The Kuwait University library pulsed with the activity of students. Some seated around long tables took notes as they read with their textbooks scattered around them. Others ambled among the stacks, matching titles with information on index cards. One student slumped back in his chair, yawned, and rubbed his eyes, while another stared mindlessly at the written materials before her. Still others completed the check-out process and left for the evening, volumes in hand.

I made my way to the reception area where I stood behind a student asking the Kuwaiti woman behind the desk where she could locate books on linear algebra. Next to her sat a man who explained the library policy on overdue books to a student. The woman behind the desk finished her business with the student and glanced up at me, hardly pausing to acknowledge my presence and jotting something in a note book with great attention. I sensed that she was reluctant to speak with me. The man looked at me slowly and addressed me politely, almost softly. "May I help you?"

"Yes, sir. I am here to apply for the position posted on the announcement board inside the front door of the library."

"Hmm, what position is that?"

"The part-time job here in the library." I took care not to use the word "student" in my reply, for fear he might question my status as a student or ask to see some identification. The way I was dressed in my work-clothes, I could have passed for many things, but a student wasn't one of them.

"I understand." He nodded as he spoke. "If you'd be kind enough to wait here a moment. . . ."

"Yes, sir," I said.

He walked to a nearby office and returned a few moments later, accompanied by a woman smartly dressed in a dark brown blazer, a white, long-sleeved blouse, and a dark maroon skirt. Her modern attire was striking and something I didn't see in my neighborhood, where Kuwaiti women wore traditional dress. Suddenly, I felt even more out of place in my T-shirt, jeans, and tennis shoes.

"Good evening. I am Linda," she said looking me directly in the eye. "I am in charge of student hiring. I understand you are interested in applying for the part-time position."

She was a study in contrasts. Her European first name set her apart from other Kuwaiti women, but I could tell by her Arabic dialect that she was Iraqi. I have to admit that in a country where many women wore hijabs, her uncovered head, blond hair cut in a stylish bob, her manner of dress, and green eyes took me aback. Standing before me was a woman independent enough to dress in a way that departed from the de rigueur dress for traditional Kuwaiti women. Clearly, she was someone who, if not totally Westernized, was less bound to tradition and more open to contemporary cultural influences.

I hesitated for a moment, caught up as I was in the color of her eyes and her self-assured manner. I answered her in English to let her know I was bilingual. "Yes, I'd very much like to be considered for the position."

Before I could say anything else, she broke in. "Please come with me," she said, turning to her office and motioning me to accompany her. Books and papers were arranged in neat patterns on the desk in her office, the meticulousness of which reflected someone with a precise sense of order.

"May I ask your name?"

"Razi. Razi Imam."

"Well, Razi, tell me about yourself." She leaned forward slightly.

I hesitated. I wasn't prepared for this. I just stared blankly at her. "Where do I start?" No sooner had the words come out of my mouth than I realized what a fool I must have sounded like.

Linda chuckled. "Please relax. This isn't a test. I have an understandable interest in the people who choose to apply here." She smiled. "Why don't you tell me why you want this job?" she said, trying to put me at ease.

My mind was racing. She didn't know that I had just walked in off the road and that just a few hours earlier, I had been checking containers at the docks. She had no idea that if I hadn't accidentally fallen asleep on the bus, I wouldn't have even been there. I wasn't a student at the university. "This was a really bad idea," I thought to myself.

"The job sounds really good," I blurted out.

Her eyes opened wider. "Let me ask you something else. How committed are you to working here in the evening? It's essential that the person we hire show up regularly and on time."

She then explained the position in detail. The hours were 7 p.m. to 10 p.m., six nights a week, with Friday being the traditional day of rest in Kuwait. Responsibilities included gathering books that students left on tables and reshelving them. "To maintain order in the collection, we do not permit the students to reshelve library books," she said.

"The work sounds like something I'm cut out for, and I can be here on time every evening," I said. "I can work on weekends and on national holidays. I'll be available any time. Just let me know what you need."

"Razi, what do you hope to gain by getting this job?"

