The early morning mist still clung to the ancient stones of Angkor Wat when the forest stirred with an unusual silence. Among the high trees, a faint cry echoed—soft, heart-wrenching, and unmistakably young. That cry belonged to newborn Santa, a fragile baby monkey only days old, clinging to a mossy branch and crying out for her mother, who lay not far beneath her… completely motionless.
Santa’s tiny fingers trembled as she held onto the branch that cradled her like a lonely cradle. Her eyes darted, her calls grew louder, shriller. There was no one else. No sibling to snuggle with. No aunt or cousin to offer warmth. Just the ancient tree—and the still body of her mother, Marisa, a young monkey herself who had fought harder than anyone could imagine just to give birth and survive.
I watched from a respectful distance, clutching my camera but unsure whether to capture the scene or simply cry. The truth was undeniable: Santa had been left too soon in a world too big.
Marisa, the exhausted mother, had been slowing down over the past day. She was malnourished. Her face showed signs of immense fatigue. After a long and painful birth the previous night, she simply didn’t have the strength to move—let alone climb back up to her baby.
Santa’s calls were not just cries of hunger. They were raw pleas from a soul too new to understand why the warm arms that once held her tight weren’t there anymore. The jungle, alive with bird calls and monkey chatter, seemed to go eerily quiet around her. Nature itself listened.
Suddenly, I saw movement. Not Marisa—but another female monkey cautiously approaching. She was from a neighboring group and paused, tilting her head as she heard Santa’s cries. My heart leaped. Would she help? Would Santa find another’s embrace?
But instinct prevailed. The monkey looked toward Marisa, then up at Santa… and moved on. In the wild, survival is rarely gentle.
Santa’s tiny body shook. She tried to descend the branch—legs slipping, belly pressed low, as though gravity itself wanted to pull her down to her mother. But she was too young. She barely had strength in her limbs. All she could do was cry louder. Every sound pierced the humid morning air like a whisper of sorrow.
I whispered under my breath, hoping Marisa would stir. That she would get up, inch toward her baby, and wrap her arms around her again. But the minutes passed. Santa’s cries slowed. Her energy was draining. The danger of predators was very real. I could barely breathe.
Then, a miracle.
Marisa stirred.
Her fingers twitched. Her tail flicked. Her head lifted—and her eyes found her baby.
It wasn’t much, but it was something. She blinked and tried to rise. Her body trembled like dry leaves in the wind. But she pulled herself to her feet—one hand, then another—and inched forward. A low grunt came from her throat as she locked eyes with Santa, who whimpered in relief.
Marisa reached the base of the tree and began to climb. Not fast. Not strong. But determined. Every branch creaked beneath her. Every motion was labored. I wanted to cheer—but I held my breath instead.
And finally… she reached her.
Marisa collapsed next to Santa and pulled her baby to her chest. Santa curled into her warmth with a faint sigh. No cries now. Just the peace of being held.
I turned off the camera and wiped away a tear. In that moment, nothing else mattered.
This was love. The kind that doesn’t require words. The kind that pushes past pain, past hunger, past the brink of death—just to be there for someone who needs you.