I still remember the first time I saw her. The early morning mist curled softly around the moss-covered stones of the ancient forest near Angkor Wat. Shafts of sunlight filtered through the dense canopy, dappling the ground with gold. At first glance, she looked like any other young macaque — small, vulnerable, eyes full of curiosity. But when I saw her chest, I realized something was terribly wrong: she was too thin, frail, and faintly trembling.
That little monkey was Tini — or rather, she was supposed to be her mother. The baby? That was Tini the Little Monkey.
She was perched on a broken temple stone, clutching nothing. No mother, no siblings — just her. Her fur looked dull, and she the way she lifted her head had the hollow expression of someone deeply hungry. My heart sank.
In the silence that only a jungle can carry before dawn fully wakes, I heard faint rustling — leaves, branches, distant calls, but nothing else. No soft coo of a mother monkey whispering to her baby. No scampering footsteps. Nothing.
I crouched a little farther, breathing slowly, trying not to disturb her. I switched on my camera, quietly, not to capture her as a “cute viral clip,” but to bear witness.
Tini the Little Monkey did something that stopped me in my tracks: she reached out to a small rock beside her and touched it — as if hoping that the rock might become her mother, might feed her. I could almost see her expecting the rock to offer warmth, milk, love. Her eyes — hollow, tired, but alive — flickered with longing.
I remember thinking: imagine a human child, newborn, without a mother. Imagine having to figure out hunger, comfort — alone.
Over the next hour, I followed her from a distance. She tried to forage: tiny nibbles at fallen leaves, bits of fruit left by tourists, crumbs washed off moss. Everything tasted of damp earth and desperation. Occasionally, a piece would fill her with hope — hope that her stomach could bear something beyond emptiness.
Because the wild monkeys of Angkor — once thriving in the forest surrounding the temples, after decades of decline — are now increasingly in danger again. Conservation efforts — like those by Wildlife Alliance — have tried to restore their populations after poaching decimated them. But feeding baby monkeys for views, or leaving them orphaned, still happens.
I wondered: how did she lose her mother? Was it violence, neglect, or simply abandonment? I didn’t know — and she couldn’t tell me.
As the sun rose higher and shadows retreated, I found her curled against a temple wall, shivering. Her gaze drifted upward to ancient carvings — gods long forgotten, kings absent, stones that had survived centuries. And yet, she, a fragile baby, seemed more alone than any of them.
I stayed until the forest buzzed with insects, monkeys moved in distant treetops, and the weight of silence gave way to background noise. Then I slowly walked away — but I couldn’t stop thinking about Tini. I carried her hunger, her fear, her fragile hope with me.
Because her story — the story of a little monkey who survives without a mother’s milk — is more than a sad moment in a jungle. It’s a mirror for us. It asks: who do we choose to notice? Who do we choose to help?
When you embed the video below, please imagine her trembling chest, her longing eyes — and remember: she is not just a fleeting image. She is a living being. Let her hunger remind us that compassion matters.
