But there was no mother in sight.
My breath caught. In all my time visiting Angkor, I had never seen a newborn left alone like this. The forest around her was eerily still; even the usual troop chatter seemed to hush in respect. I knelt and watched, barely daring to breathe.
She was so small — barely the size of my hand — with eyes that blinked slowly, uncertainly. Her limbs curled in, as if she were trying to protect herself. My heart ached. Where was her mother? Her family?
I scanned the nearby branches, the thick undergrowth. No adult monkey. It felt impossibly wrong: a baby born into the ancient temple forest, abandoned at her first breath.
Tears pricked my eyes. I felt a surge of guilt, too: as a human, I was an intruder here, but also a witness. What had happened? Why was she left?
As I watched, I realized that she wasn’t truly alone — not completely. A few older monkeys watched from a distance in the trees, their eyes cautious, wary. They didn’t approach. They didn’t call. It was as though they, too, were unsure of what to do.
My phone vibrated softly in my pocket — a reminder of my world, far away. But in that moment, I felt suspended between two worlds: my own noisy, busy life, and this quiet, ancient forest where a newborn’s fate hung in the balance.
I gently reached out, but I didn’t touch her. I took a photo, then another, being as unobtrusive as possible. I whispered comforting words, though I know she probably didn’t understand. Still, I wanted her to know she wasn’t forgotten.
Minutes passed like hours, and she didn’t move much. Her breaths were shallow. I counted them silently. My mind raced with questions: Would her mother return? Would she survive?
I considered calling for help — contacting a wildlife rescuer or someone from a conservation group. But I also feared intervention might do more harm than good. In these forests around Angkor, human interference has been a double-edged sword. While conservation efforts have helped rewild endangered species, other human behaviors — especially tourists feeding monkeys for videos — have disrupted natural behaviors.
I sat there for nearly an hour, refusing to leave, until finally, I saw movement. A small figure leapt from high in the trees — part of the troop. A mother macaque, eyes wide, rushed toward the clearing. She moved quickly, gently, and cradled her baby. Relief burst through me in an uncontrollable wave. The baby chirped softly, pressing into her mother’s chest.
I exhaled, tears streaming down my face. The mother held her close, grooming her, whispering in soft monkey murmurs. The older troop members circled nearby, protective, curious. The forest seemed to sigh with relief too—leaves rustling, branches swaying in a gentle breeze.
That reunion gave me hope. Hope not just for that little monkey, but for all the wildlife in this sacred forest. The Angkor Wat jungle is ancient, beautiful, but fragile. It’s home to many primates whose lives are deeply affected by human presence. Conservation groups — like the Wildlife Alliance — have worked hard to support wild-born primates in this region. But human behaviors continue to challenge their natural existence: feeding, filming, interfering.
As I watched that mother and child disappear into the undergrowth, I felt a deep responsibility — to share the story, yes, but also to call people to respect this forest, these lives.
