Letter from Sandy

Op 20 oktober 1966 schreef Luitenant Marion Lee “Sandy” Kempner een brief aan zijn tante. Temidden van de woestenij van Vietnam beschrijft hij een onverwacht moment van schoonheid. Een moment dat hem doet stilstaan bij de zin van het bestaan. Ik kan hier veel over schrijven, maar de brief spreekt in alle eenvoud geheel voor zichzelf. Op 11 november 1966, nog geen maand na het schrijven van deze brief, werd Sandy gedood door granaatscherven van een geëxplodeerde mijn. Hij werd 24 jaar.

Dear Aunt Fannie,

This morning, my platoon and I were finishing up a three day
patrol. Struggling over steep hills covered with hedgerows, trees, and generally impenetrable jungle, one of my men turned to me and pointed a hand, filled with cuts and scratches, at a rather distinguished looking plant with soft red flowers waving gayly in the downpour (which had been going on ever since the patrol began), and said, “That is the first plant I have seen today which didn’t have thorns on it.” I immediately thought of you.

The plant and the hill upon which it grew, was also representative of Viet Nam. It is a country of thorns and cuts, of guns and marauding, of little hope and of great failure, yet in the midst of it all, a beautiful thought, gesture, and even person can arise among it waving bravely at the death that pours down upon it. Some day this hill will be burned by napalm, and the red flower will crackle up and die among the thorns. So what was the use of it living and being a beauty among the beasts, if it must, in the end, die because of them, and with them? This is a question which is answered by Gertrude Stein’s “A rose is a rose is a rose.” You are what you are, what you are. Whether you believe in God, fate, or the crumb- ling cookie, elements are so mixed in a being that make him what he is; his salvation from the thorns around him lies in the fact that he existed at all, in his very own personality.

There once was a time when the Jewish idea of heaven and hell was the thoughts and opinions people had of you after you died. But what if the plant was on an isolated hill and was never seen by anyone: that is like the question of whether the falling tree makes a sound in the forest primeval when no one is there to hear it: it makes a sound, and the plant was beautiful and the thought was kind; and the person was humane, and distinguished, and brave, not merely because other people recognized it as such, but because it is, and it is, and it is. Beauty, they say, is only skin-deep, but true beauty emanates from the soul where it might not be recognized, seen, or appreciated as readily, but nevertheless is there, even more than the skin-deep variety.

The flower will always live in the memory of a tired, wet Marine, and has thus achieved a sort of immortality; but even if we had never gone on that hill, it would still be a distinguished, soft, red, thornless flower growing among the cutting, scratching plants, and that in itself is its own reward.

Love, Sandy

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