AMSTERDAM - Chronic hunger may be "the defining human tragedy of this century," as climate change causes growing seasons to shift, crops to fail, and storms and droughts to ravage fields, an advocacy group said.

Oxfam International released a report Monday as leaders of the Group of Eight wealthiest nations prepare to meet in Italy this week, with an agenda to include both food security and climate change.

It says that as the weather changes, millions of people in areas suffering food scarcity will have to give up traditional crops, possibly leading to social upheavals such as mass migrations and possible conflict over water resources.

Rich countries in temperate climate zones, such as northern Europe and parts of the United States, will benefit from warmer weather and more rainfall, but far more people in hotter, poorer countries will face more erratic and expensive food supplies, said the British-based nonprofit group.

The report, "What Happened to the Seasons?" was meant to add urgency to the G-8 meeting and to a broader group of 17 countries, the Major Economies Forum, which convenes later in the week to try to unblock negotiations on a new climate change agreement due to be completed in December.

Oxfam said it prepared a study for the Institute of Development Studies by surveying farmers around the world, who report that changing seasonal patterns were already affecting their ability to plan the sowing and harvesting of crops. The results, it said, were "strikingly consistent across entire geographies. "

Rice farmers hit hardest
Farmers have begun changing their crops in the tropics, where a 1 degree Celsius (1.8 Fahrenheit) temperature shift can make traditional crops unsustainable. Unpredictable rainfall makes their choices of new crops a gamble, the report said.

Among the worst hit are nations that grow rice, the world's most common food. Yields are predicted to drop an average 10 percent for every 1 degree C rise in temperature in countries like the Philippines, where production could fall 50-70 percent as early as 2020. At the same time, China will grow more rice as the area of warm temperatures spreads, it said.

Corn is another staple that will be widely affected by climate change since it is particularly vulnerable to water stress, it said. Corn is the main source of food for 250 million people in east Africa and is used as animal feed around the world.

Negotiators at U.N. climate talks have been tasked with setting up an adaptation fund to help poor countries deal with the affects of climate change. U.N. estimates suggest as much as $200 billion a year may be needed by 2030 for developing water resources in increasingly arid regions, shifting agriculture to more suitable crops, building sea walls to protect coastal cities from rising sea levels and helping fishermen whose stocks would be affected by acidification of the ocean.

'Still enough land to feed everyone'
The Oxfam report said steps can be taken to bolster the world's food supply.

"The world's agricultural potential is less than 60 percent exploited: there is still enough land to feed everyone, even with population levels at the 9.2 billion currently predicted by the United Nations for 2050," it said. Modern agricultural methods, irrigation and fertilizers could dramatically lift yields.

More on: G-8 summit | Climate change

Appearing on CNN's Reliable Sources, CNN anchor Don Lemon emphatically defended the media's extensive coverage of Michael Jackson's death over the last two weeks. He argued that Jackson was an "accidental civil rights leader" and that critics of the coverage were "elitist."

Here's a bit of the transcript:

HOWARD KURTZ: Don't you feel deep down that this is overdoing it?

DON LEMON, CNN ANCHOR: No, I don't feel it's overdoing it. And I don't -- and when I hear people say that, I have to be very honest with you, Howie, I think it's elitist. I don't remember -- I'm sure there was some criticism when there was the coverage of Princess Diana's death, but I don't think that there was this sort of criticism that we're having with Michael Jackson.

Michael Jackson is an accidental civil rights leader, an accidental pioneer. He broke ground and barriers in so many different realms in artistry, in pictures, in movies, in music, you name it. So, no, I don't think it's overkill.

KURTZ: Okay. He did all of those things. He also was accused of child molestation, and was a seriously weird person. But he has been dead for more than a week and we are still going almost wall-to-wall.

LEMON: Well, he has been dead for more than a week, yes, but Michael Jackson twice -- well, once, I should say, he was acquitted of child molestation. The other time it was settled out of court.

KURTZ: Right.

LEMON: And if you talk to people who were involved in those cases, they don't believe that he did it. So let's put that aside.

The Pew Research Center released findings last week indicating that "nearly two-in-three Americans say news organizations gave too much coverage to the story. At the same time, half say the media struck the right balance between reporting on Jackson's musical legacy and the problems in his personal life."

Blacks followed the death of the African American singer - who had been on the national stage for four decades - more closely than the population as a whole. Eight-in-ten African Americans say they followed news about Jackson's death very closely, compared with 22% of whites. Women followed the story more closely than men (35% very closely compared with 26%). Close to four-in-ten (38%) of those under 40 say they followed the music icon's death very closely, compared with 27% of those between 40 and 64 and 20% of those 65 and older. [...]

About two-thirds of the public (64%) say news organizations gave too much attention to the death of the 50-year-old performer, who had been rehearsing for a major comeback tour. About three-in-ten (29%) say the coverage was the right amount. Only 3% say there had been too little coverage.

More on Michael Jackson

This is a photo of one of the formations in Red Rock Canyon on the west side of Las Vegas in the northwestern Mojave Desert. I live a couple of miles from the Canyon and often go there to enjoy the scenery and to cool off -- it is about 10º cooler there than in the less elevated parts of the Las Vegas Valley and, as it lacks the heat-holding concrete and human-made structures, those 10º are really noticeable.

The fact that Las Vegas has desert climate was certainly no surprise to me. I mean, it wasn't like I'd never been here before or that I was unaware that the desert is dry, hot, inhospitable to such flora as lilacs and hospitable to fauna that includes a variety of snakes and deadly insects. Of course I was aware of all that. And I was also aware -- and am constantly reminded -- of how beautiful the desert landscape is. The sky is that amazing blue that you see in movies. The colors are breathtaking. In fact, if you think Red Rock Canyon is spectacular, just take a ride to the northeast of Las Vegas and spend some time in the most aptly named Valley of Fire.

