opinion__
Grenada changes
the nature of conflict
Not since the Cuban Missile Crisis in 1962 have the "Super
powers” — the United States and the Soviet Union — been so
eyeball-to-eyeball as they are now over the invasion in Grenada.
Neither have blinked.
The number of "buffer" third world countries appear to be
diminishing and it may herald a new, more ominous, era of U.S.
and Soviet relations.
A "buffer" country is one where U.S. and Soviet influences
are removed by enough distance as to not come in direct
conflict.
An example is U.S. influence in El Salvador and Honduras.
These countries are fighting with Nicaragua under the auspices
of the United States. Nicaragua is resisting with the blessing and
aid of the Soviets through their minion Cuba.
In Central America U.S. advisers don't exchange gunfire
with Cuban or Soviet advisers. Not that it hasn't occurred — or
may occur in the future. But, at present, the "Superpowers"
have small countries do their sniping.
As these "buffer" countries grow more scarce the incidence
of direct U.S. and Soviet conflict increases. This is not diplomatic
conflict — the veritable war of words — which has waxed and
waned over discernible instances, but still has maintained a
modicum of consistency. This is armed conflict, the last resort
when words fail.
The U.S. invasion of Grenada, the presence of Soviet techni
cians and subsequent armed resistance by more than 600
Cubans on the island, is an inkling of the direct conflicts of the
future. The U.S. Army Rangers and U.S. Marines invading the
tiny Caribbean island came under fire from the Grenadians and
the Cubans.
The Cuban resistance was understandably belligerent.
Cuban Premier Fidal Castro, by telling the Cubans to never sur
render, all but asked them to fight to the death.
By Thursday, what has come to be called the battle of
Grenada (which must place it in the annals of warfare
underneath the Falklands war) was nearing an end. In
Washington U.S. military sources were saying only small
pockets of resistance remained.
Those pockets of resistance were gaining more in the pro
paganda war than in the ground war. "At the end, a group of six
comrades, embracing our flag... sacrificed themselves for the
motherland," a Cuban news agency said.
Rhetoric such as this is frightening, and reminiscent of Ger
man chauvanism of the late 1930s.
The Soviets have been icy and almost silent. Predictably they
called the U.S. invasion an act of aggression and demanded an
immediate withdrawal of U.S. troops.
The Soviet statement echoes almost word for word the state
ment issued by the Carter administration when the Soviets in
vaded Afghanistan.
But Grenada is different — the tiny island might just ignite
that spark to explode that metaphoric powder keg on which our
world is said to balance.
Grenada is not the only fuse dangling above the match. If we
may reiterate a note from an earlier editorial: "The situation in
Grenada must be placed alongside the situation in Central
America. There are U.S. military personnel in Honduras and El
Salvador." Add to this the U.S. Marines in Lebanon and you'll
get the distinct impression the Reagan administration is fighting
wars on three (and possibly more) fronts.
Are the Soviets any different? Probably not.
The circumstances of the past few weeks have shocked,
angered, grieved and bewildered most of us. Only a few people
would accept their prejudiced stances and knee-jerk responses.
The events have nearly overwhelmed us.
A blanket condemnation from a pacifist standpoint is all too
pat and simple. We could fall right or left and editorialize yea or
nay — but what understanding of the events would that achieve?
Deep down we feel the military events have been running
away from any sort of logical reason. And like many people we
have become less certain of where we as a nation are heading.
What is certain is the interests of the "Superpowers" are getting
closer and closer, eyeball-to-eyeball. Let's hope someone blinks
and starts talking again.
Oregon doily _ .
emerald
The Oregon Daily Emerald n published Monday through Fri
day except during exam week and vac at tom. by the Oregon Daily
Emerald Publishing Co., at the University ot Oregon. Eugene. O*.
*7«3
The Emerald operates independently ol the University with
office* on the third Door ol the frb Memorial Union and I* a
member ol the Assoc iated Press
UkKtt
ukim
UMH1
UMMI
Ukllll
Editor
Managing Editor
Nrws Editor
A»nlinl Nmi Editor
Editorial Page Editor
Photo Editor
Sport* Editor
Sideline* Editor
Intertainmenl Editor
Assistant Entertainment Editor
Night Editor
AmocM* Edlton
Higher Education
Department* and School*
Student Government
feature*
Politic*
< i immunity
General Staff
Advertising Manage!
Classified Advertiung
Production Managei
> ( ontroder
Debbie Howlelt
Sandy |ohn*tone
Frank Shaw
Bienda Thornton
Cort Fernald
Dave Kao
Doug levy
|ohn Healy
Angela Allen Morgan
Kim Carlson
. Sandy |ohn*lone
Doug Nash
Melissa Martin
|im Moore
loan Herman
Brook* Darrtl
Mu heir Malassa
Darlene Gore
SaBy Oliar
Vk Iona Koch
lean Ownbey
Strangers on a strange campus
When the late singer/songwriter )im Morrison
purred out the words to his song "People are
Strange," Eugene couldn't have been too far from his
mind. In my four years here. I've become convinced
of that.
