National Boycott Plans Creating a New Divide

The 45-year-old illegal immigrant plans to skip work and march for immigrant rights on Monday for one reason: He hopes someday to become a legal resident of the United States. After six years here, he wants to visit the family he left behind in Mexico — without fear of arrest on his way back.

Lupe Moreno, 48, a Santa Ana social worker, American citizen and advocate for immigration control, will not join in the national boycott of work, school and consumer spending. After she finishes work, she said, she will engage in her own form of activism: purchasing a $1,000 big-screen TV to "support the U.S. economy as a proud Latino American."

And Luis Magana, a worker at the Sara Lee Bakery Group factory in Vernon, is still torn about what to do. "We want to show that our work counts. We pay taxes and help the economy," Magana said, referring to himself and his fellow workers. "But we need our jobs too."

Among other things, many are urging Congress to pass legislation that would create a path toward legalizing most of the nation's 11.5 million illegal immigrants, increase family visas and expand guest worker programs. The Senate is still debating such issues; the House passed a bill in December with strict enforcement provisions, such as making it felony to be in the United States without a valid visa, that many immigrant advocates consider punitive.

What began as a call for action by a small group of Los Angeles activists three months ago has gained dramatic momentum in recent days — with the boycott even drawing support from the California Senate. Some now see it as a measure of whether the newly energized immigrant rights movement will crest to new heights, stumble or provoke anger that hurts the cause.

The outcome is difficult to predict.

Spanish-language disc jockey Renan "El Cucuy" Almendarez Coello, who helped mobilize as many as 500,000 protesters in downtown Los Angeles in March, said the boycott goes against what immigrants represent.

"We are hard workers," he said. "We came to the United States to work. We should work Monday. Work dignifies us."

A recent survey by Garcia Research, a Burbank firm specializing in Latino market research, found overwhelming support in Los Angeles for a boycott of work and consumer spending.

"After so many years of working so hard, people feel they don't have voice," said Carlos Rojas, the firm's political analyst. "They see it as a way of showing the rest of society the power and dignity of the Latinos."

Feelings are running so high in some heavily Latino areas that many employers don't feel comfortable not closing for the day.

Russia's 100 richest worth $248 billion

By Guy Faulconbridge

MOSCOW (Reuters) - The 100 richest Russians have assets worth $248 billion or more than a quarter of Russia's nominal gross domestic product, according to the Russian version of Forbes magazine which hit news-stands on Thursday.

Roman Abramovich, 39, owner of English soccer club Chelsea, stayed at the top with a fortune of $18.3 billion, a gain of $3.6 billion on last year, said the magazine.

Collectively, the fortunes of Russia's richest who are often termed "oligarchs" grew by $107 billion over the past year.

"The rich are becoming richer because the Russian economy is becoming richer," Kirill Vishnepolsky, deputy chief editor of Forbes in Russia, told Reuters.

"The value of many Russian companies has risen faster than the economy over the past year as they were undervalued."

Russia now has 44 dollar billionaires. But their fortunes compare to average wages of $3,600 per year, according to official Russian statistics.

Many ordinary Russians view the oligarchs with a mixture of envy and resentment and are quick to accuse them of having made illicit gains.

Russia's richest amassed massive fortunes and influence in the chaotic privatizations that followed the fall of the Soviet Union.

Charity: 9 million African kids lose mother to AIDS

JOHANNESBURG, South Africa (Reuters) -- Nine million children in Africa have lost a mother to AIDS, British charity Save the Children said Monday, calling on donors to sharply increase aid to meet their needs.

"Incredibly, the impact of HIV and AIDS on children is still being ignored," Save the Children Chief Executive Jasmine Whitbread said in a statement.

The charity said in a report that a lack of testing facilities meant that many mothers, especially in the poorest countries, did not know their HIV status until they were ill and were unable to fight off even the simplest infections.

"The AIDS pandemic robs millions of children of their childhoods as well as their mothers," Whitbread said. "Children are caring for their mothers, missing school, and having to work because their mothers are too sick to look after them."

The charity called for a focus on children orphaned by AIDS as well as sick parents, adding red tape was slowing aid flows.