(And if you want to learn all about the local flora and fauna, be sure to visit the wonderful Springs Preserve where they have all sorts of exhibits and cultural events and -- because this is Las Vegas, after all, they also have a very nice, very moderately priced "cafeteria." That word is in quotes because it is a Wolfgang Puck-owned cafeteria so it features extraordinarily good food for a public institution.)

I arrived here at the tail end of winter and while was a much milder winter than I knew from the northeast, it did feature one element that came as a surprise. The wind. The first month I lived here the wind would awaken me at night, howling and roaring like I'd never heard. You can walk outside after a windy night and find your car covered with detritus from the trees. It was a new phenomenon, but one I easily got used to.

But the heat? Yeah, I'd heard stories. I'd also been one of those people who'd say to friends in Las Vegas, "You have heat, but you don't have humidity. We have humidity in the east."

Well, please, if you and I are discussing the heat in Las Vegas, don't say that. One moves to Las Vegas and, almost instantly, the skin gets dry, soaking up moisturizer like.....like....it's trying to survive in a desert. (Duh.)

(It's important to note the very serious fact that in Las Vegas, in the summer, many, many elderly people die from dehydration. I spoke to a dietitian once who said, "In this climate, never ask the elderly friend or relative you're visiting, 'Would you like a glass of water?' They don't want to be a bother, so they'll say no. "Always get the water and give it to them. Don't ask.")

Anyway, this year Las Vegas had one of its coolest Junes on record. It seems to be making up for it in July. Today the nearby thermostat read 105º even before the hottest part of the day -- late afternoon -- arrived.

What does it feel like? Some people say it's like being what they'd imagine being inside an oven would be like. At night, when the warm wind is blowing, I imagine it's like being inside a clothes dryer just when it's winding down and the clothes have dried. Not a drop of dampness, just the driest heat imaginable.

A true Las Vegan does not complain about the heat. A true Las Vegan goes swimming, plays golf, grills dinner and generally goes about his or her business as if it were only a temperate 95º outside.

I, however, as much as I love the scenery and as much as I enjoy being a resident here, am apparently not a "true" Las Vegan. I know this because when I said to a friend who's lived here five times longer than I have, "It was sooooo hot out today," she said, "Hot? This isn't hot. 'Hot' is at least 110º."

Oh.

The nation's largest insurers, hospitals and medical groups have hired more than 350 former government staff members and retired members of Congress in hopes of influencing their old bosses and colleagues, according to an analysis of lobbying disclosures and other records.

Sarah Palin, who's only served as Alaska's governor since 2006, resigned today, effective in a couple of weeks. She made the stunning announcement in a press conference where she sounded like cross between a high school basketball coach giving the team a half-time pep talk and Cheech & Chong after a particularly wop-wop-whizzly-do episode with some fine Colombian, north slope weed.

She was so unclear and evasive about the reasons for her resignation that I kept banging my car's dashboard thinking my radio was just giving off a lot of static. It didn't work. No matter how much I pounded on her, I couldn't get a straight answer. See if you can figure it out in this AP post.

Sarah Palin The Quitter. I think she said she quit because the media was too negative and she didn't want to waste millions of tax dollars to fight ethics investigations. But really, it doesn't matter. She quit. She gave up. She betrayed everybody who gave money, made phone calls, and invested all their energies into electing her. This is the legacy that Sarah Palin leaves behind:

Thanks, Sarah Palin for being a role model our daughters can look up to. Thanks for living up to the stereotype that women aren't tough enough to stick it out. Thanks for showing everybody that the best way to shoulder responsibility is to wiggle out of it. That when things aren't to your liking the best thing to do is run. And thank you especially for the reminder that quitting is a gift for the people you quit on.

Sarah Palin, Meet Hillary Clinton. She has a thing or two to teach you. Against all odds, Hillary never quit the presidential race until every note of the swan song played out. Weren't you listening when she said that she got up for every American that got hit and went down? Didn't you see her when she refused to wave the white flag you so furiously wave now? Has she taught you nothing? Let me repeat her mantra to you: Never give in; never give up.

Sarah, you're a sissy.

Why men relate to Governor Sanford More on Hillary Clinton

About six weeks ago, I went to a wonderful dinner party that a friend of mine was hosting in a restaurant in Hollywood. I arrived a little late and wound up seated at the far end of the table. At the opposite end was an actress I hugely admired. There aren't many famous people who make me nervous any more, but she is one of them. Shortly after we'd all placed our orders, I noticed that my favorite actress was waving at our end of the table. She mimed that she was going outside for a smoke and wanted to know if any of us wanted to go with her. I shot up out of my seat like my ass was on fire! Although, I'd actually quit smoking about eight years ago, the possibility of hanging out with her "one-on-one" was too good to miss. We scurried out of the door like two bad children.

After finding a secluded spot alongside the restaurant, we lit up. She was just as hilariously funny as I expected and was also wonderfully, surprisingly regular. Sort of like the kind of gal you'd meet in a bowling alley. I loved her. As we chatted, I did my best to look like I was enjoying the cigarette she'd loaned me. In truth, I was fighting off huge waves of nausea. With each drag I felt like I was licking the bottom of somebody's shoe, but I was determined to finish the damn thing so that I wouldn't come off as (a) impolite and (b) like a pussy who couldn't handle a single Marlboro Light.

Because I've never been particularly good at learning my lesson, I went out with her for a second smoke later during the dinner. This time, it was a little less disgusting, but I did find myself wondering how the hell I kept this ridiculous habit up for so many years. Then a few days later, I was sitting outdoors at a Starbucks, when I noticed that right next door, they sold what used to be my favorite brand of cigarettes. I suddenly remembered how much I used to enjoy a smoke with a cup of strong coffee. And that, my friends, is when the dirt crumbled beneath my feet and I slid into the abyss. Within a couple of weeks, I was smoking daily. One became two. Two became three. Three became eight. I had fallen for the biggest joke addicts ever play on themselves: That somehow, they can have "just one."

