The Miracle in the Angkor Wat Forest
I’ll never forget the day I met Roby — a young mother whose courage didn’t just move me; it changed everything I thought I knew about strength. The sun had barely risen over the ancient trees of the Angkor Wat forest when the unimaginable began to unfold.
We had been guiding a small group of travelers when distant cries carried through the mossy air. At first, I thought it was wildlife — perhaps a frightened animal startled by our presence. But as we drew closer, the voice became unmistakably human… and in pain.
There, high on the slender boughs of an old tropical tree, I saw Roby — her face a mask of determination and fear. She was clutching the trunk with trembling hands, sandal dangling from one foot, sweat beading on her brow. What I couldn’t immediately understand was why she was up there at all.
“Help!” she called — her voice strong, yet fragile, like she was holding her last breath together with her hope.
We rushed to her. Within moments, the truth hit us like the humid forest air: Roby was in labor — and not just any labor. This was a birth that was happening right here, under the canopy of living green. Her baby was coming early — premature — and she had no access to a hospital, a clinic, or even a radio.
Through her broken English and our broken Khmer, we pieced her story together.
She had begun the climb earlier that morning to gather wild fruit — needed for her little one at home. But contractions came quicker than she expected. She reached for the highest point she could find, thinking she might get signal on her phone to call for help. Instead, the baby’s arrival accelerated with every breath.
The ground below was rocky, unsafe… she chose the tree, of all places, because she believed her baby might have a chance if they stayed still. The leaves whispered in the wind, like a choir, giving us courage to act.
No one in our group had medical training. Yet every person present agreed instantly — we couldn’t leave her there. I climbed first, though my knees shook like saplings in a storm. Roby gripped my hand when I reached her. Her eyes were filled with tears that reflected the emerald forest around us.
“Please,” she whispered, “my baby…”
I won’t lie — it was chaotic. My friends formed a human ladder. Others steadied the tree. All the while, Roby breathed and strained and waited. The sun rose and poured gold through the leaves, and the forest seemed to hold its breath.
Somehow, with the screams of insects and the songs of birds as her witnesses, Roby gave birth. Not in a hospital bed, not surrounded by machines — but in the arms of every soul who risked everything to help.
When the tiny baby cried — a most beautiful sound — it was as though the ancient spirits of Angkor Wat had smiled down upon us.
I cradled the baby as we gently brought mother and child down. Every step felt surreal. Mothers in our group wept. The guides prayed quietly. The forest seemed to exhale, releasing all tension into the light.
Roby’s baby was premature, but he was strong — a tiny warrior born among giants.
We wrapped him in cloth. Someone found signal; the message went out. Medical help was on the way.
In that moment, nothing else mattered.
