The forest had grown strangely quiet that morning. Just the rustling of leaves, the songs of cicadas, and the softest soundâtiny fingers rustling through the dry brush.
Thatâs when I saw her.
She was smaller than the others. Frailer. Her name, I later learned, was Baila. A baby monkey no more than a few weeks old, barely able to hold herself upright, yet somehow steady with purpose. The others had moved on. Left her behind. Whether by accident or intention, I couldnât say.
But Baila⌠she stayed.
She sat near a crumbling stone of Angkor Watâs ancient temple wall, right beneath a frangipani tree. The morning sun gently warmed her back, and beside her, someoneâperhaps a forest guide or touristâhad left behind a bundle of soft bananas and lotus seeds.
She Didnât Cry. She Chewed Softly.
Thereâs something almost unbearable about watching a baby try to pretend theyâre okay. Her eyes scanned every passing branch. Every rustle made her flinch, hoping maybeâjust maybeâsomeone was coming back for her. But no one did.
Still, Baila didnât wail.
Instead, she reached for the nearest snack and began nibbling like it was the most natural thing in the world. A performance of strength, or maybe a simple act of survival.
A Glimpse of Resilience in the Smallest Hands
Sheâd been abandoned. That was clear. But what struck me most wasnât the heartbreak of that truthâit was her grace through it. Each bite she took was slow, deliberate. As if she was telling herself: Iâm still here. I still matter.
When an older monkey from another group passed by, Baila looked upâbut didnât run toward them. She had already learned something that most of us take years to understand: Not everyone who looks like family is safe.
Instead, she curled around the snacks like they were her shield. Or maybe her comfort. A tiny survivor building peace, one nibble at a time.
The Forest Watched. And So Did I.
You could feel it, in the wind and the stillness. The forest wasnât ignoring her. It was holding its breath.
Somehow, this little girl had turned sorrow into stillness. She wasnât just survivingâshe was teaching us how to sit with loss, without letting it steal our softness.
She wasnât clinging to what sheâd lost. She was enjoying what she had.
