Whispers drift through the jungle at dawn, and that’s when I saw them—a family of macaques weaving through stone columns, their eyes reflecting the first pale rays of light.
They moved like ghosts across the moss—but when they gathered, it was as though time itself paused to watch. A mother groomed her child’s fur, an adolescent clung close, shy and curious. Watching them, I felt the pulse of life in this place lay not in its grandeur, but in its living stories.
I thought of laws and viral videos, of content creators chasing views without seeing the soul behind each frame. The monkeys—treated as props, abused, or fed for photos—deserve more. I thought of the passionate efforts of activists and local authorities trying to protect them Here, I chose silence. I didn’t offer bananas or cameras. I simply watched, as a human and a witness. The family, unaware of my presence, showed me a truth: that connection, quiet and unforced, feels like home—even when you’re far, far from it.
I left that day changed. I realized the world often asks us to capture and post, but perhaps our greatest tribute is to protect.