"Donors must spend 12 percent of their AIDS funding on proper support for children," it said, adding this would amount to $6.4 billion. It did not give any comparisons for the current amount of aid for children affected by AIDS.

The charity addressed its appeal to the G8 wealthy nations, the Global Fund to Fight AIDS, Tuberculosis and Malaria, the World Bank and the European Commission.

Sub-Saharan Africa has about 10 percent of the world's population but 60 percent of the people living with HIV/AIDS.

More than 3 million Africans were infected with HIV in 2005, representing 64 percent of all new infections globally and more than in any previous year for the impoverished continent, according to UNAIDS, the lead U.N. agency against AIDS.

Across sub-Saharan Africa, an estimated 4.6 percent of young women aged 15 to 24 are infected with HIV, compared to 1.7 percent of young men, according to U.N. data.

Save the Children said most of the 19.2 million women living with HIV around the globe were mothers.

"To truly make a difference we must also support children whose mothers are HIV positive," it said.

"In sub-Saharan Africa alone, more than 12 million children under the age of 15 have lost one or both parents to AIDS. By 2010, at current rates of HIV infection, this number is likely to increase to 18 million," Save the Children said.

A woman lies dying of AIDS in a hospital in the Democratic Republic of Congo earlier this month.

Zambia: Fertile but Hungry

As you drive around the Zambian countryside, to the north and south of the capital, Lusaka, it is sometimes difficult to understand why there is a food crisis in this country.

The fields are green, fertile and full of maize. There is also an abundance of water. It has been raining heavily.

These are promising signs for the forthcoming harvest.

However, the food shortages that Zambians are experiencing at present, with more than 1.2m people in need of food assistance this year, stem from the drought in 2004-5.

Like many other countries in sub-Saharan Africa, this is about far more than just poor rainfall.

There are deeper, long-term problems that cause hunger.

Lost out

For the last five years, Emily Miyanda and her husband, Steve, have run Pamusha Farm, about 15km from Lusaka.

In a near perfect setting, the well-irrigated seven-hectare farm produces maize, cabbages, tomatoes and other vegetables.

"We're employing local workers here and helping the government to secure jobs. But in return, we'd like some government support in buying seeds and fertiliser. That would make life easier," says Emily Miyanda.

Zambian farmers lost out on subsidised agricultural inputs when tough World Bank and International Monetary Fund conditions were imposed.

However, Zambia's Minister of Agriculture Mundia Sikatana admits that more must now be done to help small farmers like the Miyanda family.

"We are giving fertiliser and seeds to 150,000 farmers but that's not enough. It's a drop in the ocean. One million small farmers need assistance," he said.

"We hope to improve on our numbers in this year's budget because it's much cheaper for the country to support the farmer than to import food".

Food exporter

In the meantime, farmers are being urged to diversify and end their over-dependence on maize. Some are turning to sorghum, sweet potatoes and ground nuts.

Mr Sikatana says he would also like to see Zambians growing cassava, a crop much favoured in neighbouring Angola and Democratic Republic of Congo.

In this way, Zambia would have the potential of returning to the days when it was a food exporter.

One problem for farmers is access to markets.

In spite of the fact that the Lusaka skyline lies in the distance, Pamusha Farm can only be reached by several kilometres of poor dirt roads.

"Some of the roads in Zambia are just impassable," says Henry Malumo, co-ordinator of the Global Call To Action Against Poverty.

"The issue of infrastructure is a major one. There's no way you can expect peasant farmers to lift themselves out of poverty when there are such bad roads."

Farming sector decimated

In the rural communities, hunger is directly related to poverty.

At the Kapopo primary school in the Naluyanda district near Lusaka, teacher Gift Shiyanga says that around half the 500 children are not getting enough food.

"They come from families that are poor. They are starving," he says.

Perhaps the biggest cause of food insecurity in southern Africa is the HIV/Aids crisis.

This has decimated the farming sector.

Ninety minutes' drive south of Lusaka is the farming town of Mazabuka.

The Ndeke Community Centre there provides support for those who are chronically ill, most of whom are HIV positive.

Hunger trap

Under a thatched rondavel hut, 30-year old Gideon Lungu sits listlessly in the summer heat.

He is suffering from tuberculosis, and like many here, he looks gaunt and weak.

