In the golden stillness of Angkor Watâs early morning, the cries of the forest usually echo with playful chatter and rustling branches. But this morning⌠it was heartbreakingly quiet.
I had gone deeper into the old temple forest than I usually dared. I often come here to photograph the monkey troops that call this sacred ground home. But today, something pulled me further inâlike I was meant to witness something.
And then I saw him.
A tiny baby monkey, no more than a few weeks old, lying in the shadow of a worn tree root. He wasnât playing, wasnât even sitting. Just curled, almost lifeless. His breathing was shallow. His eyes blinked, but barely. And the sound he madeâif you could call it thatâwas no more than a whisper.
His nameâlater Iâd learnâwas Matos. A name whispered by another local who had seen the troop before. But now, the troop was gone, and Matos was alone.
It was clear what had happened. His mother hadnât been seen in days. Perhaps she was injured, or worse. Without her milk, Matos had no strength. No fight left. Not even the voice to cry for help. His mouth opened slightly, but no sound came. He simply lookedâinto the trees, or maybe into nothing at all.
I knelt beside him and carefully laid a piece of soft cloth from my backpack under his tiny body. I knew I couldnât feed him directlyâmonkeys need special careâbut I had a little water, soaked into a cotton cloth. I let him taste it.
His eyes fluttered. For a brief moment, he tried to suckle the cloth. His little fingers moved, trembling. It was a painful kind of hope.
I looked around for signs of his troop, especially for a female who might respond to his faint scent. But the forest was still. The ancient stones of Angkor stood witness, silently watching like they had for centuries.
And this tiny life, so fragile, was fighting a battle it shouldnât have to fight.
I stayed with him for what felt like hours. I wasnât sure what else to do. Other photographers came and went. Some took a quick snap and moved on. But this wasnât a photo-op. This was a soul hanging on by threads.
A local wildlife rescuer eventually responded to a call I made. When she arrived, she carefully cradled Matos, wrapping him in a warm towel and placing him in a safe pouch close to her body. “We’ll try goat milk with a dropper,” she said. “Itâs not ideal, but it might save him.”
I watched them disappear into the distance, and I wasnât sure if I would ever hear what happened to him. But I hopedâdesperatelyâthat Matos would feel warm again. That heâd drink. That heâd live.
And maybe one day, play under these ancient trees with a new family. Because no creature, not even the smallest, should suffer in silence without being seen.
