protests were nothing new.
The procession reached the intersection in front of the Cambodian
embassy and stopped, blocking all cross traffic. The group of monks fanned
out into a semi-circle around the turquoise car, silently staring and waiting.
Three monks got out of the car. One placed a cushion on the street, at the
center of the intersection. The second monk, an older man named Thich
Quang Duc, walked to the cushion, sat down in the lotus position, closed his
eyes, and began to meditate.
The third monk from the car opened the trunk and took out a five-gallon
canister of gasoline, carried it over to where Quang Duc was sitting, and
dumped the gasoline over his head, covering the old man in fuel. People
covered their mouths. Some covered their faces as their eyes began to water at
the fumes. An eerie silence fell over the busy city intersection. Passersby
stopped walking. Police forgot what they were doing. There was a thickness
in the air. Something important was about to happen. Everyone waited.
With gasoline-soaked robes and an expressionless face, Quang Duc
recited a short prayer, reached out, slowly picked up a match, and without
breaking his lotus position or opening his eyes, struck it on the asphalt and set
himself on fire.
Instantly, a wall of flames rose around him. His body became engulfed.
His robe disintegrated. His skin turned black. A repulsive odor filled the air, a
mixture of burnt flesh and fuel and smoke. Wails and screams erupted
throughout the crowd. Many fell to their knees, or lost their balance entirely.
Most were just stunned, shocked and immobilized by what was occurring.