Witnessed in the quiet hours of dawn at Angkor Wat…
The sky hadn’t yet turned blue—only a gentle rose shimmer crowned the ancient towers. As I stood at the forest edge, camera in hand and heart open to nature, I heard it: a soft, cracked sound. Not a bird, not a frog, but a cry that seemed almost human in its ache.
I followed it.
There, beneath a knotted banyan root, was a baby pig-tailed macaque. She couldn’t have been more than a few weeks old. Tiny limbs trembling. Her eyes wide, wet, and darting. Her fur still puffed like newborn down. She clung to a twisted vine like it was the only thing keeping her world together.
She wasn’t playing.
She was begging.
Each squeak from her throat was a plea. A call not for fun, not for attention—but for milk.
And just a few feet away, her mother sat. Strong. Beautiful. But distant. She stared out toward the deeper forest, barely glancing back.
The baby crawled to her, slowly, every step shaky. She reached her mother’s chest. She rooted, desperate for a nipple.
The mother swatted her aside.
Once.
Twice.
The third time, she got up and walked away—leisurely, with not a single glance back.
I couldn’t breathe.
This wasn’t one of those heartwarming moments we come to Angkor to see. This wasn’t cuddling, bonding, or the sweet suckling of a newborn. It was rejection. Cold, unexplained rejection.
I looked around. The forest was alive, yet frozen. A male watched from above. Two elder females glanced but didn’t approach. The baby sat, limbs spread awkwardly, then folded herself slowly onto the ground.
She whimpered—tiny, breathless hiccups of pain.
I felt the ache deep in my own chest.
There was no drama. No attack. Just something somehow worse: being ignored. Being so small, so hungry, and having no one to turn to.
I wanted to pick her up. To feed her. To do something.
But I knew better. I was not her mother. I was not part of this wild rhythm. Still, I stayed. I crouched nearby. I whispered. I let her know someone saw her. Someone heard her pain.
And then, as the sun rose higher, something shifted.
An older female—the baby’s aunt, perhaps—stepped near. She didn’t feed her. But she sat close. She let the baby lean into her side. A soft, low grumble hummed from her throat.
Comfort. Not milk—but presence.
And the baby—finally—stopped crying.