I’ll never forget the day I ventured through the moss‑covered gates of Angkor forest, just before sunrise — the air thick with damp earth and the soft calls of jungle birds. I had come hoping to witness the serene side of this ancient forest, but what I saw stayed with me long after I left.
A tiny baby monkey, barely bigger than my hand, sat trembling beneath a tall fig tree. Its fur was matted, eyes wide with desperation. Beside it, its mother — once regal and protective — stared ahead coldly, holding a small piece of fruit close to her chest. The baby reached out, mouth open, yearning for just a bite.
For a moment, hope flared: maybe she’d relent. Maybe she’d share. But instead, the mother stood, towering over her child, and slapped her hard — a harsh, resounding blow that echoed through the silence. The baby recoiled, yelped, and slid backwards, eyes full of fear and longing. I gasped, frozen — I couldn’t look away.
Then the mother sat down, turning her back to the baby, as if the child no longer existed. The baby squeaked, pleading again, but the mother buried her face away. The forest, once a place of beauty and calm, felt cold and cruel in that moment.
I snapped a photo — not to shame, but to remember. And I kept staring, churned by guilt and sorrow: how could a creature meant to nurture reject its own child so violently?
As I stood there, I thought back to stories I’d heard: of baby macaques being taken from their families, forced into cruel “pet‑monkey” lives for social‑media clicks, stripped of their freedom, dignity, and basic care. The heartbreak in that baby’s eyes reminded me of every one of those lost souls.
Eventually, another adult monkey wandering nearby was offered some mango by a passing tourist. The mother leapt — but not for the baby. She bolted for the fruit. The baby watched in silence, its small belly rumbling, but no rescue came.
I left without looking back. On the walk home, the jungle grew darker, the shadows deeper — and the memory of that hungry baby haunted me. I couldn’t shake her grief.
That night, I couldn’t sleep. I thought about the countless baby monkeys hidden from our view — victims of neglect, cruel training, exploitation. I thought: if this baby could speak, what would she tell us? That hunger doesn’t always mean food — sometimes it means rejection, pain, and abandonment.
I share this because I don’t want her story to end there. I don’t want this to be just another video, another shocking clip on my feed. I want her story to stir compassion. I want those who watch to feel — to care.
If you see videos like this, think about more than just “clicks.” Think about what kind of world we live in — where even a mother’s love can turn cold under the weight of fear, survival, and exploitation. If this reaches you, maybe it will stay with you. And maybe, just maybe, we’ll decide to care.