Some of the most bizarre characters I've ever
seen. I've seen here in Eugene. Most of them on this
campus.
without malice
harry esteve
Walking to a history class in Gilbert Hall two
years ago, my attention was drawn to a small but bur
ly fellow, sporting a mass of wild, furry hair and a rag
ged beard. His thick head of hair and his brisk gait
gave him a young look, but closer inspection reveal
ed deepening age lines, suggesting late forties,
possibly fifties.
What caught my glance was his somewhat
bizarre behavior. With each quick step, he stiffly
swung one arm out until it was exactly perpendicular
to his body, and then turned his wrist over. As he
abrubtly lowered that arm, the other shot out and the
wrist turned over in the same manner. In each fist he
gripped a miniature barbell, probably weighing
about five pounds.
I watched for a moment, deciding the chap was
simply practicing his morning martial arts ritual. Ex
cept later that day I saw the guy again, walking past
what used to be Burton's restaurant on 13th Avenue.
He was still doing his thing with the barbells, walking
at the same swift pace.
The next day I saw him again — still at it, only this
time sporting a Chesire-like grin. In fact I would
catch glimpses of him here and there for the rest of
the week. Every time he had his barbells and was in
the middle of his Kung-Fu march.
He grinned a lot, but I never heard him say
anything, which is in stark contrast to a surly
character who visited us three years ago.
It was late fall. I was crunching through the red
fallen oak leaves along Greek row on Alder Street,
when around a corner slouched a man with a bat
tered stocking cap pulled flat against his forehead.
He was talking, and as I was the only one around,
I assumed he was talking to me.
He wasn't. His monologue went something like
this "(Mild oath.) Get a job, pigs!" Then a string of
sentences muttered unintelligibly. Then: "(Crude
obscenity!) Try looking at reality, you (really scuzzy
obscenity)!”
He brushed past me indignantly, mouthing
something sordid. His eyes were wild and his
forehead had broken into a sweat on this relatively
chilly morning.
We were both headed to campus, so I was able to
observe unobtrusively for several minutes. Without
letup, and in his loudest baritone, the ill-tempered
man cursed the hordes of students passing between
classes.
His hands shot skyward, invoking the very gods
to look down with contempt on this mass of unthink
ing, unfeeling humanity — college students. "Do you
ever question why you're here? Do you ever realize
how worthless you really are?"
He never looked at anyone in particular, never
stopped at the EMU to preach his misanthropic
philosophy. He was content to wade among us in his
stocking cap, and his wild eyes, effusing his loathing
for our kind. He hung around for a week or two, and
I got the feeling he was beginning to like us in spite
of himself.
Speaking of stocking caps, I'm reminded of a tall
thin stranger who drifted about campus most of last
year. His distinguishing features were a thick wool
stocking cap that he wore over his eyes, and a hefty
overcoat that he wore indoors or out, regardless of
the ambient temperature. Whenever I saw him he
was looking at the ground, presumably because that
was all he could see.
What is it about this campus that attracts these
folks? Maybe it's the guaranteed audience. Maybe
it's the cheap snacks in the Fishbowl and the comfor
table couches in the EMU lounges.
My guess is that it's the hope we all feel at some
time during our time here — the hope tha^^^
somewhere among the faceless throng, one face wifl^^
come forward and reflect our own.
All this comes as a result of a gentleman I spied
Monday, this time as I was leaving an existentialist
literature class in Gilbert Hall. Striding down 13th
Avenue, past the stately columns of Johnson Hall,
under the turning oak trees outside Chapman, was a
balding man in a grey, three-piece wool suit.
As he walked, he pushed a toy duck along, using
a thin plastic rod. The duck was one of those tha^^
flapped along on rubber webfeet, and squawket^B
with each revolution. What piqued me was the look^^
on the man's face — concerned, perhaps even
distraught because he was in a hurry and his duck
wasn't waddling fast enough.
So I decided to write this column.
letters
Satire
I am writing in reference to a re
cent letter of mine that was
published on Oct. 26. Since the
letter was published, I have been
involved in some rather
disheartening confrontations
from other individuals over the
content of the letter. I would like
at this opportunity to clarify my in
tent in writing it.
Simply, my letter on the U.S. in
tervention in Lebanon was a satire
of our military involvement there.
In the original letter I submitted
that I had intentionally misspelled
the word "Lebanon" to read
"Lebanam." The changing of the
last three letters, I had hoped,
would have certain implications
(those being to resurrect
memories of Vietnam, or Nam, as
it was often called).
The Emerald editorial staff, in ac
cordance with their editing policy,
rewrote the word to read as
"Lebanon," "Lebanam" not being
an actual word. My purpose of
pointing this out is not to chastise
or denounce the Emerald. They
were within their bounds in
editing my letter. They felt my
satire was a little too subtle and
that many people would merely
interpret the misspelling as a typ
ing error.
I write this letter to make my
political standpoint clear to a
those uncertain of it. The letter
was a satire and not meant to be
interpreted for its literal content.
Personally, I see Lebanon as a hor
rible repeat performance of the
carnage seen 20 years ago in
Vietnam.
Kirk Carter
journalism
I love Uncle Sam,
love Uncle, Uncle Sam
Uncle, Uncle Sam,
Uncle-Uncle-Uncle