I remember the heavy stillness in the forest that morning, just before the chaos. A faint breeze rustled the ancient trees that towered beside the Angkor Wat temple. Birds chirped gently overhead, and the distant echo of chanting tourists faded as I stood quietly, observing a small monkey family not far from the moss-covered steps.
There was Joyce, the elder sister, a clever and sensitive young monkey with the eyes of an old soul. She had always been the watcher—the one who kept her baby sister, Jacee, close and safe. Jacee was tiny, maybe only a few weeks old, still clinging to anyone with trembling fingers and big, wide eyes.
But this time, something was wrong. Jovi, a mischievous male monkey around Joyce’s age, decided it was a good idea to teach little Jacee how to climb. Maybe he meant well. Maybe he wanted her to be stronger. But his idea of teaching was rough—too rough for a baby so fragile.
I held my breath as I saw Jovi yank at Jacee’s tiny arms, trying to drag her up the hard, jagged temple steps. Her little legs scrambled but couldn’t grip. She whined, scared, and her cry pierced right through the jungle air. That’s when Joyce appeared—fast, fierce, and desperate.
She ran toward them, her eyes wide with fear and fury. She grabbed Jacee away and held her protectively to her chest. But it was more than protection. It was heartbreak. Joyce’s tiny shoulders trembled. Her face showed something hauntingly human—a mix of betrayal and grief.
She stared at Jovi, confused, almost asking, “Why would you hurt her?”
Jovi backed away, not understanding. His tail twitched as if unsure whether he had done something fun or terrible. The moment stretched on. The jungle went quiet.
Joyce rocked baby Jacee gently, even though her own heart was clearly racing. Her fingers stroked the baby’s back. She wasn’t just an older sibling at that moment—she was a mother, a protector, a friend.
It was strange. In a place so ancient, where kings once ruled and monks still walk, I had just witnessed one of the most deeply human emotions I’ve ever seen—raw sisterly love.
I stayed still, letting the camera on my lap record what my heart couldn’t explain. These monkeys weren’t wild animals to me anymore. They were a family. A real one.
Later, Joyce sat by the roots of a banyan tree, Jacee still nestled safely in her arms. Jovi watched from a distance. He didn’t come close again.
Some say monkeys live in the moment, without memory or meaning. But I don’t believe that—not after what I saw. Joyce will never forget that morning. And neither will I.