As you might have noticed, addiction is rather a big problem here in Hollywood. It seems like every other week, somebody is getting arrested or being carted off to rehab. Given how many addicts are in my family, I've (so far) been lucky to have never developed a problem with alcohol or hard drugs. I started smoking when I was fifteen simply because I'd fallen for a gorgeous "bad" girl who smoked like a chimney and it seemed like the easiest way to be near her. Plus, I (the geekiest of the geeks) had never really done anything "wrong" before. Now, I was breaking the rules and hanging out with kids who cut classes, didn't do their homework and refused to live up to their potential. I liked my new friends. I dug it when the principal expressed shock at my behavior. I liked pissing-off and disappointing my parents. I felt powerful and free.

Unfortunately, smoking didn't end in high school. It reappeared in college and stayed with me as I became a young man. Soon, I wasn't so young anymore (and still smoking). I spent ten years living with an alcoholic boyfriend and although I harbored an extremely low opinion of his addiction, I never paid any attention whatsoever to mine. After all, smokers didn't run their cars off the road. Smokers didn't slur their words and do embarrassing shit at parties. My behavior was a model of restraint compared to his.

I finally began taking the problem seriously about ten years ago when I started having anxiety attacks. Oddly, they only happened when I was in my car and only when I was smoking. Shortly after I lit up, my chest would tighten and I would be overcome with a desire to abandon my car - just leaving it sitting there in traffic -- and run. When I described this sequence of events to my therapist, she asked me what I was "doing" when I lit up. I was initially confused by her question, but she kept pressing it. Finally, I was able to articulate that when I lit a cigarette, it was because I was thinking or feeling something that I didn't particularly like. Smoking was literally an attempt to suck that unpleasant feeling down inside myself; so I could perhaps feel it at a more convenient time. My therapist looked at me sort of seriously and said. "Well, I don't think you can suck anything else down there. Apparently you're full." It was an awful moment, because I knew she was right. I started trying to quit. It took twelve attempts, but finally, I did it.

Addiction can strike anybody. If you don't already have a reason to feel sorry for yourself, addiction will happily provide you with one. That's its job. Show business is a life filled with rejections, large and small. And they never stop coming. The business expects you to keep a stiff upper lip, a smile on your face and a song in your heart. These weekly body slams are not supposed to get to you. You're just supposed to accept all the vagaries of this career; to remain philosophical and easy going about the emotional (and financial) rollercoaster you're on.

Most of the truly talented people I know invest a huge part of themselves into their work. I can still remember the first really big laugh I ever got. I was instantly hooked. From that second on, I was willing to do almost anything to repeat that experience. The geek was, in that moment, a hero. All the things I'd secretly longed for (popularity, power) were in my grasp. All I had to do was hang onto them. What I didn't (and couldn't) have known in that moment was that I'd also opened up an emotional wound in myself that would never quite heal. Smoking was always a nice intermission from all that grief. The problem developed when eventually there were so many intermissions that there was really no show anymore.

During the last few weeks, (as I hid out behind my house, puffing away) I began to suspect that this little adventure needed to come to an end (before I wound up with my old pack-a-day habit again). Then the penny dropped in a big way on Wednesday, when that lovely girl I was so in love with in high school passed away without warning. Her death wasn't smoking related, but it was another one of those cruel reminders of how unpredictable (and short) life can be. Yesterday, I tossed my American Spirits into the garbage and began the crappy experience of getting back to the business of living. This is day two. There have been a couple of times when I wanted to stab out my eyes, but having been down this road before, I feel relatively sure that in a day or two, I'll feel fine. It feels stupid to say that I miss smoking, but it did feel like an old friend -- Granted, a friend who was secretly plotting to kill me -- but a friend none-the-less. I've even felt a little weepy and nostalgic about it. I guess it's true -- Like the song goes: "When a lovely flame dies, smoke gets in your eyes."

Copyright 2008 Quitcher-Bitchyn Entertainment, Inc.

David Dean Bottrell is an actor ("Boston Legal") and screenwriter ("Kingdom Come") who writes a weekly blog about being strangely middle-class in Hollywood at www.partsandlabor.tv

You may have heard that last weekend, a throng of eaters waited in line at the Brooklyn Flea for two! hours! to score a lobster roll from the Red Hook Lobster Pound crew, who debuted their Flea stall that day. The whole scene was ugly, and nobody -- from the customers to the owners -- was happy. And the RHLP blog was atwitter all week long with apologies and promises to "streamline" the preparation process.

More on Food

We do know a little more than three million people have come out to enjoy the food fest over the past 10 days. And that number is down by about half a million from last year's attendance.

I was walking down a street in Venice, California a couple of days ago where no one seemed to have heard of the recession: People were strolling, window-shopping, occasionally buying, and they were eating ice cream, dropping into a beautiful little garden restaurant for tea, having an espresso at yet another place that insisted its espresso was better than anyone else's. They were stopping at a gleaming white truck with a gleaming white awning that was selling sushi, right there on the street.

There was nary a franchise in sight; those stores were on another street in nearby and slightly more staid Santa Monica, discounting their merchandise before it had settled onto the hanger, announcing a summer sale that seemed to overlap the spring sale, feeling ever so slightly overextended and hoping for the best.

When Clint Eastwood was the mayor of Carmel, California, the city banned franchises on its main street, and Carmel, like Ann Arbor, Michigan, became something of a living museum. Both cities celebrated the individual entrepreneur and held the chains at bay. You could strike up a conversation with a local purveyor of coffee, of ice cream, of all sorts of retail treats. Borders Books had an Ann Arbor outpost only because it was born there; the rest was local.

