As many Friends know, Norman Morrison, my husband, gave his life in public witness against the Vietnam War through self-immolation at the Pentagon on November 2, 1965. Through desperate action in extremis, his life spoke.
For months preceding his death, Norman had become increasingly active in his opposition to the developing war. He wrote letters to his representatives, helped plan peace conferences, and lobbied in Washington, D.C. For several years we had been withholding whatever “war tax” we owed from our IRS returns.
Norman was agonized by the U.S. military’s senseless and immoral killing of Vietnamese civilians: old men, women, and children. Our country was destroying villages, people, and an ancient culture. He was also apprehensive that China or Russia might come into the war on the side of North Vietnam, making a “little” war into the “Big One,” a war to end civilization and the world as we knew it.
Norman was raised in Erie, Pa., as a Presbyterian. He graduated in history and education from the College of Wooster, Ohio, and earned a theological degree at Western Theological Seminary (Presbyterian) in Pittsburgh, Pa., in 1959. A pacifist by persuasion, he began his association with the Religious Society of Friends at Wooster. At about the same time, while a student at Duke University, I became active in Durham (N.C.) Meeting. We were married under the care of Durham Meeting in 1957. After a year of study in Edinburgh, Scotland, we joined Pittsburgh (Pa.) Meeting in 1959.
At the time ofhis death at 31, Norman was executive secretary for Stony Run Meeting in Baltimore, Md., a position he had held since 1962. We had transferred our membership to that meeting from Charlotte, N.C., where Norman and I had helped establish Charlotte Meeting.
Perhaps more than most people, Norman relied on internal guidance, which he sometimes was convinced was the Inner Light. On the day of his death, without warning, he felt moved or instructed to take the action he did. Because of a cold, he was at home from work. Although we were together during most of the day, he kept to himself the guidance he felt he had received.
While I was away fetching our older children, Ben and Christina, from Friends School, Norman took Emily, our one-year-old daughter, with him to the Pentagon. She was with her father up to the end, when he released her physically unscathed. One way to view Emily’s horrifying proximity to danger was as a symbol of those many Vietnamese children who were the innocent victims, even targets, of that war. Another way is to sense how important it was for Norman to hold onto life—a child he loved dearly—right up to the end of his life.
Naturally, my life and the lives of our children were severely impacted by the loss of Norman and the nature of his sacrifice. A great weight came down upon us, creating a Before and an After in our lives. Over the ensuing years we have suffered greatly, and still suffer to this day. However, as we are now more fully able to face this tragedy with honest emotions and sharing, we are gradually becoming healed.
Countless people, including Friends near and far, were deeply affected by Norman’s sacrifice. Some were moved to act to end the war and to work for peace. I received many letters witnessing to this, including ones from overseas and Vietnam. The expressions of sympathy, encouragement, and inspiration gave me strength to meet the many challenges I faced in the wake of Norman’s death. Virtually all of my friends stood by me, and without them I could not have made it. I am eternally grateful for this.
In Vietnam, Norman became a kind of folk hero. The Vietnamese wrote poems and songs about him, named a street after him, and issued a commemorative stamp in his honor. I think his sacrifice communicated a great measure of love and respect for the Vietnamese people. Self-immolation was accepted in the Vietnamese Buddhist tradition.
Over the 30 years that have passed since his death, I have from time to time received additional evidence of the impact Norman’s protest had on the lives and consciousness of individuals, including then Secretary of Defense Robert S. McNamara. Norman’s immolation took place only about 40 feet from McNamara’s office at the Pentagon. I have no idea if Norman knew of this proximity.
More recently, in his memoir, In Retrospect: The Tragedy and Lessons of Vietnam, McNamara talks about the impact Norman’s action had on him and his family. I am grateful for his honest and courageous reassessment of the Vietnam War and his admission that it was a tragic mistake.
After all this time, even with my intimate knowledge of who he was, Norman’s death, if not indeed his life, remains to some extent in the realm of mystery to me. Spiritual devotion, a fierce commitment to peace, faithfulness to his inner vision, desperation, and a passionate desire to make his life worthwhile-all these were parts of who Norman Morrison was. They are also components of his self-sacrifice. But the unique, complex whole of his final moment was and is greater than the sum of all the parts. I feel sure it was indeed inspired and also, finally, ineffable.
To determine if you are experiencing symptoms of a mental health condition, visit Mental Health America at mhascreening.org for a free, anonymous, and confidential test. And if you are in crisis, call or text the Suicide and Crisis Lifeline at 988.