Peace momentum
Rabin’s death leaves Peres a heavy torch
lett&i... from the
Value of sisterhood
transcends stench
When Israeli Prime Minister
Yitzhak Rabin was tragically assassi
nated on Saturday, some commenta
tors suggested that the long road to
peace had hit a dead end.
Unquestionably, this incident is
an enormous emotional setback for
Israelis, but throwing in the towel
now would be the one thing Rabin
would not want to happen.
In addition, an end to the peace
process would mean a victory for
the assassin.
These two factors, we can only
hope, will unite most Israelis, propel
them to support acting Prime
Minister Shimon Peres and encour
age their leadership to proceed with
Israeli-Palestinian dialogue.
This places a huge burden on
Peres, as he takes the wheel of
government and demonstrates that
one lunatic cannot slam the brakes
on three years of work.
ror many, supporting reres
efforts to continue Rabin’s achieve
ments will be difficult, for it goes
against fundamental principles
harbored by the right-wing Likud
Party.
The peace process does not
represent progress for those Jews
who believe that Judea/Sumaria and
the Gaza Strip belong exclusively to
Israel.
In these fragile times, however,
any increased domestic antagonism
would probably destroy the Israel i
Palestinian dialogue and re-ignite
the intifada.
The Arabic term intifada—
literally translated as “Palestinian
uprising”—was one of the key
factors that contributed to Rabin’s
Labor Party victory in 1992.
It had come to symbolize the
antagonistic status quo and many
Israelis wanted a change for the
better.
They got what was promised to
them.
Rabin almost immediately
declared an end to Ariel Sharon’s
What’s the greatest nation on
Earth? ProcrastiNATION.
Well, maybe not the greatest, but
probably the most populous.
I am among the minions of that
ever-expanding nation, and I have
been as long as I can remember.
Ever since I was a child, I’ve
been perpetually late. Late for
school, late for supper, late for just
about everything. And I don’t really
know why.
Somewhere, early in life, I must
have mixed up a couple old adages:
Tardiness is next to godliness
(isn’t that how it goes?) and; Never
put off till tomorrow what you can
put off until the day after tomorrow.
In spite of my long-standing
belief in these misinterpreted
adages, I eventually came to
understand that procrastination is
generally not a good thing.
Life’s overlooked and postponed
duties, like neglected dogs, have the
annoying tendency to pounce
unexpectedly and bite one squarely
in the unwittingly exposed buttocks.
Grades suffer. So do relation
ships. Loans. Utilities. Credit
ratings.
But still the great nation of
Procrasti continues to gain citizens
— and to retain even its most elder
statesmen (and women).
Telling someone to stop procras
tinating is like telling someone to
stop smoking. We know it’s bad for
us, but we do it anyway. The only
way we’ll quit is when we really,
REALLY want to.
I keep telling myself I want to
quit putting things off, but my heart
just isn’t in it.
I still exhibit a myriad of
procrastinatorial tendencies.
It takes me half an hour to make
Minute Rice, for example.
I cannot recall ever having seen
the first five minutes of a movie
winding, bumpy and sometimes
hazardous one.
Its biggest hazard is Islamic
terrorist groups who blow up buses
and buildings with suicide bombers.
It must be understood that there
is absolutely no connection between
the Palestinians who were involved
in the intifada and Islamic funda
mentalists, such as the Hezbullah.
The irrational Hamas is plainly
anti-Israel and is just as irked at
Arafat as they are at the Israelis.
They want no dialogue whatso
ever, ardently believe in the concept
of jihad, or holy war, and see
themselves as martyrs if they die for
the sake of Allah in killing Arabs or
Jews involved in the peace process.
Israeli-Palestinian dialogue or
not, the Hezbullah and groups like
it, will not disappear anytime soon.
But again, a few nuts should not
be permitted to stop the momentum
of peace.
If the majority of Israelis firmly
throw their weight behind Peres,
view Arafat skeptically but with an
open mind and have faith that the
peace process can yield desirable
results, Rabin’s legacy will be one
of greatness.
