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Authors: Jonathan Williams
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sift through. He wondered not for the first time how the television station had found his blog. Could they find out who I am? Would they do a followup story? He assumed it had just been a station intern trawling through every Arab language blog he could get his hands on, looking for some original content on a slow news day. Perhaps one of the station’s journalists is a subscriber….
Ali leaned back from his laptop screen; he had been hunched over it like a vulture on a carcass, feasting on the digital prose. Not good for a young man’s back. After some consideration, he opened up his word processor and began to write another blog post, a reactionary piece to the Tunisia Today coverage. No time like the present…
Amina received the text from Ali’s phone that evening. He’d asked her to watch the episode online and to call him back after she’d seen it. She’d reviewed the segment and had experienced all the same emotions that Ali had: fear, betrayal, anger, but also excitement. At 11 that evening, after supper, she dialed Ali’s cellphone from her bedroom at her parent’s house.
“Well, it could’ve been worse,” she whispered in consoling tones; Ali, like many of the writers and journalists she’d known at university could overthink things and suffer from the resulting anxiety. “They could’ve found out your real identity, or the names of your family, or even me and mine.”
“Thanks be to God Habiba , that hasn’t happened yet. But it doesn’t mean they won’t try to find out for a followup story, or perhaps a devoted viewer with an axe to grind…”
“Relax. Isn’t this great news? Your readership numbers, the visitors to your website must be way up, no? You do want people to read your work, right?”
“Well of course...but…”
“Ali, my beloved, you are overanalyzing everything to the tenth degree, like always. Take a breath: remember the breathing exercises we learned together? Then read a good book, and I’ll see you tomorrow, ok? I’ll stop by the library during my lunch break.”
“Ok. Bless you; you’re so good to me. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Sleep well.”
Amina ended the call and put her phone on the dresser next to her bed. Looking around her room, she reviewed her lifetime’s work in the artwork that decorated every meter of the walls and ceiling. Some of the paintings were done in acrylic, others in oils or even stencil. Nowadays her medium was her desktop PC, working for her father’s bank designing the pamphlets and billboards that advertised her family name as trustworthy: Tunisia’s standard for financial security. Reflecting as she prepared for bed, Amina mulled over her current circumstances, her train of thought prompted by the change in Ali’s fortunes. Have I earned it all myself? No. I took no risks; my father got me the job. Could I have struck out on my own? An educated woman in Tunis, even in this day and age? It was hard to say, honestly. Maybe she could start her own graphic design firm, hire other women (and men!) with talent, use her contacts from university, get some good clients lined up… who knew. What she did know was that her fiancé was sticking his neck out for what he believed in, taking some risks with his career, and she admired him for it.
Father wouldn’t approve if he knew what Ali was writing - had written - on his blog. It was true. Her father, though likeable enough, could be extremely critical of new ideas, of real change. The Arab Spring was bad enough in his mind .
She’d go visit Ali tomorrow and they would talk about their next move, together. She still wanted to marry in the summer, and they’d need to plan it all out: finances, everything. Amina had come to the conclusion that she would continue to work after marriage; she hadn’t yet mentioned the notion to her parents, but she suspected they’d go along with it if she stood her ground. It’d save the family bank money and the hassle of a new hire in the long
Ali leaned back from his laptop screen; he had been hunched over it like a vulture on a carcass, feasting on the digital prose. Not good for a young man’s back. After some consideration, he opened up his word processor and began to write another blog post, a reactionary piece to the Tunisia Today coverage. No time like the present…
Amina received the text from Ali’s phone that evening. He’d asked her to watch the episode online and to call him back after she’d seen it. She’d reviewed the segment and had experienced all the same emotions that Ali had: fear, betrayal, anger, but also excitement. At 11 that evening, after supper, she dialed Ali’s cellphone from her bedroom at her parent’s house.
“Well, it could’ve been worse,” she whispered in consoling tones; Ali, like many of the writers and journalists she’d known at university could overthink things and suffer from the resulting anxiety. “They could’ve found out your real identity, or the names of your family, or even me and mine.”
“Thanks be to God Habiba , that hasn’t happened yet. But it doesn’t mean they won’t try to find out for a followup story, or perhaps a devoted viewer with an axe to grind…”
“Relax. Isn’t this great news? Your readership numbers, the visitors to your website must be way up, no? You do want people to read your work, right?”
“Well of course...but…”
“Ali, my beloved, you are overanalyzing everything to the tenth degree, like always. Take a breath: remember the breathing exercises we learned together? Then read a good book, and I’ll see you tomorrow, ok? I’ll stop by the library during my lunch break.”
“Ok. Bless you; you’re so good to me. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Sleep well.”
Amina ended the call and put her phone on the dresser next to her bed. Looking around her room, she reviewed her lifetime’s work in the artwork that decorated every meter of the walls and ceiling. Some of the paintings were done in acrylic, others in oils or even stencil. Nowadays her medium was her desktop PC, working for her father’s bank designing the pamphlets and billboards that advertised her family name as trustworthy: Tunisia’s standard for financial security. Reflecting as she prepared for bed, Amina mulled over her current circumstances, her train of thought prompted by the change in Ali’s fortunes. Have I earned it all myself? No. I took no risks; my father got me the job. Could I have struck out on my own? An educated woman in Tunis, even in this day and age? It was hard to say, honestly. Maybe she could start her own graphic design firm, hire other women (and men!) with talent, use her contacts from university, get some good clients lined up… who knew. What she did know was that her fiancé was sticking his neck out for what he believed in, taking some risks with his career, and she admired him for it.
Father wouldn’t approve if he knew what Ali was writing - had written - on his blog. It was true. Her father, though likeable enough, could be extremely critical of new ideas, of real change. The Arab Spring was bad enough in his mind .
She’d go visit Ali tomorrow and they would talk about their next move, together. She still wanted to marry in the summer, and they’d need to plan it all out: finances, everything. Amina had come to the conclusion that she would continue to work after marriage; she hadn’t yet mentioned the notion to her parents, but she suspected they’d go along with it if she stood her ground. It’d save the family bank money and the hassle of a new hire in the long
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