I still remember the first time I visited that hidden grove in the Angkor Wat forest — the morning light filtering through ancient trees, the hum of cicadas, and the soft rustle of leaves as if nature itself was whispering secrets. It was there that I first laid eyes on baby monkey Jessy, a fragile little creature tucked into the crook of a towering banyan. At first glance, she seemed peaceful. But then she started to cry.
I watched, heart pounding, as a local caretaker gently brought her into a clearing. They held a small cup of warm milk and lifted it to her lips, hoping to calm her. But Jessy didn’t smile or even settle. Instead, with every sip she took, her breathing trembled — a soft but relentless sob shuddering through her tiny body. It was like watching a baby human who’s been rocked, fed, and yet still can’t calm down.
Over the next hour, they tried again and again: a bottle, a spoon, a bowl. Each time, Jessy accepted the food. Her little hand gripped the caregiver’s finger. She leaned in, almost trusting. But as soon as the feeding paused, the crying returned — raw, heartbreaking, insistent.
I knelt in the forest dust just a few feet away, feeling powerless. The ancient stone temples of Angkor Wat rose around us, reminders of a civilization built to stand centuries — and yet this baby monkey seemed so delicate, so ephemeral, so deeply in need.
I asked one of the caretakers softly, “Why does she cry like this? Is she sick?”
He shook his head, sadness in his eyes. “No, not sick,” he replied slowly, “just… lost.” He paused, looking at Jessy. “Maybe she misses her mother. Maybe she’s not just hungry — maybe she’s hurting inside.”
It struck me that, for all our efforts to nourish her body, we were still missing her soul. Food could fill her stomach, but not her longing.
As the sun climbed higher, the forest grew brighter, the air warmer. Jessy’s cries grew louder too — no longer the soft whimpers, but more urgent, demanding. It felt like she was calling out, not just for milk, but for something more: comfort, belonging, a home.
In that moment, I felt tears well up in my own eyes. I held my breath, hoping she might quiet, but she didn’t. Instead, she curled into herself, trembling, as though every drop of milk made her realize how alone she truly was.
A hush fell among the onlookers — tourists, locals, wildlife workers — as though her crying had paused time. I looked around: ancient pillars, moss-covered stones, the green canopy above. And in the middle of all that history, a baby monkey was crying, and I couldn’t do anything to stop it.
I closed my eyes and made a silent promise: I would do more than just watch. I would share Jessy’s story on GetMonki.info. I would ask her caretakers what more could be done — how to ease her pain, how to help her heal. Because she deserved more than food. She deserved love.
Later, I sat with one of the local conservationists beside a fallen temple wall. She told me that Jessy had probably been orphaned — perhaps separated when her mother was chased away, or worse. The forest, while ancient and beautiful, is not always a gentle place. Survival comes at a cost.
That night, under a sky heavy with stars, I thought about Jessy. I thought about how she had accepted our help, but still cried. I thought about how I had witnessed her pain, but didn’t yet know how to heal it. I realized that this little monkey in the Angkor Wat forest was teaching me something: compassion isn’t just in giving food — it’s in giving heart, presence, and understanding.
And so, I write this now, for her. For you. For everyone who might see her video, feel her tears, and ask: how can I help?
Jessy is not just a baby monkey. She is a voice — a small, trembling voice — calling for connection. And maybe, by sharing her story, we can answer.
