Science Under Siege!

 

Dr. Neil deGrasse Tyson is the showman supreme of astrophysics. I have long admired how he brings complex scientific ideas to the general public with clarity and humor. So when Jamie Canfield, our president, offered me the chance to accompany her to his talk at the Long Center on April 14th, I did not hesitate. The title, “Science Under Siege,” felt especially relevant in today’s climate, where science funding is under pressure and public discourse around science is becoming increasingly strained.

As expected, the showman did not disappoint. The roughly 2,500-seat auditorium was nearly full, with an audience that spanned generations, from young children to seniors. For over two hours, he held their attention with ease. There were stories, personal anecdotes, moments of humor, interactions with children in the audience, and even live tweeting during the talk. His connection with Austin, mentioned at different points during the talk, elicited warm applause from the audience. From a presentation standpoint, it was polished and highly engaging.

At the same time, the subject itself was serious. Science, as he framed it, is facing multiple challenges, including funding cuts, policy decisions that run counter to established scientific understanding, and a broader cultural polarization that affects how science is perceived.

Dr. Tyson chose to approach these issues through his own experiences. He spoke about his journey, his perspective on the current situation, and his role as a public figure advocating for science. Early on, he made a point of distancing the issue from simple political binaries. According to him, this is not a matter of Republicans versus Democrats or Right versus Left. He supported this with historical examples, highlighting which administrations increased or decreased science funding. Some of these examples were surprising. For instance, the largest percentage increase came under Eisenhower, while some of the smallest  increases occurred under Democratic presidents.

He then moved to the idea of bias and how easily we label institutions and individuals. Fox Corporation served as one of his examples. He spoke about his involvement in reviving Cosmos and used that to challenge the perception of Fox as a monolithic entity. His argument was that such labels often obscure more than they reveal.

This line of thought continued into a broader discussion about political identity and attitudes toward science. He argued, quite effectively, that being right-leaning does not automatically make someone anti-science, just as being left-leaning does not guarantee the opposite. He presented this in a way that kept the audience laughing, but the underlying point was clear. If we claim to value scientific thinking, then we have to be guided by evidence rather than assumptions.

A significant portion of the talk focused on his role as an “influencer,” particularly on social media. He described how he deliberately structures his posts to reach beyond his existing audience. To do this, he uses a set of keywords that cut across cultural and political lines, including religion, media, public figures, and contentious social topics. He then shared examples of tweets built around these keywords and demonstrated how they reached people outside his usual circle. Some of the reactions were negative, including people blocking him, but he viewed that as confirmation that he was, in fact, reaching new audiences.

His broader message here was that it is not enough to speak within one’s own echo chamber. If science is to be defended effectively, its advocates need to engage with those who may not already agree.

He did point to a few reasons for optimism. Certain policy decisions, particularly around vaccines, had been challenged successfully in the courts. Proposed budget cuts had also been pushed back, in some cases with bipartisan support. As he wrapped up, he mentioned a documentary he is involved in, Shot in the Arm, which is expected to be released later this year. He added that a private screener could be requested by emailing maureen@blackvalleyfilms.com. He also acknowledged the book Science Under Siege: How to Fight the Five Most Powerful Forces That Threaten Our World by Michael E. Mann and Peter J. Hotez, from which the talk takes its title. The evening ended with strong applause and a call from Dr. Tyson for everyone to speak out in support of science.

And yet, despite all this, I found myself underwhelmed.

Going in, I expected that the talk would include politics alongside science. That seemed inevitable given the title. What I did not expect was how little actual science would feature in the discussion. By the end, I found myself asking a simple question: what did I really learn? I am not sure I came away with a clear answer.

There were certainly interesting moments. His argument about not reducing science to political identity was worth hearing. The explanation behind his social media strategy was new to me, even though I was already familiar with many of the tweets he referenced. But beyond that, I was left wanting more. What is the broader scientific community doing in response to these challenges? What role can someone like me, or any other science enthusiast, realistically play?

The talk, at least to me, felt more centered on him than on the subject itself. Some self-reference is expected, of course, especially from a public figure of his stature. Still, it seemed to take up more space than it needed to. Given that this was a ticketed event, and not an inexpensive one, I could not help but wonder if that time might have been better spent on other topics.