"Most of these people are farmers who can no longer work their fields," says Samuel Banda who works for a local non-governmental organisation called Programme Urban Self Help (Push).

"As a result the season is ending without any farming activity, and there is widespread hunger."

Life expectancy in Zambia has fallen from 50 to 32.

In a country that depends so heavily on agriculture, the loss of so many bread-winners is having a catastrophic effect on the farming sector and on society in general.

Many orphans are now being brought up by grandparents and elderly relatives who struggle to take on the burden of farming.

On the road back to Lusaka, I encounter an afternoon thunderstorm.

For half an hour, the countryside soaks up the torrential rain.

Drought and hunger are synonymous, but the storm is a potent reminder that it is Zambia's long-term developmental needs that must be addressed if people are to escape the hunger trap.

Costa Mesa's Border Heat Puts a Chill in Its Latinos

In a Republican county known as a cradle of border enforcement zeal, Costa Mesa has long been celebrated — and maligned — as a city that offered immigrants a generous embrace.

Though perhaps best known for its shopping mecca, South Coast Plaza, the city of 110,000 also spawned a soup kitchen, a long-running charity with a free medical and dental clinic and a pioneering day-labor center.

But in its treatment of its Latino residents, currently a third of the population, the city's heart has always been riven, a fissure more evident now than ever.

Last year, the city shut down the dayworker center after 17 years. It abolished its human relations committee after 18 years. And as the city now moves to train local police in immigration enforcement — the nation's first municipality to do so — it has become a flashpoint in a national debate.

Outsiders have rushed in, hailing or condemning the city's efforts. There are demonstrations at City Hall, shouting matches, floods of e-mails, threats of a boycott. But nowhere is the turmoil felt more keenly than in the city's heavily Latino Westside.

"Everybody's afraid," said Sherry Chavez, 23, a day-care worker and mother of two, as she pushed her baby stroller toward her Shalimar Drive apartment. "They're scared to go out of their houses. I have family that don't have papers, and they're scared of taking their children to school."

Chavez grew up in the city's barrios and considered Costa Mesa a nice town, blessed by sunshine and ocean breezes. Since police blocked off her street with concrete pylons a few years back to stymie drug traffic, it has also felt like a safe place to raise children.

Now, she said, the city seems meaner, less like home. Mayor Allan Mansoor insists his immigration plan, if implemented, will target only serious criminals. But Chavez and many others are convinced that roundups of undocumented workers — and the potential harassment of Latinos in general — are imminent.

A few miles from Chavez's block, in a neighborhood of modest tract homes called College Park, another longtime resident worries the city he loves is slipping away.

Ken Rasmussen, 64, a retired restaurateur, moved to Costa Mesa in 1968 and had his two children attend the public schools. He wouldn't do it now; he thinks an unchecked influx of Latino immigrants has ruined the schools.

"All of a sudden, it isn't the same city," Rasmussen said. "I want my city back."

The hubbub mirrors much broader anxieties. Like California, Costa Mesa is an increasingly diverse and expensive place to live. Costa Mesa's Latino population has grown to about a third of the total, with blacks and Asians accounting for about 10%.

The city flourished after World War II, drawing troops from a military base in the city and workers from the Boeing plant in adjacent Huntington Beach and absorbing part of the white flight from Los Angeles.

Today, along with its high-end mall and its teeming Westside, the city features pockets of million-dollar homes, a symphony orchestra, a respected theater and a 3,000-seat Performing Arts Center.

"It's one of the most split-personality cities I've ever seen," said former Mayor Peter Buffa. "If you're south of the 405, it's a small-town community. If you're north of the 405, it's one of the most vibrant commercial areas in the country."

The city is wedged between two radically different cultures. To the north is predominantly Latino Santa Ana, with many low-income and crowded neighborhoods. "Guess what's coming south," said Rasmussen, worried his city increasingly resembles its northern neighbor. "Guess what's coming this way."

To Costa Mesa's south is wealthy, showy Newport Beach, with beachfront mansions and a harbor full of yachts. Costa Mesa's median home price in 2005 was more than $710,000, but in Newport Beach the median topped $1.5 million.

Costa Mesa means "coastal tableland," and the city seal features a sailboat on picturesque blue water. Yet although it is cooled by the ocean breeze, it has no coast, no docks. Those are in Newport Beach.

