For a half-dozen years, Iran-contra has haunted American political life. The ghost arose anew on Christmas Eve, thanks to President Bush’s pardons, and it is fated to reappear one day soon when Lawrence Walsh, the independent counsel, releases his final report.
A spectator of the culture wars writes: For a while there, Bob Dole had me worried.
Hypocrisy may be the mother’s milk of politics, but there are occasions — the controversy now being manufactured in Congress over “secret” Iranian arms shipments to Bosnia is one — when the glass runs over.
That excellence equals beauty was taken for granted by the Greeks, fathers of the Olympiad, and Hassiba Boulmerka embodies the equation’s power.
You can do anything with a bayonet, Napoleon is said to have observed, except sit on it.
How can it be that America is on the verge of invading a country already burdened by catastrophe? What does it take to get killed here?
For besiegers of cities, a child is an especially lucrative target. If the aim is to sow terror among those holding out behind the walls, how better to do it than by murdering children?
American fighter planes in the skies over Sarajevo. To the survivors in the ruined city below, the planes are a familiar sight.
Heading up into the mountains of Morazán, in the bright, clear air near the Honduran border, you cross the Torola River, the wooden slats of the one-lane bridge clattering beneath your wheels, and enter what was the fiercest of El Salvador’s zonas rojas…
Late on a breezy afternoon, Father Jean-Bertrand Aristide, the elected president of the Republic of Haiti, descended from his limousine on Capitol Hill and, accompanied by his entourage of Haitian aides and American lawyers, made his way slowly into the Capitol to meeting room S-116, where a group of senators and staff assistants awaited him.
On a sunny Columbus Day afternoon, Father Jean-Bertrand Aristide, president of the Republic of Haiti, walked slowly down the steps of the Georgetown house in which he has made his home for much of the last two years, and faced a restless crowd of reporters and photographers.
On a sweltering morning in Port-au-Prince, in July of 1915, a party of gentlemen attired in black morning coats, striped pants, and bowler hats strolled past the wrought-iron gates and around the courtyard of the elegant mansion that housed the French legation and pushed through a side door.