Suddenly, watching Japan's desperate water-cannon attempts to stave off successive nuclear meltdowns at the Fukushima Daiichi nuclear-power plant, we are all supposed to be tech-savvy atomic engineers.
Journalists pause on a day of heavy aerial bombing by troops loyal to Muammar Gaddafi. Lynsey Addario, far left, went missing along with three other journalists (including Tyler Hicks, second from right). They were found soon after in the hands of the Libyan government. Addario, a fearless war photographer, described the conditions in Libya in an earlier interview with NEWSWEEK. “This is by far the most dangerous thing I’ve ever covered. There’s no place to hide. They’re really hitting you from all angles.” She added, “You’re really just sort of praying the whole time.”
He is the West African equivalent of one of Muammar Gaddafi’s wayward, Lamborghini-loving sons. Teodoro Obiang is a government minister in the tiny oil-rich African nation of Equatorial Guinea and son of the country’s brutal dictator.
The biggest potential losers in the still-roiling revolutions of the Middle East and North Africa are the people themselves. Many are democrats at high risk of being overwhelmed over time by new dictators and organized religious extremists. But the uncontested winners are already quite clear: those who own, sell, and bet on oil.
In 1927, Ernest Hemingway published a collection of short stories titled "Men Without Women." Today, less than a century later, it sums up the predicament of a rising proportion of mankind. According to the United Nations, there are far more men than women on the planet.
The Middle East is in turmoil, oil prices have skyrocketed, the cost of gas is through the roof. All of which is good news—if you’re Anne Lauvergeon, who may be the world’s most effective proselytizer for nuclear energy.
Before Libyans rose up against him, Muammar Gaddafi used money, and well-timed diplomatic overtures, to worm his way into the West’s good graces. How Bush, Blair, and Berlusconi gave the brutal dictator a makeover.
Among life’s surreal experiences, few can compare with finding myself seated on a baroque bench, one of dozens lining the perimeter of an ornate drawing room in the palace of Sheikha Fatima Bint Mubarak in Abu Dhabi, chatting it up with three Ph.D.-endowed women sheathed in black abayas, sipping sweet hot tea and eating candies.
At the height of the protests in Cairo’s Tahrir Square, I saw the crowds cleaved by a stream of girls and young women in pink and blue veils. Men formed a shield around them so they could move through the square unimpeded. When a solitary man tried to join the procession, he was turned away: “No! This is the women’s revolution.”