Two observers who happened to be in Uruzgan when two Dutch soldiers died recently share today’s column: a civil representative (civrep) and a humanist counsellor. Together they attempt to put in to words what the recent deaths of Kevin and Mark meant to them…

If I have to die,
If it really has to be,
Then ask me, Ask me:
“What did you think?”

I have lived, I have cried,
I have laughed, I have fought,
I have loved,
I love it all.

I have done a lot,
I still have much to do,
I stumbled,
I learn from it.

I live life to the full,
Using all my strength
If I have to die,
If it really has to be,
I ask you all:
“What did you think?"

This is a poem I wrote two years ago – before I left for Uruzgan as a humanist counsellor. I actually wrote it after a colleague asked me the following question: “And, what do you think about your own death?"

Wham. I said nothing for a while, just remained silent, and then wrote this poem. I remember waking up in the middle of the night, at around 4 am, the first sentences already formulated in my mind.

Because this is what I think.
“If it really has to be”…
And “what do you think of my life?”

To me that is mostly the essence.
When I hold a farewell ceremony for a colleague who has died, I want to make sure it is about the person who has died. And I want to ask their colleagues, buddies, friends, “What do you think?”

I want to know how you look at life, what you do, who you are  - most preferably during your lifetime than after your death. But sometimes I only find these things out after death. Unfortunately, that is sometimes part of the job of being a spiritual counsellor.

One man, two men, Kevin and Mark, have died long before their time. It invariably touches every soldier, every citizen down here. Each person deals with bereavement in their own way. Bereavement, sorrow, anger: it needs to take on form, it needs to be expressed, which is what a farewell service is for. And also to give substance to the life of a deceased colleague.

I, as a humanist spiritual counsellor, together with my colleague minister, provide a memorial service, a moment in which we stop the clock, so to speak, and seek ways to put into words, and express certain feelings. 

To describe, together with their buddies, someone’s personality, to find the time to talk about what they were like, how special this person, these persons were. 

Together with their buddies, we look for music, photographs, anything we can find to pay tribute to this human being. Literally, to give shape to your grief. Say what you want to say, while there is still time.

We meet, the civrep and I, at the farewell service. The counsellor as a speaker, the civrep together with the general as representatives of the entire Task Force Uruzgan (TFU). To take a moment to reflect on the life and death of two colleagues.

Ank van Harinxma
                                                                     ***

My umpteenth day of work as TFU civrep started out pretty good, but suddenly turned grim. Ominous reports about a gun battle and a roadside bomb started coming in. And then, suddenly, the brutal, irreversible words: killed, dead. At first without, later including a name. 

Immediate initiation of a black hole procedure (cutting all other communication with the Netherlands). Random bits of information about relatives and loved ones of the casualties. Reluctantly, I opened the vault. It contained an envelope marked: ‘How to act in case of the death of a compatriot’.

As diplomatic representative of the Kingdom of the Netherlands in Uruzgan, it fell upon me to draw up the so-called laissez-passers (travel documents for mortal remains) for Kevin and Mark. Their last travel documents, including full name, dates of birth and death, cause of death and flight plan. 

All of them apparently normal consular actions, but I felt intensely sad. All of a sudden, I was reminded of my nine-year-old daughter, who asked me one year ago: “Daddy, what kind of work do you do? So I told her that a true diplomat can reduce the relations between two countries to the relation between two people, which can be good or bad, a lasting friendship or filled with serious differences of opinion. The most important is that the relationship be sincere, you have to mean what you do and what you say. You have to wholeheartedly represent what you stand for, which is what Kevin and Mark did, in their own way.

The next day, at the memorial service, our faces were taut. The words spoken by Ank and the others had touched me deeply. The photographs and footage of Kevin and Mark shocked me. Two of our colleagues have made the ultimate sacrifice for this mission. 

My thoughts, and I assume everybody else’s, went out to the relatives and loved ones of Kevin and Mark. During the music I tried to put my own feelings into words. Initial dismay gave way to determination. Such a loss should not be in vain. I thought to myself determinedly: “I will work even harder to turn this mission into a success”. I heard others express similar thoughts after the service and the funeral on the air strip.

Photographs of Kevin and Mark have been put up in the office I share with the general. They will not be forgotten, just like we will never forget any of the 21 soldiers who died in Afghanistan.

Michel Rentenaar

Michel Rentenaar is the civil leader of Task Force Uruzgan and director of the Provincial Reconstruction Team in Uruzgan. He writes a regular column for Radio Netherlands Worldwide.