The little street in Venice isn't that pure - there's a Pinkberry adjacent to a gelateria - but on the day I was there, the indie ice cream maker had lots more customers.

We may be in for a rebirth of the Carmel/Ann Arbor spirit, on both sides of the cash register. Scrappy people seem to be turning up everywhere, figuring out how to work even though their previous rug has been pulled out from under them. From the woman selling mini-cupcakes out of a window-sized shop in Manhattan, to the folks with the sushi truck, lots of people are finding creative ways to keep afloat; one New York restaurant even has its own food cart parked right outside its door, to offer lower-priced dishes to people who might otherwise settle for a pre-made market salad. Makes all the sense in the world: If customers aren't prepared to pop for a sit-down meal, better to sell them something than to watch them walk on by.

And customers who might stride down franchise row without buying so much as a sock are finding out that shopping at local shops has its advantages, even if some of the inventory comes from who knows where. It was hard, at first, to figure out who the proprietor was in some of those Venice shops, because no one was wearing a tiny mike with which they could talk to the storeroom or standing behind a multiple-station check-out counter. It was much more old-school than that; it was about as much fun as spending money can be these days.

It is not a trend without consequence, as the warring food-truck drivers in midtown Manhattan have learned; more new food trucks plus a finite number of attractive parking spots yields turf wars that make the old battles between brick-and-mortar businesses and mobile retailers seem like a gentlemen's disagreement. As storefronts sit empty, the economy spills onto the street and forces us to confront the question of who has priority, a long-time purveyor of halal food with questionable personal and professional documentation, or a guy who lost his six-figure job and wants to sell gourmet desserts on the same block as the halal cart. And going into business for yourself is hardly a global solution, not when some people have trouble paying their utility bills.

But this is not a post about logistics, or zoning, or the history of black-market mobile food permits, or national strategy. This is a small nod to people who see life as a crossword puzzle to be solved: You look for clues to the new order, learn the vocabulary of the new environment, and figure out how to fill in all the blanks.

More on The Recession

I was reading my phone during the advertisements in Memphis theater July 4th when I heard the catchy line, "Chill, Don't Kill." Could it be? Really? Now we need ads cajoling us not to murder one another? I turned to my wife and she confirmed it. Yes, we had just seen an advertisement asking the people of Memphis not to kill one another. I missed the start of this work of art yesterday.

Brace yourself. It's on YouTube:

Chill, Don't Kill Video

What a message to see on Independence Day. Should we celebrate America's birth or ease it into oblivion? Does this band-aid have a chance?

I'm too familiar with a large number of attempted murders in one major American city, St. Louis, because I see the surviving patients that result. I treat their spinal cord injuries, brain injuries and polytraumas for several weeks, learning way more than I want to about the circumstances of their beatings and shootings. The stories are pointless and mind-numbing. There is no rationale or justification for the brutality. But can we replace innate morality with catch phrases like "Chill, Don't Kill?" If so, media is this atheist's new religion. But I fear it's an apocalyptic one.

Now remember boys and girls: Don't bust a cap. Take a nap.

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Sarah Palin has given us all a great gift, and her timing could not possibly have been better. On the eve of our independence day she officially declared her surrender in her imaginary war and set her country and her state free from her grasp. So many have speculated on the why, but one need only read the latest issue of Vanity Fair, perhaps the most timely piece of journalism in recent history, to understand why.

So it was no surprise that, during her clearly self-penned address on July 3 (there an editor in the house?), Palin didn't exactly come off like a strong leader bidding a contented farewell to his or her community after carrying out duty (she didn't). Nor did she resemble a defeated contender gracefully conceding the momentum of the victor (she wouldn't). She appeared more like a woman on the verge of a nervous breakdown.

In order to display such manic nervousness you have to have screwed up big time, like Governor Sanford or Senator Craig or Bill Clinton. And even they appeared calm and stately when they finally came before the press and sucked it up. But Palin didn't screw up badly, not even if you add up the unnumbered missteps that added up to her downfall. She just fell short of successfully being what the Republican party wanted her to be: an America's sweetheart who could charm the nation enough to put her in the White House and keep Americans' focus away from details (cause they don't really matter). Meanwhile, America seals its reputation in the world as a narcissistic empire with a bloated military budget that knows nothing about anything. Except sports. She couldn't deliver.

Once she came around to the point of her speech, it was clear that Palin had multiple motives for bringing herself to our attention. It wasn't merely to announce her resignation; that was the opening act. The headliner was her continuing mission to blame us for her misfortune; to be known as the victim of unfair treatment by the usual suspects in the mainstream media and the blogosphere. During the finale, she profoundly emphasized the grandeur of her self-defeating soap opera by labeling her months on the world stage "the real climate change". One last flip of the bird at the vast majority of civilized earthlings who now accept that environmental consequence isn't sci-fi. That alone should earn her a job replacing James Inhoffe when he retires. A woman with a bright future like that can claim to be a casualty of the "blood sport" known as politics?

Uh-uh. Sorry, Sarah. You don't get to complain about the harshness of politics when you're the one who drew first blood at your party's convention. You don't get to condemn the same attack machine that you use so often and arbitrarily on your own behalf. You don't get to cry foul when you're winking and grinning from the lectern while supporters before you call for your opponent's death. Not his defeat, not his humiliation, but his death, Ma'am. And you said nothing. Because nothing is really negative unless it's directed at you. And then God help the perpetrators.

Who can we blame for thrusting this intellectual insult upon us? Palin herself? Nah. She would have been content running Alaska and hanging with Alaskans and wouldn't have thought twice about being on the national stage had William Kristol not come along and filled her head with starry eyed notions of power. He's the one on whose doorstep this whole flaming bag of political shit must land. He and other neocons convinced both Pailn and John McCain to run Palin, her whacky family antics and her loony bin followers all the way up the flagpole and ask us all to salute.

