The humid morning air clung to my skin as I wandered deeper into the Angkor Wat forest. The usual chatter of macaques was missing—eerie silence had replaced the jungle’s usual energy. Then, faintly, I heard it. A low, gurgled whimper, almost like someone trying to cry through clenched teeth. I followed the sound.
That’s when I saw her.
Perched under a low fig tree, trembling, her small frame heaved with every breath. At first, I thought she had just injured her lip… but as I stepped closer, my heart dropped. A sharp metal fishhook was embedded in the side of her mouth. The fine nylon fishing line trailed from her lip to a tree branch, caught and twisted like a cruel trap.
She wasn’t just hurt—she was stuck, snagged by something made for another world. Her tiny hands tried to pull it free, but every tug sent a shiver of agony through her. Blood stained her fur. Her eyes were filled with something that no wild creature should ever have to feel: fear, confusion… betrayal.
She had likely been playing near the riverbanks, as curious monkeys often do. Maybe she was hungry. Maybe she was just exploring. But someone had left behind their discarded fishing line, and it had caught more than just water life—it had caught innocence.
I wanted to help her.
But wild monkeys don’t trust humans easily—especially one in pain. She darted when I got too close, but she couldn’t run far. The line yanked her back hard, throwing her down with a whimper. It was heart-wrenching to witness.
I sat down slowly, staying still. Minutes passed. Then an hour. Other monkeys started to gather in the trees above, watching. But none came down to help. Not even her mother, who I later learned had been driven away by territorial fights weeks ago. This little one was alone.
And she was losing strength.
Eventually, I called a local wildlife volunteer who happened to be nearby. Together, we carefully approached her. The moment the man snipped the fishing line, the monkey let out a cry—sharp, raw, but somehow relieved. The hook was deep, and removing it would be delicate and painful.
But it was her only chance.
They carried her in a cloth sack, gently, and took her to a small rescue station near the edge of the park. She needed treatment, but most of all, she needed time—to heal, to learn to trust again, and maybe even to smile.
We named her Nima, meaning “little jewel.” Because despite the pain she endured, there was something deeply precious about her spirit. She didn’t fight the ones who helped her. She just waited, patiently, for the pain to stop.
And now, days later, I hear she’s recovering. Eating fruit. Grooming with the other young rescued monkeys. No more hook in her mouth. No more line pulling her back.
But I’ll never forget those eyes.
That day, the jungle reminded me: the smallest piece of human carelessness can destroy a world for an animal. But one act of kindness, one moment of courage to help—can save it.