I still remember the thunder roaring overhead that night, the kind that shakes the treetops and sets every bird silent. Heavy rain flooded the narrow forest paths near Angkor — sheets of water pouring down, hammering the moss-covered stones of ancient ruins, turning the ground into a slick, muddy trap. I had been visiting the woods to document wildlife when I stumbled on something I’ll never forget: four small monkeys, shivering, huddled beneath the scant shelter of a crumbling temple arch, hair plastered to their bodies, eyes wide with fear and exhaustion.
These weren’t the confident forest macaques who had grown used to tourists tossing bananas — these were the abandoned ones. Once kept as pets, perhaps mistreated or simply discarded, they had been dumped here, left to fend for themselves. I don’t know how long they’d been alone. I don’t know whether they’d ever known the comfort of a stable troop. But I know that as the rain poured, they clung together, trembling, as if afraid the world might wash them away.
I crouched down a few meters away, holding my breath so the echo of thunder wouldn’t alert them. I could just make out their faces: a young mother wrapping her arms protectively around a tiny baby, two juveniles — one curled tightly into the other, trying to offer warmth, the other scanning the forest with wide, frightened eyes, as if searching for a mother who would never come. Their cries were soft — not cries for food, but cries of fear and confusion: “Are we safe? Do we belong?”
The storm raged for hours. I stayed — not close enough to interfere, but close enough to bear witness. I watched as the rain poured, then slowed, then returned. I watched as the youngest monkey slipped from the mother’s arms, paws splayed, body trembling. The mother reached out, but the current of her own fear kept her from moving. A jagged lightning bolt split the sky, and the forest seemed to hold its breath.
And then — a miracle. A shaft of light broke through the rainclouds, filtering down through the broken temple roof, landing on a dry ledge. I saw one of the juveniles slip away from the group, creeping silently through the wet undergrowth, as if drawn by instinct toward hope. After a tense minute, the others followed — mother, baby, sibling — trembling but moving slowly, carefully. They reached the ledge, and huddled together, soaking but alive.
I closed my notebook, not wanting to interrupt their fragile peace. That night, I left with a heavy heart — but also with hope. Hope that maybe, just maybe, these four fragile souls would make it. That maybe they’d find a way, survive the jungle, find food, shelter, and maybe even acceptance.
When I think of them now, I picture them waiting for the next rain. Not with fear, but with resilience. Because even when all seems lost — love, family, protection — there is still hope, still warmth to be found in each other.