I also kept thinking about the younger audience members. One young girl who was invited on stage will probably remember that moment for years. But how much of the rest of the discussion would have connected with her, or with other children in attendance? Even a small segment focused on actual science might have made a difference there.

In conversations afterward, both in person and online, I found that I was not alone in this reaction. Many people had expected at least some scientific content and were surprised by its absence.

That said, I can see how this talk might have landed differently for others. For those who are not closely following the current challenges facing science, or who are not familiar with Dr. Tyson’s social media presence, much of this may have been informative and even eye-opening.

For me, however, it felt more like a performance than a deep exploration of the topic. It was well delivered, often entertaining, and clearly resonated with much of the audience. But I had gone in hoping to learn something new about science itself, and on that front, it did not quite deliver. If I were looking for a well-presented set, I might have gone to Fifth Street rather than the Long Center, to be honest.

And in hindsight, I might have learned more by sticking with my original plan and attending the local Astronomy on Tap event instead. Then again, that may simply be a matter of what I was looking for going in.

This article was published in April 2026 issue of 'The Sidereal Times', the official newsletter of The Austin Astronomical Society. 

The Perfect Draw

 

I reached the stadium gates at 3:45 PM for a match that wouldn't begin until seven that evening.

Friends thought I was crazy. Why would anyone arrive three hours before kickoff?

They were asking the wrong question.

I wasn't there just to watch a football match. I was there to experience the FIFA World Cup.

When I bought the ticket a few weeks earlier, Cape Verde against Saudi Arabia looked like the safest financial decision of the tournament. It wasn't Argentina. It wasn't England. It wasn't Brazil. It certainly wasn't the final. It looked like one of those low-profile group games where tickets were still within reach of an ordinary fan. I wanted to tick the World Cup off my bucket list without emptying my bank account.

The maths looked friendly.

Then football did what football often does.

By the time I reached Houston, Cape Verde had already held mighty Spain to a goalless draw and matched Uruguay stride for stride for another point. The quiet little group game I had picked had suddenly become one of the stories of the tournament. One more point against Saudi Arabia and, if Spain did them one more favor, Cape Verde could book a place in the Round of 32.

Without realizing it, I had stumbled upon one of the most important matches of the group stage.

The first sight of the stadium came as we emerged from the metro station. Except it wasn't really the stadium I knew. NRG Stadium had disappeared. FIFA had renamed it simply "Houston Stadium," continuing its long-standing practice of removing corporate names during its tournaments. Levi's Stadium and Gillette Stadium have become remarkably good at turning this temporary disappearance into free publicity. Sometimes, disappearing from the signboards is the best advertising of all.

The walk from the station to the stadium felt more like joining a festival than attending a sporting event. Volunteers stood every few hundred yards, holding signboards, offering water, directing fans, answering questions and welcoming complete strangers with smiles that felt genuinely warm. It reminded me of arriving at a family wedding where dozens of relatives are waiting outside to make sure every guest finds the right hall.

Then I noticed the crowd. Not the size of it.

The people.

Grandparents leaning on walking sticks walked beside teenagers draped in national flags. Parents pushed strollers carrying babies dressed in tiny football kits. Wheelchairs rolled alongside supporters with painted faces and colourful wigs. Families made a day of it. Groups of friends collected memories. Solitary travellers quietly took everything in. Around me I heard languages I couldn't identify, accents from every continent and saw jerseys from countries that weren't even playing that evening. For those few hours, it felt as though the world had gathered in one place.

The fan festival outside the stadium was an attraction in itself. There were skill challenges, virtual reality games, sponsor activations, giveaways, photo opportunities with the official match ball, signed jerseys and even a chance to play virtually alongside Lionel Messi. By the time the announcements for kickoff began, I realized I had spent three hours there without once looking at my watch. Had the match not been about to begin, I would happily have stayed in the fan festival much longer.

Only one thing refused to cooperate - The weather.

Houston's summer heat was relentless. Every activity involved another queue under the sun. Hydration stations that had been easy to find on the approach roads were noticeably absent from the fan festival, where they were needed the most. Unsurprisingly, the concession stands selling drinks did brisk business throughout the afternoon.

After three hours in that heat, walking into the air-conditioned stadium felt like walking into another season. And it was a packed stadium. 