However, not supporting Peres
and slamming the door on hopes of
a just and lasting peace will be like
stepping back 10 years in time.
In 1981, when Anwar el-Sadat
was assassinated in the wake of the
Camp David Peace Accords, Hosni
Mubarak stepped right in, pledged
to continue Sadat’s forward march
toward peace and earned the support
of many Egyptians who had not
supported Sadat’s efforts.
If Israelis use the Egyptian model
as a positive lesson of history, they
will firmly support Peres and make
sure the peace process continues
right where Rabin left off.
Feldman is a senior international af
fairs major and a Dally Nebraskan colum
nist.
Nell Feldman
They got what was
promised to them. ”
housing crusade, which sought to
develop largely Palestinian areas in
the occupied territories with Jewish
housing projects,
Sharon’s efforts, the Labor Party
reasoned, were only adding fuel to a
proliferating inferno.
Rabin then dove into a genuine
effort to establish accord with the
Palestinians.
This climaxed with the signing of
the Declaration of Principles and the
famous September 1993 handshake
on the White House lawn between
Rabin and Palestinian Liberation
Organization Chairman Yassir
Arafat.
Clinging to the past, exemplified
by Likud, is no longer a peace
oriented and realistic position to
take.
Remember the Shamir years?
Stones. Molotov cocktails.
Bombs exploding regularly on busy
street comers.
This is precisely what Rabin
worked so hard to eliminate.
Israelis who did not support Rabin,
viz. those of Likud, should recall the
tumultuous 80s and early 90s and
imagine a status quo Middle East that
continues on a similar path.
The road toward peace has been
— and will continue to be — a
Better late...
Tackling procrastination starts— tomorrow
another day, after all).
And deep down, I feel guilty.
I think of all the classes I’ve
missed, of all the popcorn I never
had time to buy at the movies or of
all the columns I had to write at 3
o’clock in the morning (don’t tell
me you haven’t noticed).
But still, the procrastination
continues.
I’m convinced it’s genetic.
My parents are generally fairly
punctual, so I guess I can’t pin it on
them, but thanks to the wonderful
discovery of recessive genes, I can
feel free to pass the blame off on
just about any of my ancestors.
Perhaps my great-great-great-great
great grandfather, at whose name I
could only guess.
Somewhere, among all the
players who had a hand in the
structure of my good old double
helix, lies the answer. Generations
ago, perhaps back in the Old
Country, a relative of mine was a
laggard, a guy who was never on
time for anything—and liked it.
That has to be the case.
All I know is, it’s not my fault.
Even so, I’m going to break the
vicious cycle of lateness and
procrastination. I will overcome
nature’s predetermination of my
punctuality. I will rise up and say,
“I WILL show up early! I WILL
read ahead for my classes! I WILL
wash the dishes and have clean
underwear ready at all times! This
I pledge to myself and those
around me!”
Yes, by golly, I’m going to
change my wicked ways. I’m going
to put an end to my awful addiction
to the devil’s tool we call procrasti
nation.
I’ll start tomorrow.
Peters Is a graduate student of Journal
ism and a Dally Nebraskan columnist
Doug Peters
“Generations ago,
perhaps back in the Old
Country, a relative of
mine was a laggard, a
guy who was never on
time for anything —
and liked it. ”
(even when I rent a tape, go figure).
I often stay up until 4 a.m.
watching infomercials for no other
reason than to postpone going to
sleep. In the morning, I pummel the
snooze button to postpone waking
up.
I watch the piles of laundry
spread out across my apartment,
taking up most of the very little
usable space I call my home.
Usually, I consider that a good
thing, because the dirty clothes
cover the floor, which I didn’t quite
get around to vacuuming this, uh,
year.
Then one day, the underwear
drawer is empty, and I rush franti
cally to do one load of laundry so
my mother will not be embarrassed
if I get in an accident. That, or I go
out and buy some new skivvies
instead (the laundry can wait until
Adria Chilcote
A vulgar burp ripples through
the air; out of habit I instantly
hold my breath in preparation for
the inevitable blast of rank breath
blown into my face.