It's all a moot point now. We, the US of A are once again free (at least those of us not glued to Fox News). Will Sarah Palin still have a stage on which to bear the drama? Of course. Hannity and Van Susteren will give her a clip-on mic anytime she wants. Her loyal base will honor her as a cultural martyr and keep her as their leader until someone else with more political clout takes over. But for anyone expecting an impressive 2012 White House run out of her, I'll paraphrase your own Dennis Miller: the day Sarah Palin becomes president is the day Rosie O'Donnell runs with the bulls at Pomplona.

BEIJING — Nearly 1,000 protesters from a Muslim ethnic group rioted in China's far west, overturning barricades, attacking bystanders and clashing with police in violence that killed at least three people, including a policeman, state media and witnesses said.

State media initially said at least three ethnic Han Chinese were killed in the violence Sunday, though later reported that an unknown number died, among them an armed policeman. An activist group said one demonstrator may have died.

Protesters, mostly from the Uighur ethnic group, set at least one car on fire, overturned police barriers and attacked buses in several hours of violence that appeared to subside somewhat as police and military presence intensified into the night, according to participants and witnesses.

The official Xinhua News Agency reported that "the situation was under control" by Monday morning and that police had shut down traffic in parts of the city as a precaution.

Tensions between Uighurs and Chinese are never far from the surface in Xinjiang, China's vast Central Asian buffer province, where militant Uighurs have waged sporadic, violent separatist campaign.

Protesters gathered Sunday to demand an investigation into a fight between Uighur and Han Chinese workers at a factory in southern China last month. Accounts differed over what happened next in the city of Urumqi, but the violence seemed to have started when a crowd of protesters _ who started out peaceful _ refused to disperse.

Adam Grode, an American Fulbright scholar studying in Urumqi, said he heard explosions and also saw a few people being carried off on stretchers and a Han Chinese man with blood on his shirt entering a hospital.

He said he saw police pushing people back with tear gas, fire hoses and batons, and protesters knocking over police barriers and smashing bus windows.

"Every time the police showed some force, the people would jump the barriers and get back on the street. It was like a cat-and-mouse sort of game," said Grode, 26.

The government's Xinhua News Agency quoted unnamed officials saying that at least three ethnic Han Chinese were killed in the violence, in which the crowd attacked passers-by, torched vehicles and interrupted traffic on some roads. It later said an unknown number of people were killed, including the policeman.

Xinjiang's government accused Uighur exiles led by a former businesswoman now living in America, Rebiya Kadeer, of fomenting the violence via the Internet.

"The violence is a pre-empted, organized violent crime. It is instigated and directed from abroad and carried out by outlaws in the country," said a government statement carried by Xinhua.

Kadeer's spokesman, Alim Seytoff, said by telephone from Washington, D.C., that the accusations were baseless.

"It's common practice for the Chinese government to accuse Ms. Kadeer for any unrest in East Turkestan and His Holiness the Dalai Lama for any unrest in Tibet," he said.

Uighur rights groups and militants demanding an independent Xinjiang often refer to the sprawling region of deserts and mountains, which borders eight Central Asian nations, as "East Turkestan."

The clashes Sunday in Urumqi echoed last year's unrest in Tibet, when a peaceful demonstration by monks in the capital of Lhasa erupted in riots that spread to surrounding areas, leaving at least 22 dead. The Chinese government accused the Dalai Lama of orchestrating the violence _ a charge he denied.

Seytoff also read a brief statement from Kadeer: "The real cause of the problem lies with the Chinese government's policies toward the Uighurs. It's not alleged instigation by me or some outside forces."

The demonstration started peacefully with more than 300 people staging a silent sit-down protest in People's Square in Urumqi to demand an investigation into the June 25 brawl at a toy factory in southern China, said Gulinisa Maimaiti, a 32-year-old employee of a foreign company who took part in the protest.

Xinhua said two died in last month's factory melee in southern Guangdong province, others say the real figure was higher.

Gulinisa said in a phone interview that the crowd grew to 1,000 people, and when they refused to disperse, police pinned protesters to the ground before taking 40 protesters away.

Video shot from a building nearby and photos from mobile phones showed people running from police and a car on fire. In other shots, smoke rises in the distance and fire engines race to the protest.

The Urumqi police and city government would not comment about the incident.

Uighur separatists have waged a sporadic campaign for independence in recent decades, and the military, armed police and riot squads maintain a visible presence in the region. After a few years of relative calm, separatist violence picked up last year with attacks against border police and bombings of government buildings.

Four Uighur detainees at the U.S. prison at Guantanamo Bay in Cuba were recently released and relocated to Bermuda despite Beijing's objections because U.S. officials have said they fear the men would be executed if they returned to China. Officials have also been trying to transfer 13 others to the Pacific nation of Palau.

More on China

By Lane Hartill

Patrick Obrist has been sweating all night, curing in his own body heat.

"I feel like I have a hangover," he says, as he steps out of his concrete room that turned into a Dutch oven last night. The generator wasn't working, which meant no air conditioning. The night slipped by and Patrick rolled under the fuzzy blanket of Chadian humidity. "You sweat so much you become dehydrated," he says. It's been averaging close to 110 degrees in Abéché, Chad, and Patrick's been averaging close to three showers a day.

Abéché is a town as dry and brown as burnt pie crust, its mud houses constantly blasted by a hair-dryer-hot wind. During winter, it cools down to the mid 80s. But it's the peak of the hot season now. And 122 degrees--the temperature of glue guns and a good cup of hot chocolate--is common. Patrick, a 30 year-old Nebraskan and CRS' lone American based here, grew up on sweet corn and Omaha Steaks and Husker Football. Lincoln, he says, never got this hot. No place he's ever been got this hot.

"Go to your oven and turn it on to, say, 350 degrees," he says. "When the oven reaches that temperature, go open it while your face is really close. The blast furnace that you feel is pretty close to what 122 degrees feels like. Only it does not dissipate."

