It was just past dawn in the forest near Angkor Wat — the humid Cambodian air still tinged with coolness, shafts of soft sunlight filtering through ancient trees whose roots had for centuries whispered secrets to one another. I had arrived early, hoping to capture the quiet magic of the morning: temple stones half-shrouded in mist, the distant calls of temple birds, and — if I was lucky — glimpses of the macaques that call this place home.
I had only just settled beneath a broad banyan when I heard a soft rustle nearby. At first I thought it might be a falling leaf — but then I saw them. A mother macaque, her fur shimmering in golden light, moving slowly through the forest floor, her eyes alert, her posture calm but wary. And clinging to her chest — a tiny, fragile baby monkey, its eyes closed, its little limbs wrapped tight around her as though the world beyond didn’t exist.
I froze. My heart pounded. It was one of those quiet, sacred moments you feel you don’t deserve to witness — as if the forest had allowed me to see something deeply private, something pure. The mother moved with the certainty of someone who carried centuries of instinct; the baby, meanwhile, seemed to have no fear except losing the warmth of her mother’s body.
I raised my camera — but not too boldly. I wanted to record, yes, but I also wanted to respect. I wanted to give space. And as I watched, I realized I wasn’t just watching two monkeys: I was watching love, vulnerability, trust. In that gentle morning light, the world felt suspended. The ancient stones of Angkor, silent witnesses to empires rising and falling, felt alive again — humbled by this tiny act of mothering.
At one point, the baby shifted — stretching a little, opening its eyes as though waking from a half dream. It let out a tiny squeak, then nestled again, burying its face against the mother’s fur. The mother stopped, sat on a patch of warm earth, closed her eyes for a moment, and exhaled gently, as if savouring the weight of her child. A soft breeze stirred the leaves overhead; somewhere far off, a bird called. The only sound louder than the forest was the rhythm of a heartbeat — my own — echoing in the silence.
I thought of all the tourists I had read about — drawn by temples, by history, by the ruins. Few would hear a baby monkey’s first breath here; fewer still would feel the hush, the reverence. Yet this — this tiny cling, in a forest older than many nations — felt more sacred than any carved stone.
I bowed my head, respectfully. I didn’t touch, feed, or call. I simply watched. The mother shifted again, rose delicately, and started to move, the baby safe in her arms. Together, they vanished into a column of trees, as though swallowed by the forest itself — leaving behind only memory, only the faint stir of leaves behind us.
Sitting back, I felt tears. Not sad tears — but thankful ones. Thankful I had been there. Thankful for life. Thankful for the unspoken bond between a mother and her child, in a world that often forgets how simple, how powerful, love can be.
Watching them disappear, I realized this — this moment — is what I came here to find. Not the tourist spectacle. Not the ruins. But the living, breathing wildness of Angkor — fragile, sacred, and whole.
May this tiny monkey, her mother, and all their troop know: you are loved. You are seen. Your cling matters.
