The jungle is never truly quiet… unless something is wrong.
This morning, as the sun rose slowly over the ancient temples of Angkor Wat, something felt different. The usual playful chirps, distant whoops, and rustling branches were oddly muted. I followed the soft murmurs of a troop near the roots of a twisted fig tree, and that’s when I saw her.
A baby monkey. Tiny, unmoving, curled in a trembling heap on the dirt. Her fragile body was covered in light dust, her chest rising in uneven, shallow breaths.
She was alone. No mother in sight.
My heart clenched. I’ve seen monkeys cry before—I’ve seen little ones cling to their mothers for safety, but this… this baby was in shock. Something had happened. Something terrible.
As I stepped a little closer, trying not to frighten her, her eyes blinked slowly at me. Weak. Lost. She didn’t try to run. She didn’t even flinch. That told me everything.
She had given up.
Behind me, I could hear whispers from other monkeys nearby. But none came forward. No mama monkey rushed to scoop her up. It was as if she had been cast out—or worse, her mother might not be alive.
The baby tried to move but collapsed again. Her limbs were trembling, and her breath hitched in her throat. I could see her ribs. She hadn’t eaten in a long while.
I sat down near her, trying to give her a sense of calm. She was scared, but she didn’t push me away. I gently reached into my bag and took out a soft cloth and a little bottle of warm milk. She didn’t respond at first. But then, just as I was about to give up, her tiny fingers wrapped around my wrist.
She looked straight into my eyes.
That moment… I will never forget it.
It wasn’t just survival I saw. It was a cry for love. For help. A whisper from a soul not ready to leave.
She drank slowly, almost forgetting how to suck. I cradled her in the cloth and watched her eyelids flutter. After a few minutes, she rested her tiny head on my lap and let out the softest sound—a sigh of relief.
But I knew this wasn’t the end of her struggle.
Later, a few older monkeys from the troop came down, sniffing at her with caution. One even nudged her cheek. Then I saw it—her mother, or what was left of her memory, was not coming back. This little one was on her own now.
I named her “Hope.”
Because even in the silence of a mourning jungle, even when she was too weak to stand—she still fought to stay alive.
That night, as the moonlight poured through the trees, I held her close. Her tiny chest now rose with more strength. She had a chance. And I would make sure she took it.
In the days that followed, I brought her daily milk, warm blankets, and gentle company. She began to regain her strength. Her eyes grew brighter. And one afternoon, she stood up—on her own.
The troop watched from a distance. I think they saw her spirit return. Some even began to accept her again, grooming her gently or sitting nearby as she napped.
She wasn’t just surviving now—she was healing.
And so was I.
In that quiet moment under the canopy, I realized that sometimes, when the forest falls silent, it’s not only tragedy that follows—but miracles too.
Hope taught me that.