CRS' international workers are usually based in capitals. A strong cappuccino, Wolf Blitzer, and an imported bottle of Chanel No. 5 are never far away. Even the cities that ring with danger--Islamabad, Kabul, Beirut--have pockets of luxury. When your sanity is threatened by stress, you can lie down for a deep tissue back massage, the kids can sip Shirley Temples, and there's always someone with that familiar, granular American accent. Not here. Not in this dust-blasted wasteland on the far edge of nowhere.

What's it like to work here? How do you adjust to a life of curfews, bandits, and gluey porridge in the morning? Abéché is arguably CRS' most difficult posting. Patrick's life, and that of other Americans here, reveals the personal sacrifices aid workers make in order to help Darfur refugees. The isolation, the cultural differences and the grinding monotony, all take a toll on humanitarian workers. Yet without them, the Darfur refugee camps would cease to function.

When Sudanese refugees from Darfur started streaming across the border in 2003, Abéché went from town where a husky donkey was the closest thing to an SUV to a city awash in them, all gleaming and imported from America. The population shot up from 40,000 in 1988 to more than 80,000 today. Now it's packed with some 150 expatriates and international staff working for humanitarian organizations. CRS' partner, Secours Catholique et Developpement, manage three of the 12 Darfur refugee camps.

For some expatriates, this Saharan landscape is a refuge, an escape from home countries that have spun out of control. Americans here don't want to dance with the stars or idolize Americans with Paula, Randy and Simon. Survivor is not a reality show in Abéché; it's an appellation for of an entire population.

This is: firewood delivered to the refugee camps so women won't get raped collecting it; four girls in class seven in one camp. Only four, yes, but that's a start. That's better than being forced to marry as a sixth grader. Outreach workers who lecture men about why they shouldn't hang their wives upside down from trees and call their brothers to help beat them.

But this is far from Patrick's daily schedule. He isn't on the frontlines feeding starving babies or bent double digging wells. He's in an office, fighting Western donor fatigue.

"Darfur is something I read about on the BBC," he says. "People always think that I am some crazy savior and self-sacrificing martyr for working out here," he says. "But I am really just a paper-pusher. We are the ones who support the whole effort and assistance. We are less visible but still needed."

When the splashy headlines about George Clooney's trip to the refugee camps dry up and the klieg light swing away from Mia Farrow surrounded by Darfuris, the invisible battalion of aid workers push on. Patrick will still be there, wedged into an office with three other men for 10 hours a day, sharpening budgets, chasing after receipts, and sweating over spreadsheets.

"You just have to realize your niche and do it the best you can," Patrick says. "It makes a difference on the ground." Someone, he says, has to make sure the funds are still rolling in. Last year, to run the three camps, it cost just under $5 million.

* * *

Patrick's life is surprisingly mundane, he says, for being in the geopolitical crosshairs of Africa. Sure, there are a handful of conflict junkies, but most of the humanitarians in Abéché spend their days behind laptops like the rest of the world. Everyone has their own reasons for being here.

Take Lauren Stroschin, an American pilot based in Abéché who flies aid workers to the refugee camps, wanted to get away from the United States. She wanted to help the refugees, who she sees as heroes, not victims to be pitied. Their resilience and determination inspires her, something she rarely felt living in the United States.

"I just want to be a better citizen of the world," she says. "I wanted to get the real news for myself instead of the filtered version we get in the US. I wanted to be the person that travels and disproves all the negative stereotype about Americans; to show that some of us do care, travel, and know there are events happening outside our boarders."

Patrick admires Lauren; she's a veteran of Abéché, having stayed three years. Most don't last that long, he says. The length of the average contract is about a year. He talks about Abéché, like hardened criminals talk about solitary at San Quentin. "I could do this stint standing on my head," he says. But then adds, "If it wasn't for Tara."

Tara lives in Virginia, and Patrick's in love with her.

"Life here would be easier if I didn't have a girlfriend I think about constantly." Not long ago, she tried to rendezvous with Patrick in Paris. But Patrick was asked to stay in Abéché; a US Congressman was coming through, one of the steady stream personalities and politicians who blow through in eastern Chad. He stayed. Tara wandered around Paris alone then returned to Virginia, never having seen Patrick.

Long distance chats, courtesy of Skype, keep the flame alive.

The social scene in Abéché is limited, and that's tough for someone as garrulous as Patrick. Wit is his strong suit; humor his Vaseline on the raw sting of Abéché . But his funny is hamstrung in by the complexities of French and his jokes fall flat at dinner parties. The conversations are superficial, anyhow, he says, mostly focusing on refugees and life's frustrations.

American playwright Lillian Hellman once wrote that "Lonely people talking to each other can make each other lonelier." That's true in Abéché. Conversations start with how long have you been here and are quickly followed by when do you leave. Patrick has done one year. He will stay on for another.

His time in Peace Corps in the Ivory Coast and Madagascar prepared him for the strain.
"Life is easier for me than for most people here because I did Peace Corps," Patrick says. "That helps me deal with the isolation." Find him a dive bar, put a Gala, a Chadian beer, in his hand and surround him with local men who like a good chin wag and Patrick is content. But they don't always take too kindly to the expatriates. "The locals seem to hate us or see us as circus freaks," he says.

* * *

After being cooped up in an office all day, Patrick, a former soccer player, needs to exercise. But his options are limited. There's no place to run and when you try, your lungs are sandblasted and turn to jerky. There's hardly a blade of grass in the city. The only green space is a balding strip of ground in the middle of town with a punctured hose lying on it. But the grass is closer to dryer lint than fescue, and clouds of dust from passing vehicles carpet it with sand. The trees surrounding it are foliated with black plastic bags.