Nearly 69,000 people filled the stadium that evening. Looking around, it genuinely felt as though at least 60,000 of them had decided Cape Verde was their team for the evening. The chants of "Cabo Verde... Cabo Verde..." echoed around the stadium long before kickoff.

I found myself sitting among Cape Verde supporters.

The gentleman beside me told me his parents were from Cape Verde. He admitted he had never imagined seeing his country play at a FIFA World Cup, let alone one where qualification for the knockout stage was a real possibility. There was pride in his voice, but there was also disbelief and years of waiting suddenly finding a release.

Behind us sat another passionate supporter who spent the entire match coaching the Cape Verde players from several rows behind the touchline. Every misplaced pass earned her disapproval. Every attack came with instructions only she believed the players could hear over all the noise. When Cape Verde squandered a promising chance, she reacted as though a member of her own family had missed it.

That, I realized, is what the World Cup does.

Coming back to the game, there were no goals. But I didn't miss them as much as I thought I would.

Saudi Arabia and Cape Verde were evenly matched. Both created opportunities. Both defended desperately. Both knew exactly what was at stake. Nobody was willing to make the mistake that could end a World Cup.

Then, midway through the first half, the giant screen showed an update from the other Group H match.

Spain had scored against Uruguay.

For a brief second there was silence as people worked out what that meant.

Then the stadium exploded.

That goal meant Cape Verde would qualify with a draw if the score remained unchanged.

The roar was so loud that my Apple Watch vibrated on my wrist, politely suggesting that I move to a quieter environment because the noise level was unsafe.

I looked around and laughed.

The stadium had just erupted not because of something that had happened here but because of something that had happened in another country.

Not because they supported Spain. But because they supported Cape Verde.

The second half ended the way one had expected it might. The score remained 0-0.

For ninety minutes they had chased victory. Now they stood separated by the thinnest of margins, not on the scoreboard, but in what that scoreboard meant. Saudi Arabia's players sank to the turf, their World Cup campaign over. Cape Verde marched on to the next round. 

Cape Verde's players could have sprinted straight towards their dugout even as 60,000 voices were already celebrating them. Instead, many of them first walked across to their Saudi counterparts, offering handshakes, embraces and words that cameras could never quite capture. Only then did they turn towards their own supporters and begin their dance of joy.

In that quiet act of sportsmanship lay one of the finest moments of the evening. Football had demanded everything from both teams for ninety minutes. When it was over, it reminded everyone that opponents need not become enemies.

Watching Cape Verde celebrate, I found myself thinking about how different this World Cup feels.

For the first time, FIFA has expanded the tournament to 48 teams. Twelve groups of four teams each replace the old eight-group format, and a new Round of 32 means that not only do the top two teams from every group progress, but so do the eight best third-placed teams. On paper it sounds complicated. In practice it keeps more teams alive until the final round of group matches. Fans suddenly find themselves cheering for goals scored hundreds of miles away because those results might rescue their team or eliminate a rival. That was exactly what happened in Houston.

The expansion is not without its detractors. Traditionalists have questioned whether football really needed a bigger World Cup. They have a point. There are clearly teams in this tournament that would have struggled to qualify under the old format, and some matches have been decidedly one-sided. Critics also argue that the expansion makes commercial sense for FIFA. A longer tournament means more matches, and more matches mean more revenue through broadcasting rights, sponsorships and ticket sales.

They may be right.

But there is another side to that argument.

Without expansion, would Cape Verde have been here?

Would Curaçao?

Would Bosnia and Herzegovina?

Perhaps not.

For countries that have spent decades watching the World Cup rather than playing in it, this expansion is more than an accounting exercise. It is an invitation. Watching the gentleman beside me struggle to contain his emotions, I realized that the value of those extra places cannot always be measured in  quality of play. Sometimes it is measured in dreams fulfilled.

Asia tells a similar story.

With eight direct qualification places now available, Asia is represented by familiar names such as Japan, South Korea, Iran, Saudi Arabia, Qatar and Australia, alongside first-time qualifiers Jordan and Uzbekistan. Iraq had to take the longer route through the FIFA Play-Off Tournament before eventually joining them. The World Cup suddenly feels more representative of Asian football than it ever has before.

For an Indian, however, that one thought is impossible to suppress.

If Asia has never had a better chance to send teams to the World Cup, why is India still missing?

