In the soft shadow of Angkor Wat’s ancient trees, where time seems to fold into itself, a tiny life continues to fight for joy.
Her name is BELY.
She’s a baby monkey whose energy should be endless, whose little hands should be full of games and giggles. But lately, something’s not quite right.
I noticed it the moment I returned to my usual spot under the tamarind tree. BELY was slower. Her steps, uncertain. Her little tail didn’t flick like it used to, and her tiny eyes, once sparkling with wild mischief, now looked a little too tired for her age.
Yet she was there—chasing a falling leaf, tugging gently at her friend’s tail, nudging her nose into her mama’s belly. She was still trying.
I crouched near the stone wall, camera steady in hand, watching this little heartbeat of the jungle with growing concern. Her mama, JANA, hovered close—much closer than usual. Monkeys are intuitive, and JANA’s behavior told a story words couldn’t. She wasn’t letting BELY climb too high or wander too far. She’d pull her back gently, groom her forehead longer, and hold her a little tighter at nightfall.
BELY still smiled in her monkey way, her hands reaching out to a sibling, sharing food she could barely eat herself. I saw her crawl up to a younger baby who had been crying, stroke its back, then lie beside it until it calmed. Even now, even in her weakness, she was a comfort to others.
That’s when it hit me—this tiny baby, no more than a few months old, was giving love as if she had all the time in the world.
But we knew. Something deeper was going on.
Some locals murmured about a sickness, maybe an infection she got after a fall weeks ago. Others said they saw her eating something bad. No one could say for sure. But the signs were there—lethargy, occasional shivers, moments where she’d sit perfectly still, as if waiting for strength to return.
And still, she played.
Still, she loved.
Still, she tried.
That night, I stayed longer in the forest. I watched JANA settle her baby in the crook of a fig tree. BELY curled into her mama’s arms like a wilted flower being cradled by sunlight. And when another baby approached, whining in hunger, BELY weakly reached out and offered her half-eaten fruit.
I cried. Right there in the shadows of ruins older than memory, I wiped my eyes with the sleeve of my shirt and whispered, “Please stay, BELY. Please get better.”
She reminded me of the children I’ve seen in hospitals—sick, small, uncertain—but always ready to laugh, to hold your hand, to love. Her spirit is bigger than her body. Her soul, far older than her days.
I don’t know what the next week holds for BELY. Maybe medicine will find her through one of the caretakers. Maybe her mama’s milk and love will be enough. Maybe nature will choose differently.
But I do know this—she’s already shown us something powerful:
That even in weakness, love doesn’t fade.
That even when something’s wrong… joy still shines.
That one tiny monkey in the middle of an ancient Cambodian jungle can break thousands of hearts—and maybe, somehow, mend them too.
So tonight, if you’re reading this from across the sea—maybe from your living room, maybe at work—send BELY a quiet hope. Whisper strength into the trees. Because somewhere, a baby monkey is still trying. Still loving.
Still holding on.