Deep in the shaded ruins of Angkor Wat, a heartbreaking scene quietly unfolded—one that would leave a mark on anyone who happened to witness it.
The baby monkey, no more than a few days old, lay on the dusty forest floor, her tiny limbs twitching with confusion. Her cries were soft, high-pitched, and barely audible above the rustling leaves. But if you listened closely, they sounded like a plea—a desperate question: Why am I alone?
Just a few feet away, her mother sat crouched beneath a banyan tree, busily devouring a piece of stolen fruit. Her focus was locked on every juicy bite. Around her, other monkeys fought for scraps, but she didn’t seem to care about them—or her baby.
I watched in disbelief.
The newborn’s body was still red with fragile skin, her umbilical cord freshly healed. Every movement was a struggle, and yet she tried—again and again—to lift her head, searching for warmth, for safety, for the familiar comfort of her mother’s fur.
But there was none.
She squeaked, rolled slightly to her side, and reached a trembling hand toward the only figure that mattered—her mother. Yet the mother didn’t glance back. Not even once.
This wasn’t just a monkey—it was a child. And this wasn’t just neglect—it was emotional abandonment in its rawest form.
I could hear some tourists murmuring behind me, unsure of what to do. A child nearby whispered, “Mom, is she going to die?” The question made my chest ache. I wanted to answer, to promise her that no, this baby would be okay… but I couldn’t.
Because I didn’t know.
Was the mother overwhelmed? Sick? Had she already given up on her baby? Or had survival instincts overtaken maternal love?
Some in the monkey troop had stopped and stared. A few young females made soft chirps as they passed the helpless newborn. One even reached out gently with her fingers—then retreated, afraid of the dominant mother nearby.
And then it happened.
The baby tried to cry louder. Her tiny body arched as she tried to crawl toward the mother—but her strength failed her. She collapsed, face-first into the dust.
Still, no one came.
For a moment, time stood still. The weight of the moment pressed into my chest like a stone. Was this it? Was I really watching a baby slowly fade away?
Then—finally—the mother looked up.
A sliver of recognition passed through her eyes. She glanced toward her baby, her jaw still working on the last of the fruit. She hesitated.
My breath caught.
She stood up.
Hope surged inside me as she slowly walked over. But just as she reached the baby’s side… she picked up a nearby leaf and started licking the residue from it—again ignoring her child.
Tears welled in my eyes. Not because I expected animals to behave like humans—but because I believed, like so many of us do, that motherhood is universal. That love runs deeper than hunger. That instinct would protect the most vulnerable.
And here, in this moment… it didn’t.
But the story didn’t end there.
A few minutes later, another older female monkey approached. She gently nudged the baby with her foot, then looked toward the mother. A silent communication seemed to pass between them. Finally, the mother sighed, turned around, and—perhaps out of guilt, or pressure—reached down and pulled her baby into her arms.
The baby squealed with joy and latched on tightly, burying her face in her mother’s chest as if nothing had happened.
It was a bittersweet ending to a painful scene.
But the memory remains. A newborn’s cry. A mother’s absence. And the quiet hope that even the smallest love can find its way back home.