The answer is uncomfortable rather than complicated. Qualification places have increased. India's football has not improved at the same pace. The opportunity is larger than it has ever been. But the challenge remains just as real.

Football, unfortunately, never travels alone.

Politics arrived in this tournament long before the teams did. Iran's participation became entangled with visa issues for players, officials and support staff. Iraq faced its own difficulties. Even a Somalian referee found himself caught in the bureaucracy. The United States, one of the host nations, found itself trying to balance the demands of global sport with the realities of immigration policy and geopolitics. FIFA has always maintained that football should unite people beyond politics. Reality, as it often does, had other plans.

Yet once you stepped inside the stadium, none of that seemed to matter.

People were too busy enjoying themselves.

That enjoyment, however, came at a price. And I'm not even referring to the ticket. I was fortunate. I bought mine before Cape Verde became one of the stories of the tournament. By match day, resale prices had climbed into four and, in some cases, five figures, not just for this match but for many of the tournament's marquee fixtures. Getting through the turnstiles was only the beginning.

On a scorching Houston afternoon, staying hydrated wasn't cheap. A bottle of water cost six dollars. A beer was eighteen. Parking became progressively more expensive the closer you got to the venue. The FIFA Store was full of jerseys, replica balls, scarves, caps and every imaginable souvenir, all carrying premium price tags. Yet the queues never seemed to shorten. People queued for food. They queued for merchandise. They queued for photographs. They hadn't travelled halfway around the world to save money. They had come for an experience and, whether willingly or reluctantly, they were paying for it.

Despite the politics, despite the prices, despite the commercialization, despite all the debates that now surround the modern game, the World Cup still manages to produce evenings like this one.

Nearly 69,000 people came to watch a football match.

Many of them left talking about a country with fewer people than many Indian towns.

That, perhaps, is the greatest success of the expanded World Cup. It gives countries that normally live on football's margins a chance to occupy its center, if only for a few weeks.

As I walked back towards the metro station that night, I found myself thinking about the title I had scribbled in my notebook.

The Perfect Draw.

A perfect draw because the score was 0-0.

A perfect draw because the expanded tournament had drawn Cape Verde onto football's biggest stage and they justified their place.

A perfect draw because nearly 69,000 people had discovered that football doesn't always need goals to produce unforgettable memories.

And perhaps the most perfect draw of all...

I had bought what I thought was the cheapest ticket at the World Cup.

Instead, I had unknowingly bought one of its finest stories.

This is the English version of an article I wrote for Solvanam magazine. The Tamil article is available here. 

The Price of Possibility!

 

A few evenings ago, after my daughter committed to Texas A&M University, we gathered the mountain of college mail that had accumulated over the past year and spread it across our living room floor.

There were glossy brochures from every corner of America. Thick embossed envelopes. Personalized letters. Smiling students walking beneath trees that seemed permanently trapped in perfect October sunlight. Laboratories where breakthroughs were apparently occurring at hourly intervals. Residence halls that looked suspiciously like boutique hotels. And enough promises of leadership, innovation, purpose, and transformation to suggest that every university in America has independently discovered the secret to human flourishing.

At the center of it all sat her maroon hoodie. The decision had been made.

For months our mailbox had delivered this steady flood of courtship. Universities had pursued my daughter with a determination usually reserved for political campaigns and luxury car dealerships. Every envelope suggested that somewhere just beyond our front door lay the exact future she had always dreamed of, though admittedly several dozen institutions seemed to be offering precisely the same dream. 

Standing there, looking at that sea of glossy persuasion surrounding the sweatshirt she had chosen, I felt what every parent probably feels at this moment.

Pride, first. Relief, certainly. And then a question lingered.

When did education start looking so much like retail?

When I was younger, I thought of universities as solemn places. Libraries. Debate. Discovery. Serious minds asking difficult questions. I imagined professors who forgot what day it was because they were too busy thinking about the nature of truth. I did not imagine direct mail campaigns sophisticated enough to make luxury resorts seem understated.

And yet this is where we are.

For twelve years, we treat education as a public good. Society funds it because we understand that learning benefits everyone. We do not ask whether elementary school offers sufficient return on investment before allowing children to learn arithmetic.

Then, at eighteen, something curious happens. Education transforms into a consumer product. At that point, families are expected to make one of the largest financial decisions of their lives with less clarity than most would demand when buying a refrigerator.

