It was an unusually hot afternoon when I stumbled upon them—three tiny, frail creatures huddled together in the shade of a fallen banana tree on the outskirts of the forest preserve. Their eyes, large and sunken, spoke a silent plea that pierced deeper than words ever could. Barely more than babies, the monkeys were skeletal, their ribcages visible beneath matted fur. They looked like they hadn’t eaten in days.
I hadn’t planned on becoming a rescuer that day. I was volunteering with a local conservation group in Southeast Asia, helping to replant native trees and clean up after illegal logging activities. But fate had its own mission for me. One of the rangers called out, motioning me over to a bush near a trail. “There’s something here,” he said in a hushed voice, kneeling down. As I joined him, I saw them—shivering, exhausted, and scared.
Their mother, we assumed, had likely been killed or captured by poachers. This was not uncommon in regions where exotic pet trade and bushmeat markets still thrived, despite laws and ongoing conservation efforts. We didn’t have the luxury of time to speculate, though. These babies were on the brink of death. I looked into their eyes and knew I couldn’t walk away.
We carefully wrapped the babies in a soft towel the ranger had in his pack and rushed them to the field veterinary clinic about 40 minutes away. On the drive, I cradled one of them—he couldn’t have been older than four weeks. He tried to suckle my shirt, searching desperately for food or comfort. The other two clung together, too weak to make a sound. My heart ached with helplessness.
At the clinic, the veterinarian, Dr. Lin, took them in immediately. She administered glucose injections to stabilize their blood sugar and started them on a hydration protocol. “They’re severely malnourished,” she said, her expression grave. “We’ll do everything we can.”
That night, I couldn’t sleep. Their tiny faces haunted me. I had seen injured animals before, but never such helplessness. I made up my mind to stay with them as long as it took. I asked Dr. Lin if I could help care for them. She agreed, though she warned me: “They may not make it. Be prepared.”
I wasn’t prepared—not for the emotional toll, and not for how quickly I would come to love them. We named them Bitu, Lala, and Miko. Bitu, the smallest, was the fighter—always the first to reach for food, though often too weak to hold it. Lala, the most timid, clung to my arm whenever I entered the room. Miko, though sickly, showed surprising curiosity, peeking out from the blanket even during treatment sessions.
For the first week, our days were structured around feeding schedules, medications, and slow physical rehabilitation. I learned how to prepare a specialized milk formula, how to check for dehydration by pinching their skin, and how to stimulate their muscles with gentle massages. Every small improvement—an increase in appetite, a slight weight gain, a stronger grip—felt like a miracle.
But there were setbacks. On the fourth night, Bitu had a seizure. We thought we’d lose him. I held him through it, whispering to him as Dr. Lin administered medication. He pulled through, though weaker than before. The next morning, he wouldn’t eat. I cried silently in the storage room, overwhelmed by how fragile their lives were.
And yet, slowly, they began to recover. By the third week, they were playing, albeit clumsily. Lala chased after a stuffed toy we made out of an old sock. Miko climbed onto my shoulder one morning and refused to come down. Bitu, against all odds, started gaining weight. His energy returned, and with it, his feisty personality. He had a way of swatting away the bottle when he felt he’d had enough, then demanding it back moments later.
Every moment of progress felt like a small victory against the injustices that had befallen them. They had been born into a world that hadn’t been kind to them, but here, in this little corner of the forest clinic, we were giving them a fighting chance.
Over the next two months, their health stabilized. They grew furrier, stronger, and more active. They even began to show signs of natural behavior—grooming each other, climbing on branches, and communicating with soft vocalizations. Dr. Lin said they were ready for the next phase: relocation to a rehabilitation enclosure deeper in the preserve, where they’d learn to survive in the wild again.
The day we moved them was bittersweet. I had grown deeply attached to them. Each one had a personality I had come to cherish. Saying goodbye was like letting go of a part of myself. But I knew this was the goal from the beginning—not to keep them, but to free them.
The rehabilitation enclosure was a large, semi-wild habitat where the monkeys could develop the skills they’d need to survive on their own. They were introduced to other rescued juveniles, and monitored by wildlife staff around the clock. I visited a few times, though I was advised to limit human interaction. The ultimate goal was rewilding, and too much human contact could hinder their adaptation.
Months later, I received news that Bitu, Lala, and Miko had been successfully released into a protected part of the forest. They had made it. Against all odds, they had survived.
Looking back, rescuing those three poor, hungry baby monkeys was the most heart-wrenching experience of my life. The emotional highs and lows, the nights of worry, the moments of joy—it all felt like a blur now. But it was also deeply rewarding. I didn’t just save three animals; I helped restore a small part of what had been broken in this world.
They taught me resilience, empathy, and the extraordinary power of compassion. I may never see them again, but I carry their story with me every day. And I know that somewhere in that vast green forest, three monkeys are living wild and free—and that, to me, makes it all worth it.
