Angkor Wat Forest – A Witness’s True Words
In the quiet shade of Angkor’s ancient trees, time seemed to slow—until a heart-wrenching scene played out before my eyes.
I was standing near the temple ruins, watching a small troop of monkeys forage in the brush. That’s when I noticed her—a tiny baby monkey, coated in thick, gray plaster on her back and side. She looked barely a few weeks old, struggling just to move, her tiny limbs stiff and heavy with the hardened material. She wasn’t just sick or weak—she was stuck in her own body.
But even more painful than the sight of her injuries was what followed.
She saw her mother a few feet away and let out a broken cry—a faint, raspy sound, unlike the clear, sharp calls of a healthy infant. She scrambled toward her mom, dragging her stiffened legs and tiny plaster-coated arm, and clung to the mother’s fur with everything she had left.
Her mother paused.
There was a moment—just one—where she looked back at the baby. I thought… maybe, just maybe… she would take her back, carry her to safety, groom her wounds.
But no. The mother tried to shake the baby off. Gently at first—like brushing off a fly. But when that failed, she pulled. Again and again. The baby cried louder, her whimpers piercing through the jungle stillness. Yet her mother’s instincts had faded under pressure—perhaps from troop rejection, or the smell of the plaster, or the weight she could no longer bear.
I couldn’t hold back my tears.
She was just trying to hold onto her world—her only anchor in a frightening, broken body. And her world was pulling away.
Nearby monkeys watched. One large male moved closer and growled low, as if warning the mother to drop her burden and move on. The pressure was clear. The group had no place for the sick or slow.
Eventually, the baby lost her grip.
She fell—not hard, but hard enough. She curled into herself, the plaster cracking faintly, one hand weakly reaching out toward her mother’s fading form.
I wanted to intervene. I truly did. But I’d learned from experience—the wrong move could cause the whole troop to scatter, or worse, provoke an attack.
Instead, I stayed close, silently praying someone would come who could help. Maybe a kind local who had fed them before. Maybe a rescue team. Maybe fate.
For now, though, the little plaster baby monkey lay in the dust under the ancient Angkor sky—abandoned, aching, but still alive.
Still hoping.
Still clinging.