For a little exercise, Patrick MacGuyvered a solution: he filled some giant powdered milk cans--as big as industrial buckets of laundry detergent--with concrete and connected them with an iron pipe: dumbbells. He also convinced some American pilots to pick him up an exercise bike in Uganda. "Now I can sweat for a reason," he says.

Abéché isn't all bad, says Lauren: "I love that I don't have stand in the grocery store line and stare at the Enquirer and read those terrible, pointless headlines. It's liberating: No cell phone contracts, cable TV, taxes, rent, car insurance. All that is gone."

But not the Chinese food. You can buy an uninspired plate of sweet and sour pork and a $6 Chadian beer at the Shanghai, a restaurant that opened last year. For entertainment, sit back and watch Chinese television and the French military flirt and air kiss the tired-looking waitress. For a night cap, hustle back to your guest house before curfew and admire the cosmos. No electricity in Abéché means no light pollution, and the stars shine like diamonds on black velvet.

Patrick prefers the Afrique Etoile, an open-air joint where the main dish is chicken, dusted with the spice and the air-borne grit of Abéché. It's U-Pick here, and you point the piece you want. A dish of spicy dipping sauce, the color of old makeup, is free of charge. The saving grace: a stein of the foamiest, most invigorating smoothie a dollar can buy. Made from powdered milk, ice, sugar and bruised bananas and beat up mangos, the juice makes an Orange Julius--that stuff they sell in American malls--taste like cold pulp.

Don't let the restaurants and starry nights lull you into complacency. Things can turn on a dime here. It's a security level 4, the highest in CRS. Patrick's evening out recently was rudely interrupted when an enraged military man went ballistic in a popular restaurant and pulled out a Ramboesque knife and plunged it into a table.

That's the problem, says Patrick: The people who are meant to protect are often the problem. In February, in a town not far from Abéché, the United Nations said a Chadian military soldier entered a bar, tied up the owner's sons and told one of them to call their 17 year-old sister. When she arrived, she was raped by several military men.

It's not just the local military. A French Foreign Legion soldier based at the French military base in Abéché recently killed four men this April. The spokesman for the French military said he "went a little mad".

And then last month, for example, it was pancake Sunday at Lauren's house. One of her colleagues was pulling into the compound. The gate was opened and just as the vehicle was about to enter, a man with a pistol tried to force his way in. He was after the 4x4. Thankfully, Lloyd, a skinny male with a hoarse voice, was in the courtyard. He terrified the bandit and he took off. That night, Lloyd the guard dog was treated like a king.

"I think it all boils down to if someone sees something you have, and they want it, they will take if from you, by force if necessary. The bandit wanted our truck and he was willing to kill for it," says Lauren. "Then Lloyd changed his mind."

Patrick lives with Matchurin, a CRS staffer from Burkina Faso. They recently got a dog, Bobi, to add another layer of security. But Patrick has started stashing his valuables in the walls of his room. He wonders if it's just a matter of time before their compound gets broken into.

But something much more pedestrian terrifies Patrick: The 10 minute drive to work. Every morning he gets in the RAV 4 and steels himself against the kids who dart out into traffic, grinning as cars honk and dodge. It's a favorite game here: who can touch the passing NGO vehicle. "It's the most stressful part of my day," Patrick says, as a boy runs across the central artery, nearly getting hit. There are no streetlights or stop signs here. It wouldn't matter if there were, drivers prefer to gun it and swerve, rather than stop and signal.

Patrick fumes, almost seethes, when he talks about how many times he's seen drivers almost hit children. He says Chadians have been known to rear end vehicles then demand huge payments. If there's a problem, people don't get out and take pictures of the damage and exchanges numbers over the hood. The problem is often settled with a knife.

"The way Westerners were raised and educated and the way African's have been raised and educated have created two different sets of logic and reason," says Lauren, diplomatically. "To look at a problem and have two different solutions to that problem, and you just know that the African solution will not work, or will not work long term, it just wears on me. I really miss Western logic."

* * *

The heat is starting to thin at Patrick's compound. He's in the hammock, beneath the sun- crisped banana trees. He likes it here. He says the rustling of the leaves help calm him down.

The former English major is making a dent in all the English literature he never got to in college. He made quick work of The Great Gatsby, The English Patient and just polished off Aiden Hartley's The Zanzibar Chest. Right now, he'd give anything for a deep dish pizza. And after a year looking at various shades of brown, his eyes could use a field of green grass and his throat a microbrew, preferably back home with Brad, Curtis and Dustin, his buddies from Nebraska.

"In the US everything is easy," he says. "I can hop in my car and go see a movie or buy food without haggling. I can renew my license or go to small government office and not have to pay a bribe."

But for now, this is his life. And he can stomach it. He believes in the work he's doing, albeit behind the scenes. The heat, the monotony, the culture, none of that bothers him. What does is trying to describe his life to people who have no point of reference about Africa. Soldiers returning from Iraq, he says, go through the same thing. You don't know what it's like, he says, and you'll never understand Abéché unless you've lived it.

"The isolation aspect arises when I try and relate my experiences to people stateside," he says. "They ask how Africa was, and I am like, well do you have a few hours? Their eyes glaze over quickly. So I boil it down: It's Africa, the roads suck and it's hot. I know this is lame and stereotypical, but it is too fatiguing to try and describe and nuance the experience here."

Lane Hartill is the West Africa regional information officer for Catholic Relief Services. He is based in Dakar, Senegal.

More on Refugees

The James family in Fort Worth, Texas, should be celebrating right now. After losing his last job due to the difficult economy, Jason James, who worked as a supervisor at a warehouse company, had been searching for new employment for months. When he finally found a new position, his job offer coincided with wife Misty receiving a raise at her job. It was a happy time for the couple―until they realized that their combined income was now over the Texas Children's Health Insurance Program (CHIP) income limit for their family, $44,100 for a family of four or 200 percent of the federal poverty level. Although they now make too much to qualify for CHIP, even with both parents working, the family can't afford to pay for private health insurance. So this means that at the time of their next CHIP renewal, their three children will lose their health coverage.

