July 10, 2009.
All told, since starting pre-kindergarten at the age of four, Molly had been in school for twenty-four years (minus the all-too-brief stint in the Peace Corps) of her twenty-seven-year existence. But none of her coursework in anthropology and political science had prepared her for this. Molly needed to create a web site.
As with any task she undertook, Molly had done more than her share of planning and homework before she began. Her first step in finding subjects to observe for her thesis was to ensure that she found all the right tools to create a web site for them to visit. Fortunately, the tools to create a basic web site were readily available online, with discussion forums, voting widgets, and chat gadgets already incorporated. The color palette for Molly’s site was chosen from the standard set, “Serious Grey.” Nothing flashy or neon was needed here. Anybody with a few days of patience and the perseverance of a pit bull could get a site running and customized and even look reasonably good. In less than a week, her web site, EasternDiscussions.com, was born.
Having constructed a simple, but entirely empty, web site, her primary task turned to finding the motivating content with which to populate it. If she managed to lure users to visit, she needed to entice them to stay, interact with others, and come back often. She had to create a place where users wanted to linger for hours, discussing politics, religion and whatever other contentious topics they could. Her research depended, first and foremost, on having subjects to study.
Like anyone else on a quest for information, she had started with the listings appearing at the top of the search results pages from Ubatoo. She searched for terms such as “Islamic support groups,” “Middle East discussion forums,” “Muslim news,” and slowly made her way down the hundreds of links returned. She had originally intended to spend only a few hours looking for the content. However, it wasn’t long before she was so immersed in the world she had unearthed that even she had to allow her schedule to take a backseat to her curiosity. On her first day of exploration, she skimmed months of postings on dozens of online discussion forums. Though she had started the day by taking diligent notes, they too had soon been abandoned so she could swiftly feed her voracious curiosity.
“You ready for bed?” Stephen asked again from the sofa. It was 3:15 a.m., and Stephen had been home almost two hours, sitting in virtual silence, while Molly tried her best to reach a stopping point. He had returned early to spend a little time with her, but things weren’t going as planned.
“Just a few more minutes,” she begged from her desk.
“You’ve been working for hours without moving. You’re going to burn yourself out being this intense all the time.” Pot, Kettle, Black. He quietly walked over to where she was sitting and ran his hand lightly through her long brown hair. She didn’t respond.
“You sure you can’t do this tomorrow? I’ve been waiting all night to see you,” he said, moving closer.
Her eyes stayed on the screen.
He took hold of one of her hands, and quietly invited, “Come on.”
He tugged her hand a little harder, and might have sighed a bit when she didn’t give in to the coaxing. Unfortunately, sighs have a propensity of being interpreted in unintended ways.
Enough. She snapped her hand back, “Stop. I told you, I have to finish. I don’t hassle you when you have to work.”
“Why do I bother coming home?” he blurted.
Exasperated. “I don’t know. Why do you?”
“I should just leave.” Resentful.
Frustrated. “Yes. You should. Just go back to your office and leave me alone.”
That shouldn’t have happened. She knew it the moment Stephen stormed out the door. But today was not a good day. She was sorely disappointed. What she had found in her search had not been what she expected.
But that wasn’t what had disappointed her. She was disappointed in herself for being surprised at what she had found. As a graduate student years into her studies, her reaction to what she found on the message boards made it blatantly evident just how unworldly she was, and for a would-be anthropologist, this was an appalling fact to face.
She had come to the message boards to find extremists, dissidents, terrorists, calls to arms, and calls for unification. What she found, instead, was a place where young Muslims faced the issues that mattered to them every day. She had read hundreds of posts talking about how to deal with teasing and bigotry. How to deal with wearing a burqa or even a hijab? How many messages asked if it was okay to date a member of the opposite sex without telling their parents? What were the limitations while still remaining devout? How many posts were written simply as support for someone whose circle of friends only knew about Islam from the urgent newsbreaks on TV? How many posts had she read about both young men and women feeling unsafe every time a news story came out about terrorist activity in Europe or in the Philippines that was as far removed from their lives as missions to Mars? There were far too many to remember.
And the worst part of it all was that she genuinely liked and sympathized with the people she read about. She followed their stories, like soap-operas in fast-forward, by reading through months of their lives posted over numerous messages and discussions in only a few minutes. How could anyone read so many personal stories and not be touched? It was natural to think about Cameroon again, about Sandrine, and about Francis. This was the kind of support that Sandrine had needed. Muslim, Christian, Hindu, Jewish, whatever. At a fundamental level, the support on these groups helped, and she wished that Sandrine had gotten that help, too—someone to talk to about what was okay to do with her, to her, and what wasn’t.
How could Molly have known what she would find? But it was her job to know, at least to have an intelligent guess. The people she found were not the caricatures she had imagined—the imaginary lives she had based her thesis plans on. If people posting on the forums were not the angry mob she envisioned, there would be little point in her thesis. Understanding a young boy’s decision about whether he could be friends with an American girl, or understanding a girl’s thoughts on acceptable garments to wear, as important as both may be, were a lot less likely to impress her thesis committee than insights into the role the Internet was playing on Middle Eastern peoples’ perceptions of the U.S.
It was 3:55 a.m. when Stephen made his way back onto Ubatoo’s grounds. There were only a few lights still on—more security guards than workers. He had spent the full day at Ubatoo, working harder than usual so he could make it home early. He would have rather been anywhere other than back on grounds, but where else was he supposed to go?
He didn’t walk to Building 11, resolving not to let himself do any more work. Instead, he walked along the brick pathway past the usual concrete buildings, toward the gurgling fountains and the manicured lawns. All paths seemed to eventually end at Xiao’s Ballroom. The lights were on inside. He went in, hoping someone would be playing games like they had after the internship contest, or hoping to at least find something to distract himself with for a few minutes.
Aarti was in the room, sitting at one of the many elaborately decorated tables that had been readied for some press function taking place the next day. She had a stack of papers piled high next to her and was thoroughly engrossed in her reading. She hadn’t heard him, and he hadn’t planned on interrupting her. But when she glanced up, she waved. Tonight, it was enough of an invitation.
She smiled when he approached. “Come here often, stranger?”
“Couldn’t sleep. Just out taking a walk. How about you? You’re up late.”
“I come here to read sometimes—to get out of my office and out of my apartment.” She looked a bit tired, but just as stunning as she had the first night at the party. Jeans and a white shirt were as flattering on her as what she had been wearing that night.
“What are you reading?”
Her cheeks flushed, and she smiled sheepishly as she looked away. Her hair, normally twisted close to her neck, was loose, and fell across one eye when she moved. “See all those papers right there?” She pointed to the stack of academic papers next to her. “Well, I’m not reading those.” She lifted a novel from her lap and held it up for Stephen to see. “Much more interesting, especially alone at night.” As soon as she remembered the salacious cover, though, she quickly put it back down, hoping he hadn’t had time to let it register.
“Romance novels? You? I wouldn’t have guessed.”
She shrugged her shoulder ever so slightly. “Ever since I was fifteen—read about one a week.”
“And do all of them have covers like that one?”
She held the book in her hand, now plainly visible for both of them to see, a bare-chested hulking man ripping off the flimsy, barely laced bodice of a forlorn maiden. Aarti responded in her characteristic drawl, this time made all the more alluring with the slight whisper of sleepiness. “Not all of them—just the ones I read.”
And the conversation continued—talking a little about a lot. It probably would have continued until breakfast was served, but Stephen’s phone chirped, and a message from Molly interrupted them.
Am truly sorry.
I am waiting up for you.
Won’t you please come home?