"Linda, it gives me an opportunity to work in a quiet environment where I can also focus on reading scientific books."

"Thank you. On another topic, I should mention that reshelving books isn't that complicated, but you will need to familiarize yourself with the Dewey decimal system of cataloging."

Her brow furrowed, and she asked if I knew what the Dewey decimal system was. Of course, I had no idea.

"No, I do not," I said. I clenched the armrests on the chair even tighter.

"I'm sure you can learn," she said, and went on to say that I couldn't have come at a better time. She had experienced difficulty attracting a student to fill this evening position. "It seems that students don't like to work late in the evening, especially in a library," she said, giving me a penetrating gaze.

Little did she know just how desperate I was. I smiled.

"Well, Razi, with all things considered, I think you'll do just fine. The job is yours," she said.

Did I hear her right? Did she just offer me the job? I couldn't believe it. My uneasiness evaporated. "That's great! When would you like me to start?" I asked.

"Tomorrow, if at all possible."

"Thank you, Linda. I'll be here promptly at 7 p.m. tomorrow evening. Is there anything I need to do before I arrive?"

"Just one thing," she said as she handed me a sheaf of papers containing the classification numbers and corresponding descriptions of the Dewey decimal system. "Please familiarize yourself with this information before tomorrow. It will make things easier when you arrive, and I can explain the system in detail."

With that, she rose, facing me. I stood up, folded the papers she had given me, and thanked her again. She reached out and shook my hand, an uncommon gesture for a woman in Kuwait. I walked through the library slowly on my way out, pausing now and then to glance around, and reflected on my good fortune. Though not enrolled at the university, I felt vicarious pleasure, as if I were a student among students; the papers Linda had given me allowed me to return to the library without fear that the guard would stop me.

The next morning, I shared the good news with my friends and fellow workers at the dock—Omar, Rashid, and Karim. When I got off the bus, I walked right up to them, and without so much as a "good morning," launched into my account. "You're not going to believe what happened to me last night!" I wanted to share and brag at the same time.

"Starting this evening, I'm going to work at the Kuwait University Library."

"Doing what?" Karim asked.

"Re-shelving books."

"Sounds like a bullshit job to me," Omar said.

"No. It's a good job. I'll be gathering books students leave behind and putting them back on the shelves."

"Sounds like you'll be doing nothing and getting paid for it, you lucky son of a bitch," Rashid said.

It may seem strange that I enjoyed a friendship with these laborers. Outwardly, we shared nothing in common. But they had softer, human sides to them, and I enjoyed their differences. Karim was a teleclerk, Iranian, and a devout Muslim. He hailed from Tehran and recited salat, or prayers, five times a day facing toward the Ka'ba in Mecca, the traditionally accepted birthplace of Muhammad. He regularly donated zakat, a small share of his pay, to the impoverished people who lived in squalor near the docks. Omar, an Egyptian, spoke with a loud, coarse voice, and walked with a bow-legged shuffle that emphasized his short, pot-bellied stature. His left hand lacked a small finger, and in cold weather, he could be seen rubbing that hand in discomfort. When he stood close by, the combination of his sour, days-old body odor and the sweetish scent of alcohol could be overpowering. He spoke with a pronounced wheeze, punctuated at times by a deep, hacking cough. Rashid, a Syrian, operated an on-board ship's crane. This man had a genius for hustling. His gaunt face and sad eyes reflected the disappointment of a man who had been ill used in life and who always needed, wanted, and searched for something he could never find.

These men accepted me into their clique shortly after I had helped Abdul, and even started doing favors for me. Such was my friendship with this triumvirate that they located shower stalls for me in the container ships at anchor in Kuwait Harbor. At the end of each day, I changed my clothes, as well as my identity from a laborer to a library employee. I dressed in my best shirt, trousers, and shoes that I carried to work with me each day. After this transformation, I'd run to catch the number 15 bus to my evening job. I felt a kinship with Karim, Rashid, and Omar. They became a source of support for me.