What Costa Mesa has are high-profile charities, such as Share Our Selves. All week long, immigrants stream in for medical care, clothes and bags of groceries — workers who clean the city's big houses, keep its yards hedged and oil the gears of its humming economy. They know the 36-year-old charity is a friendly place that won't ask about their citizenship.

The charity helped forge Costa Mesa's incongruous reputation as "a city with a heart" — to use the words of a former county supervisor — in a county that has been a caldron of border-enforcement sentiment. Orange County was the birthplace of Proposition 187, the 1994 ballot initiative that sought to curb public services for illegal immigrants. And it is the home of Jim Gilchrist, cofounder of the Minuteman Project citizen patrol.

To some Costa Mesa residents, the immigrant-friendly facilities were a drain. "Costa Mesa has always been super socially liberal, always wanting to take care of anybody who comes down the street," said Roger Carlson, a retired sportswriter who lived in Costa Mesa for 40 years. "You feel sorry for them, but does one city have to take care of them?"

Latinos live throughout the city, and in some crowded Westside neighborhoods around the intersection of West 19th Street and Placentia Avenue, they are the vast majority. Mayor Mansoor said he does not know how many people are living in the city illegally, but he pointed to statistics showing that of Orange County Jail's average daily population of 6,000, about 10% are illegal immigrants.

For decades, Costa Mesa's treatment of its swelling immigrant population has ranged from warm receptiveness to icy suspicion.

In 1989, amid cries that Share Our Selves was a beacon for crime and illegal immigrants, the city evicted the charity from its original site in a residential neighborhood, and it reopened elsewhere.

The next year, the city had a headline-grabbing spat with Jack Kemp, then secretary of Housing and Urban Development. The City Council had decided to bar HUD grant money from agencies that assisted illegal immigrants, but Kemp called the policy "un-American" and issued an order against it.

Costa Mesa has never had a Latino council member. Council members are elected citywide, rather than by district, diluting Latino voting power. Just over 10% of its registered voters have Spanish surnames.

The city's treatment of immigrants is regularly determined by a single vote on a divided council. Last year, with a series of 3-2 votes, the council shut down the job center, which was intended to prevent loitering by day laborers; abolished the human relations committee, which was meant to quell prejudice; and endorsed the mayor's immigration plan.

The plan ostensibly will target only serious criminals for deportation and remains in the planning stages. But fear and confusion are pervasive in the city's barrios, and the conversation keeps turning to what is perceived as an ominous alliance between la policia and la migra, the Border Patrol.

"There's a lot of people thinking that on Jan. 1, police officers were allowed to arrest anyone who is walking, driving or riding a bike who looks Hispanic," said Paty Madueno, who manages apartments on the Westside.

At the Vista Center on 19th Street, which includes the El Metate market and a panaderia, or bakery, merchants say business has been suffering. "People are staying inside, in the house," said Nelson Lopez, 36, a Guatemalan immigrant who works the counter of the Dollar Mart.

Opponents say the plan threatens to erode the already tenuous bonds between the city's police and Latino residents, some of whom refuse to report crime for fear of harassment or deportation.

Costa Mesa Police Cpl. Doug Johnson, who patrolled the Westside for more than two years, said he found Latinos wary of his badge long before the mayor announced his plan.

"The majority of the people, unless you make contact, they turn away or look away," Johnson said. "People who got beat up on the streets or even robbed, they were hesitant [to call]. It would have to be someone who witnessed it who called it in."

At City Hall, immigrant-rights advocates are converging from across the Southland to denounce the immigration plan. And border-crackdown activists are coming to hail it, hoping it portends broader change.

"This will be the testing ground for the country," Gilchrist said before a recent council meeting.

Councilwoman Katrina Foley, who voted against the plan, said she thought outsiders had hijacked city politics. Foley said her constituents wondered why the city was taking on a federal issue. They are more concerned, she said, about getting lighted fields and breakfast eateries in their neighborhoods.

"People outside of Costa Mesa have taken over the discussion, so reasonable-minded residents have been taken out of the discussion," she said. "Unfortunately, our city has become the lightning rod for a political issue that is consuming all of our resources and time."