My sister laughs as I push her
away out of disgust and frustra
tion; no matter how many times I
express my detest of this ritual,
she feels it must continue. I think
her motto must be “a burp not
blown into Adria’s face is a
wasted burp indeed.”
This burp blowing isn’t the
extent of our relationship,
however. She also has a delightful
habit of leering over me, saliva
and phlegm brimming on her lips,
threatening to spew. Believe me,
she has no shortage of phlegm.
She is constantly sniffing and
sucking her snot into her throat,
then hawking her loogie to
whatever place available. The
ground, the kitchen sink, the
toilet, out an open window, on the
tile floor for our dog to lick up.
Her excess of phlegm and snot
isn’t her fault, though, so I
shouldn’t blame her for it. She
has to take care of it somehow.
By spitting it instead of blowing it
she saves all the money, and
forests, that would be spent on
her would-be vast supply of
Kleenex.
Another thing about my sister
and bodily functions is that we
never shy away from informing
each other of the other’s body
odor. It’s great to know that
there’s always someone around
who will honestly inform you of
your stench, and you can tell
them, without fear of anyone
being the least bit offended.
I don’t want to give the
impression that my sister,
Melissa, is just a belching,
spitting, stinky slob. She is all of
that, but she is also much, much
more.
She is incredibly funny.
I remember years ago on
Sunday mornings in church with
my mother, Melissa and me —
mother in the middle because my
sister and I couldn’t contain
ourselves when seated beside
each other. We would try to make
the other laugh. It was a great
game because once we started
laughing, we couldn’t stop. And
once you try to stop, it’s even
worse.
She still makes me laugh. Just
being around her can put me in a
good mood, sometimes. Other
times, when I’m in a particularly
bad mood, I just want to rip her
silly little head off.
We usually understand each
BE OUR GUEST
The Daily Nebraskan will present a guest columnist each Monday.
Writers from the university and community are welcome.
Must have strong writing skills and something to say.
Contact Mark Baldridge c/o the Daily Nebraskan, 34 Nebraska
Union, 1400 R St., Lincoln, NE 68588.
Or by phone at (402)-472-1782.
7 don’t want to give
the impression that my
sister, Melissa, is just a
belching, spitting,
stinky slob. She is all of
that, but she is also
much, much more. ”
other, though. It’s amazing
sometimes how well Melissa and
I can communicate. I don’t know
what it is, but she just under
stands me better than other
people can.
I can say something to her and
she’ll understand what I’m trying
to say, but if I would try to say
the same thing to someone else,
they wouldn’t know what the
heck I was saying.
Sometimes we have entire
conversations consisting of only
grunts or just looks. They’re short
conversations, of course, but it’s
still pretty cool.
Maybe it’s because we’ve
been around each other so much.
I’ve known Melissa for all 15 and
a half years of her life. It’s the
longest friendship I’ve ever had.
She’s been a constant in my
life, even when we moved away
from the rest of my friends every
year or so while growing up.
She’s the only friend I’ve got
that came with a lifetime guaran
tee. She’s genetically bound to
me.
It’s not guaranteed that we be
comrades, or even to be on
speaking terms with each other.
But it is guaranteed that we will
remain connected through a string
of mutual relatives.
While other friends’ lives can
take them away to other places, to
eventually drift out of my life. I
know my sister will be there,
somewhere, always, for better or
for worse.
I’ve known other people with
sisters. Some of them are close,
but most of the sisters I’ve known
have radically different relation
ships from my sister and I.
I listen in disbelief to tales of
fights and name- calling. The
fights aren’t good-natured
roughhousing, either. These
people come away from fights
bruised and bloodied. And the
name-calling can border on
emotional abuse.
Maybe I’m too nice, or overly
sensitive, but I can’t imagine
telling my sister to her face that I
hate her, or to sling verbal insults
at her until she cries.
There are many different types
of sisters and relationships.
I know many people have
great ones. I happen to think that,
even with her burping and spitting
and stinking, I’ve got one of the
best, and I wouldn’t trade her for
anyone.
Chileote Is a freshman women’s stud
ies major and a Dally Nebraskan colum
nist.
