I still remember the humid air hanging heavy around Angkor’s ancient stones that afternoon. The forest hummed softly — insects, distant jungle birds, the rustle of leaves in gentle wind — a strange calm that would soon shatter. I had followed a small troupe of long‑tailed macaques deeper into the forest trail near the old temple ruins, drawn by a curious mix of respect and sorrow: respect for the ancient stones, sorrow for how wildlife there had grown used to human attention.
That’s when I noticed “Anna.” She was a young woman — slender, sun‑browned, with a camera hanging around her neck. She moved among the monkeys confidently, tossing food to coax a mother with an infant. The little one — baby “Ara,” I later called her in my mind — clung to her mother’s fur, soft brown eyes wide. For a fleeting moment, the baby looked safe.
Then Anna grabbed Ara without warning. It wasn’t gentle. Her fingers closed around Ara’s tiny body, pulling her away from her mother. Baby Ara’s squeal ripped through the forest air — raw, terrified. The mother screamed back, arms flailing, a frantic cry echoing between ancient stone and green leaves. I froze. My heart pounded, my throat went dry.
Without any reason, without warning, Anna raised her arm — and struck. A harsh, chilling crack. Baby Ara’s body collapsed, limp. Tears, silent and hot, welled in my eyes. The mother’s cries became howls of grief and rage, but no one came to her rescue. I was the only witness.
I rushed forward, tears blurring my vision, but Anna shoved me aside. She dragged Ara across the dusty path and tossed her to the ground. The mother rushed to shield her tiny body, shaking, shivering with fear. I knelt beside them, whispering apologies I couldn’t even believe I was saying.
I didn’t know if Ara was alive. I didn’t know how badly she was hurt. I only knew I couldn’t leave them like that.
In that moment, the forest — so beautiful, so sacred with history — felt like a prison. I scooped the baby into my arms, cradling her as gently as I could. My heart ached. The mother pressed close, trembling. I glanced around. There were other bystanders — tourists, armchair‑adventurers holding phones instead of compassion. Some turned away. Some shuddered and looked away. But none dared to step in.
As I carried baby Ara, the jungle seemed to hold its breath. Her tiny chest barely moved. Her eyes, half‑closed, reflected fear and pain. I whispered soft words, though I doubted she understood. I promised: I will try to save you.
I didn’t know where to take her. The nearby temple warden was too far. The path to the next village was long, each step heavy. But I moved. Every step felt like betrayal — of history, of nature, of something sacred.
By the time I reached helping hands — a local wildlife rescuer who happened to be passing by — Ara was still alive but unresponsive, shaking, drenched in cold sweat. The rescuer gently lifted her, wrapping her in a cloth, murmuring comforting Khmer words to calm the mother. I stood back, ashamed.
That night I lay awake, haunted by Ara’s silent screams — the echo of her pain in the sleeping jungle. I wondered: how could someone treat a fragile life with such cruelty? What made Anna think it was okay to strike without reason — for a video, for clicks?
In the morning I learned a bitter truth: this was not the first time.
Videos like these — snippets of horror — are circulating online, showing monkeys at Angkor being tormented for entertainment, for profit. Some show baby macaques held by the neck, doused with water, crying for help. Others show forced interactions, even sexual abuse.
It’s exploitation cloaked as “content.” Social media platforms let it slip through, viewers click, channels grow. But behind each view count is a broken little life — like Ara’s.
I wish I could undo what happened. I wish I could rewind time. But I can’t. All I have is the story. The memory of Ara’s trembling body. The mother’s grieving howl. The unforgivable silence of bystanders.
If you read this and feel your heart break — that’s good. Let your sorrow become fuel. Share this story. Demand justice. Raise your voice for those who cannot speak.
Because we owe it to baby Ara. And to every innocent life hidden in those ancient jungles.