I now considered myself as having come a long way from my first days working at the docks. The Dewey decimal system's basic three-number classification format for every conceivable type of book appealed to me. With Linda's guidance, I quickly learned the ins and outs of the system; she explained its workings and accompanied me for three evenings as I reshelved books. After that, I was on my own.

For some people, work tends to fill the time allotted to it. This was not the case for me. I soon became so efficient at my job that I completed the reshelving by 7:45 p.m. each night, and the remaining two hours or so were mine to do with as I wished. Without fail, I always headed straight for the stacks with books on physics, mathematics, and astronomy, and spent the hours until closing reading in these disciplines.

Although I can't remember exactly how many books and articles I read while working at the library, I do know that much of what I read was beyond my understanding. I had to push myself just to keep my eyes open some evenings. I had already been up since 5 a.m. and had worked a full 12-hour day by the time I arrived at the library. Yet I managed to read my way through one subject after another—including electricity, electronics, and magnetism.

Talking with Linda was quite different from the way I talked with my buddies in my day job, and we became professional colleagues over time. After I finished my work in the evening, I would pull up a chair and we'd often sit and talk. She would tell me about her pre-med courses in biology and biochemistry, and her plans to attend medical school and become a pediatrician. During one of our conversations, I uneasily disclosed to her that I was not a student at the university. Though I felt the need to be open and honest, I hoped that my revelation would not interfere with my job.

"Razi, I surmised that much when I hired you. It's not a problem. It is hard enough finding a person to work this shift here, and you were a welcome surprise," she said.

At times, I would pull up a chair to sit near her while she debated with students about their courses. I did not presume to sit at the table, but rather waited until Linda or one of the students would invite me to join them; even then, I didn't say much. Mostly, I listened, and daydreamed regularly about myself as a university student. Discussions became energized when a physics professor named Dr. Ali joined the group. He stood well over six feet tall and had broad shoulders. For all I knew, he might have been a rugby player. He looked to be in his early forties with a full mustache that gave him a swarthy appearance. When he arrived, he would smile broadly as he looked around at everyone and ask, "How are we all doing this evening?" as he set down his overstuffed briefcase. His gently modulated voice belied his large physical stature. One evening after I finished work, I listened to a spirited discussion he was having with Linda and some students about the dual nature of light.

"Photons can't have any rest mass," one of the students insisted. Dr. Ali raised his eyebrows in delight. "I agree. Check the theory of quantum mechanics," said another student, moving her right hand up and down in a chopping motion to emphasize her point.

"But don't you think it's strange that a photon can travel at the speed of light, but have no rest mass? Where does it go?" asked another.

"Professor Ali, what do you think?" Daoud, one of the more vocal students, piped up. "Wouldn't it be true that if someone proved that if a photon had rest mass, then the corollary would be that we could travel at the speed of light?"

In the instant before Professor Ali responded, I felt as if my brain suddenly popped open. What a counterintuitive concept! Everything in the universe had mass. How illogical to think that a particle like a photon could transmit light and not have rest mass. How could that be?

Later at a break in the discussion, Dr. Ali got up, said good night to everyone, and started to walk away. I ran to catch up with him.

"Dr. Ali, may I ask you something?"

He stopped and turned around. "Sure, Razi."

"If someone could show that photons really did have rest mass, would you regard that as a significant breakthrough?"

"Good question. What did you have in mind?"

"I'd just like to know if it would be a major achievement."

Dr. Ali humored me. "That may be very, very difficult, Razi," he said with knitted brow. "No one has ever done that. In fact, quantum physics tells us it can't be done." He spoke slowly, measuring his words.

"Would it be enough for a university in the United States to admit a person who proved that photons have rest mass?" I asked.

Dr. Ali chuckled. "Razi, yes, I think that would be a big achievement," he said.

My mind was spinning with ideas that night. I started jotting my thoughts down on a pad. My preoccupation with photons and rest mass kept me awake all night. I needed to start on this project right away, but I had no idea where or how. I had never written anything before, much less a scientific paper. I didn't talk to Professor Ali any more about this, nor did I say anything to my mother or father. But I did tell Omar, Rashid, and Karim the next day.