I was there. Just past the edge of the sacred Angkor Wat ruins, where the forest hums with life and whispers of the past echo through the banyan trees, I saw something unforgettable.
Her name is Bely.
A tiny baby monkey, no bigger than two cupped hands, with bright brown eyes and the tiniest fingers you’ve ever seen. She shouldn’t have been anywhere near that high up. But she was. Clinging—no, gripping—onto a narrow, rusted piece of fence that overlooked a steep, slippery drop where the jungle falls away.
It all happened so fast.
Bely had been following her older sibling, climbing and playing like the little adventurer she is. Her mother, wary but distracted, had been foraging nearby. One moment Bely was squealing with joy; the next, the bark she was hanging from gave way. In a flash, she tumbled toward the edge.
Gasps came from the few of us nearby. I dropped my bag. My heart leapt into my throat.
But she caught it.
Her fingers—delicate but unbelievably strong—latched onto the edge of the fence like her life depended on it. Because it did. That little body dangled in mid-air, legs swinging wildly as gravity tugged her downward.
She didn’t cry.
She didn’t whimper.
She just held on.
Bely’s tiny arms trembled as her grip started to loosen. I remember hearing the distant cry of her mother, who had just realized what was happening. I watched, breath frozen, as the mother monkey bolted toward her baby, leaping across vines and tree trunks in desperate panic.
There was something so human in that moment. A baby in danger, a mother rushing to save her child. It didn’t matter that they were monkeys. It didn’t matter that this was the jungle and not a city street.
Pain… fear… love—it felt the same.
When the mother reached Bely, she didn’t scold her. She didn’t hesitate. She grabbed her daughter, pulled her close, and cradled her like a newborn. Bely buried her tiny face into her mom’s chest, shaking, panting, alive.
We all exhaled.
It was quiet for a moment, except for the sounds of the jungle. The cicadas droned. A bird called in the distance. And little Bely clung even tighter to her mom.
I’ve seen bravery before—in soldiers, in survivors, in strangers helping strangers—but this… this was raw courage. In a baby no older than a few weeks.
Later that day, I couldn’t stop replaying the moment in my head. It made me think about how fragile life is. How we’re all just hanging on sometimes—by a thread, by a fence, by hope.
And how sometimes, even the smallest ones show us the strongest grip.
So here’s to Bely.
To her wild spirit.
To her tiny hands that refused to let go.
And to the reminder that even in the heart of a jungle, life’s most powerful stories can unfold—if we’re lucky enough to witness them.