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Vietnam: Lotus in a Sea of Fire
by Thích Nhất Hạnh
There have been many writers, philosophers, and thinkers who’ve influenced my worldview, but none have had a more profound impact on me than Thich Nhat Hanh.
I first encountered Thay’s work nearly 30 years ago through Living Buddha, Living Christ. It came into my life during a time of deep personal change. The lessons were gentle, clear, and simple—yet profoundly effective. His Buddhist teachings proved durable through the changing seasons of my life. Years later, I devoted a full year to reading only his words. Once again, the experience had a marked effect. Not long after I completed that year of reading, Thay passed on.
My father was a United States Marine and a veteran of the Vietnam conflict. I grew up hearing stories of his time as a combat engineer—not tales of glory, but of pain and the anger it left behind. That anger shaped me, too, and led to struggles of my own. It’s a kind of poetic irony, then, that the voice that would ultimately bring healing to my own anguish was that of a young Buddhist exile who had also been shaped by that same war.
Though Thay often referenced his work as a peace activist during the Vietnam War, I had never sought out his writings from that specific period—until now. Vietnam: Lotus in a Sea of Fire felt like a missing piece in the bridge between my own understanding of the war and my father’s experience of it. It provided new planks—ones strong enough to carry the weight of memory, grief, and transformation.
This is one of Thay’s earliest works, and it presents a perspective I had never encountered. Rather than focusing on the binary of the United States versus North Vietnam—or communism versus democracy—this book speaks of people. Villages. Real suffering. Thay bears witness with an honest, unflinching clarity, condemning both sides for their ambitions and offering a clear, compassionate path that might have ended the war and spared countless lives.
This was a different voice from the Thay I first met. By the time I encountered him through his books, the war was long over. Yet reading this early work allowed me to hear the echoes of its pain, and to better understand the tenderness that defined the rest of his life. Once again, I found myself in awe of how someone shaped by so much horror could become such a powerful force for peace.
Thay often taught that we do not truly die—we only change form. We continue through our actions, our teachings, and the lives we touch. The war changed my father, and he changed me. The war changed Thay, and he changed me. I think of that often, especially when I feel that old, inherited rage rise in my chest, ready to spark a metaphorical war over something meaningless. In those moments, if I can pause, breathe, and hold that anger with compassion, I know that I am embodying what Thay taught. And in doing so, a part of my father’s pain is healed.
Should you read this book—a book about a war long past, from a voice that mattered then?
Yes. Especially now. I believe Vietnam: Lotus in a Sea of Fire holds deep relevance for today’s world. I would recommend it to anyone in a position of power—anyone willing to send troops into harm’s way in a foreign land. This book offers not just a historical perspective, but a deeply human one. One that could provide the pause we need to prevent great humanitarian tragedies before they begin.
I first encountered Thay’s work nearly 30 years ago through Living Buddha, Living Christ. It came into my life during a time of deep personal change. The lessons were gentle, clear, and simple—yet profoundly effective. His Buddhist teachings proved durable through the changing seasons of my life. Years later, I devoted a full year to reading only his words. Once again, the experience had a marked effect. Not long after I completed that year of reading, Thay passed on.
My father was a United States Marine and a veteran of the Vietnam conflict. I grew up hearing stories of his time as a combat engineer—not tales of glory, but of pain and the anger it left behind. That anger shaped me, too, and led to struggles of my own. It’s a kind of poetic irony, then, that the voice that would ultimately bring healing to my own anguish was that of a young Buddhist exile who had also been shaped by that same war.
Though Thay often referenced his work as a peace activist during the Vietnam War, I had never sought out his writings from that specific period—until now. Vietnam: Lotus in a Sea of Fire felt like a missing piece in the bridge between my own understanding of the war and my father’s experience of it. It provided new planks—ones strong enough to carry the weight of memory, grief, and transformation.
This is one of Thay’s earliest works, and it presents a perspective I had never encountered. Rather than focusing on the binary of the United States versus North Vietnam—or communism versus democracy—this book speaks of people. Villages. Real suffering. Thay bears witness with an honest, unflinching clarity, condemning both sides for their ambitions and offering a clear, compassionate path that might have ended the war and spared countless lives.
This was a different voice from the Thay I first met. By the time I encountered him through his books, the war was long over. Yet reading this early work allowed me to hear the echoes of its pain, and to better understand the tenderness that defined the rest of his life. Once again, I found myself in awe of how someone shaped by so much horror could become such a powerful force for peace.
Thay often taught that we do not truly die—we only change form. We continue through our actions, our teachings, and the lives we touch. The war changed my father, and he changed me. The war changed Thay, and he changed me. I think of that often, especially when I feel that old, inherited rage rise in my chest, ready to spark a metaphorical war over something meaningless. In those moments, if I can pause, breathe, and hold that anger with compassion, I know that I am embodying what Thay taught. And in doing so, a part of my father’s pain is healed.
Should you read this book—a book about a war long past, from a voice that mattered then?
Yes. Especially now. I believe Vietnam: Lotus in a Sea of Fire holds deep relevance for today’s world. I would recommend it to anyone in a position of power—anyone willing to send troops into harm’s way in a foreign land. This book offers not just a historical perspective, but a deeply human one. One that could provide the pause we need to prevent great humanitarian tragedies before they begin.