Texas advocates and legislators worked very hard this session on developing a CHIP buy-in program that would have allowed families who were just over the CHIP income limit to pay sliding scale premiums that increased with their income. This would have given parents like Jason and Misty, who have no other options for providing affordable health coverage for their children, the opportunity to purchase CHIP coverage. The CHIP buy-in proposal was extremely popular among Texans, powerful Texas Chamber of Commerce leaders, and Texas legislators and it passed in both chambers with strong bipartisan margins. But because of the lack of support from the Governor and a few other key legislative leaders, the bill was allowed to expire without receiving a final vote. Now roughly 80,000 Texas children who would have been covered with the passage of the CHIP buy-in proposal will become or remain uninsured.

Unfortunately, the James family is all too familiar with the consequences of being uninsured. Several years ago, the family experienced a lapse in coverage for similar reasons. Health coverage through Misty's job would have cost them roughly 12 percent of their salaries, making it financially out of reach after paying child care and other basic expenses. During that period their oldest son, 11-year-old Isaiah, had a painful cavity that went untreated for nearly two years. When they were finally able to take him to a dentist, they learned that Isaiah's tooth had abscessed down to his jaw bone and required an emergency root canal. Isaiah ultimately lost his tooth and now has permanent jaw damage.

During the Texas legislative session's debate on the issue, Misty traveled to the State Capitol to testify about her family's story and to request the option of being able to contribute to keeping her family's CHIP coverage, instead of being forced to use the emergency room for care or to put problems like Isaiah's cavity off until they become a crisis. Misty said, "We hate to add to the rising cost of health care by taking them to the emergency room, but we just do not have anywhere else to go... I do not know if our leaders know how much it costs to raise children these days. Child care today costs more than our rent. We shop at the thrift store for clothes and do not go to the movies or have other frivolous spending. Just the basics of food, housing and child care do not leave us enough to provide health coverage for our children. I get so frustrated that I can't take my kids to the dentist or doctor when I work hard and make a decent living."

But at the end of the day in Texas, children lost out to politics. Texas serves as a prime example of why health reform at the national level that guarantees all children affordable, high-quality and accessible care is desperately needed. We cannot be fighting these kinds of battles separately in all 50 states. And when smart policy proposals with broad support finally make it to the table, children can't afford inaction. The time for real health care reform in our nation is right now. Congress and the President must ensure all children a national eligibility floor of 300 percent ($66,150 for a family of four) and free all children from the unjust 50-state lottery of geography. All children need comprehensive health benefits no matter where they live. Enrollment in coverage for children should be automatic and simple, so they don't experience harmful delays or denials―and it must be truly affordable. Unless these conditions are met, the promise of health reform remains unfulfilled for children.

Email your Members of Congress today to let them know that affordable, comprehensive health coverage for everyone--especially children--is important to you at: www.childrensdefense.org/healthaction.

There is something about Sunday brunch in New York City. The food, the people, waiting (always) 45 minutes outside before being seated, or just that it seems that your whole day stops to have breakfast and lunch in one sitting (typical that New Yorkers would kill two birds with one stone).

Today is my first Sunday in a new city. I just moved to Washington, D.C. and this morning felt strange as I munched at a local Greek restaurant in my new neighborhood. A Greek Salad is neither breakfast nor lunch! I begin to think about my home for the past 22 years and a typical Sunday.

Location: Bubby's restaurant on Hudson Street in TriBeCa. Meeting time: noon.

It is 11:45 as I run into a Starbucks on the Upper East Side. I need caffeine for the train ride down to Canal Street. As I order my Venti, Katie, who I am meeting for brunch, calls. She is also running late and "will explain when I get there."

We finally both get to Bubby's half-an-hour late. The line is, as expected, out the door so we put our name down. These places never seem to take reservations. "45 minutes," the maître d' says. Of course.

Katie and I join the ranks of other starving New Yorkers who can't wait to dive into their pancakes and French toast. On the curb, she tells me about her day. She had just started renting a new apartment and found a dresser on Craig's List. Her apartment is in midtown, but the dresser was downtown, so she ran there to pick it up. Of course, getting the large piece back in the cab was a problem. Waiting to hail the right sized cab, a former drug dealer (or at least that is what he said) approached her on the corner, still very hungover from the night before. He wanted to help Katie with the dresser and began talking. Finally Katie hailed the right sized cab and shook off the former drug dealer. She brought the furniture home. Having not eaten all day, she needed a cup of coffee and was now going to be late. It seemed like an action-packed day and it was only 12:30 in the afternoon.

In what other city in the world would people starve themselves to have the perfect pancake or bagel? Why would they meet at 12:00 and wait for 45 minutes? Sure, we love good food. That is a given. It is also built into the fabric of New York. You go to brunch to recharge. The energy in a New York restaurant like Bubby's is ecstatic. The hassle and bustle and the ebb and flow of people coming in and out is invigorating. This is NEW YORK CITY!

We go to brunch to cap off your week and prepare to begin a new one. There are stories to tell, people to meet, deals to be made, fun to be had, and Mondays to look forward to. We are all New Yorkers who do more in the morning before brunch on a Sunday then some do their entire weekday. And in a big city of former drug dealers, people who sell dressers on Craig's List, and a woman who just bought a new apartment and now a dresser, there is nothing like going to your "local" diner. You are surrounded with people who you never met, but who strangely enough understand you and what you went through to carve out two hours in the middle of your day to eat with a friend.

Katie finishes her story about why she is late and now it is my turn. After all, we have another 40 minutes before our name even is called to be seated. As I sit in our nation's capital I know I will find good restaurants, great friends to eat with and maybe a decent bagel. But only in New York can you really have brunch.