And the numbers are astonishing.

Tuition rises faster than inflation with a consistency that deserves academic study of its own. Add housing, meal plans, books, transportation, technology charges, activity fees, orientation fees, insurance, and a collection of mandatory expenses whose purpose is usually explained in prose so dense that even lawyers might ask for clarification, and the total becomes staggering.

The dormitory experience is especially impressive. Universities have somehow persuaded families that paying premium apartment rates for a room approximately the size of an optimistic storage closet is both reasonable and character building. Meal plans are their own small marvel. Students somehow pay restaurant prices for food they will still complain about every weekend.

And still we pay.

We pay because this is our children’s future.

That simple fact explains almost everything.

We sit at kitchen tables with calculators and spreadsheets, pretending this is an exercise in financial analysis when in truth we are trying to assign a dollar value to possibility itself. How much is opportunity worth? What price should we place on growth, independence, friendships, intellectual challenge, and the chance to become who they are meant to become? No parent can answer those questions easily.

The pressure on our children is even greater.

At seventeen, they are expected to present resumes suggesting the discipline of accomplished professionals while still being reminded to enjoy their youth. They are encouraged to dream boldly while also calculating practical return on investment like financial analysts. They are told to discover themselves while making decisions that may shape decades of their lives.

And hanging over all of it is selectivity.

Admission itself has become a kind of national theater. The emotional burden this places on young people is enormous. Acceptance rates at many institutions have dropped so low that rejection becomes statistically likely even for extraordinary students. Teenagers who have spent years collecting achievements with the discipline of Olympic athletes are informed, often by algorithmically timed email, that they were simply not exceptional enough this time. Scarcity has become part of the product itself. Universities quietly understand that the harder it is to get in, the more desirable they appear.

We have somehow normalized this.

Parents feel it too. Every acceptance letter brings excitement, followed almost immediately by arithmetic. Can we afford this? Should we? What sort of life begins with this kind of debt? For students who go on to pursue medicine, law, or advanced graduate study, the numbers become so large they seem less like loans and more like geopolitical obligations.

And then there is the peculiar American phenomenon of college sports.

To much of the world, this requires explanation.

In many countries, universities are places where students sometimes play sports. In America, there are moments when one suspects the arrangement has been reversed.

This is only a slight exaggeration.

Across the country, public universities maintain athletic complexes so elaborate they could easily be mistaken for professional franchises with a modest academic side business. Stadiums seat tens of thousands. Training facilities gleam. Coaching contracts climb into the millions.

In several states, the highest paid public employee is not a governor, scientist, or surgeon. It is the football coach at the state university. Apparently shaping young minds matter, but converting third and long is more lucrative.

To be fair, athletics build community. They create identity, loyalty, excitement, and opportunity for many students. But it is difficult for parents writing tuition checks not to occasionally wonder whether they are funding a university with a football team or a football enterprise with some classrooms attached.

That question becomes sharper when one considers the enormous resources already flowing into higher education through alumni donations, research grants, public support, philanthropic gifts, tax advantages, and institutional endowments. American universities are not passing around a hat to keep the lights on. Many command resources that would have impressed small kingdoms. And yet families still feel squeezed. This is the contradiction at the heart of the system.

And still, for all of this, I cannot simply criticize and walk away. That would be too easy, and it would also not be true. 

American universities remain among the finest institutions in the world. They produce extraordinary scholarship, innovation, research, and opportunity on a remarkable scale. They change lives. They broaden horizons. They introduce young people to ideas and friendships that shape who they become forever.

I believe in that promise. That is precisely why my daughter’s decision fills me with hope. The maroon hoodie in our living room is proof that she has not surrendered to some vast marketing machine. It is simply a reminder of her hard work and of the life she is about to begin.

Like every parent sending a child to college, I feel pride and excitement for what comes next. But I also feel a quiet unease that we have allowed one of society’s most important institutions to become so entangled with branding, prestige, spectacle, and financial strain. Education should stretch young minds. It should not stretch family finances to the breaking point. It should expand possibility, not mortgage it.

The brochures are gone now. The choice is made. The next chapter begins. Like every parent at this moment, I am hopeful. I am proud. Somewhere along the way, possibility acquired a price tag. 

I am still wondering when we decided that was normal.