Praise for The Woman Who Fell from the Sky
“Offers the voices of Muslim women torn between familial concerns and individual freedoms.”
—Newsweek
“A completely winning account of [Steil’s] adventures as a feminist mentor and boss … A riveting tale of a life’s journey that reads as if it will need a sequel.”
—New York Times
“A delightful and straight-talking story of one American woman living, working, and finding friendship and love in a Muslim country. Highly recommended for interested memoir readers as well as journalism, Middle Eastern, and women’s studies students.”
—Library Journal
“Anybody who has taken on an unfamiliar task, moved to a new place, or taken on a new role at work or at home without being at all sure about having the necessary skills should find a kindred spirit here.”
—Post and Courier
“The image of Yemen that Steil paints is one of love, family, honor, and surprisingly, of women who are both powerful and liberated but, because of custom, unwilling to flaunt their beauty in public…. An antidote to stereotypes and blind prejudice.”
—Sydney Morning Herald, A Pick of the Week
“From the first page of The Woman Who Fell from the Sky, Jennifer Steil comes across as a person blessed with sensibility and sensitivity in equal measure. She is the kind of woman who’s not fearful of culture shock, danger, or the trials and tribulations of life in what is the Arab World’s rawest land. Her writing is an absolute delight—no nonsense, clear, funny, and sometimes alarming, as she threads her way through the ins and outs of Yemeni life. Steil has achieved far more than a simple description of a stint working at a newspaper in Sana’a. Rather, her book shines a vibrant light on the region, showing it how it is, with astonishing clarity from the inside out.”
—Tahir Shah, author of The Caliph’s House and In Arabian Nights
“A fascinating read.”
—The Age (Australia)
“Steil puts humanity and color into her description of a country most Americans know only as a desert haven for terrorists. Her affection for Yemen and its people will make readers want to see it for themselves. A lovely book that offers a large measure of cultural understanding in a region that is too easily misunderstood and caricatured.”
—Nina Burleigh, author of Unholy Business
“The Woman Who Fell from the Sky is that rare animal: a memoir which reads like a novel. From the exquisite detail to the passionate, poignant, and often hilarious story of one powerful woman immersed in centuries of patriarchal tradition, Steil takes us on a journey that left me exhausted and exhilarated. Hugely entertaining and vitally important to our times, the book tucks us under a veil and allows us a unique glimpse into a culture as old as Noah. Not only did I remember what it feels and smells like to live imbedded in the Arab world, I also relearned my craft of journalism along with Steil’s students in her dusty classroom halfway around the world. Veils and hats off to this winner!”
—Jennifer Jordan, author of Savage Summit:
The Life and Death of the First Five Women of K2
“With intelligence, humor, and courage, Jennifer Steil’s book helps us see beyond stereotypes of male and female, East and West, conservative and liberal to appreciate the beauty and wonder of deeply rooted cultures—and the authentic relationships that can transcend them all.”
—Susan Piver, author of How Not to Be Afraid of Your Own Life
and The Wisdom of a Broken Heart
“Jennifer Steil’s voice recalls that of Isak Dinesen and Freya Stark: generous and observant, unabashed in her love for her home in exile, yet unafraid to speak her mind about injustice, and everything laced with wit and rich detail. This is an important book about a corner of the world we cannot afford to misunderstand, and Jennifer Steil is the perfect person to guide us.”
—Tom Zoellner, author of The Heartless Stone and Uranium
While this is a true story, some names and details have been changed to protect the identities of those who appear in these pages.
Copyright © 2010, 2011 by Jennifer F. Steil
All rights reserved.
Published in the United States by Broadway Paperbacks, an imprint of the Crown Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc., New York.
www.crownpublishing.com
BROADWAY PAPERBACKS and its logo, a letter B bisected on the diagonal, are trademarks of Random House, Inc.
Originally published in hardcover in slightly different form in the United States by Broadway Books, an imprint of the Crown Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc., New York, in 2010.
Grateful acknowledgment is made to the following for permission to reprint previously published and unpublished material:
American Institute for Yemeni Studies for permission to reprint a poem from The Book of Sana’a: Poetry of Abd al-Aziz al-Maqali, translated by Bob Holman and Sam Liebhaber (2004). Reprinted by permission of the American Institute for Yemeni Studies.
Food and Agriculture Organization of the United Nations for permission to reprint excerpts of the locust recipes taken from their website. Reprinted by permission of the Food and Agriculture Organization of the United Nations, Viale delle Terme di Caracalla, 00153 Rome, Italy.
The Yemen Observer for permission to reprint excerpts of articles from the Yemen Observer. Reprinted by permission of Faris al-Sanabani and the Yemen Observer.
Zaid al-Alaya’a for permission to reprint an excerpt of his note and poem to Jennifer Steil. Reprinted by permission of Zaid al-Alaya’a.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Steil, Jennifer F.
The woman who fell from the sky / Jennifer Steil.—1st ed.
p. cm.
1. Steil, Jennifer—Travel—Yemen—San’a’. 2. San’a’ (Yemen)—Description and travel.
3. Journalists—Yemen—San’a’—Biography. I. Title.
DS248.S26S74 2010
953.32—dc22 2009037172
eISBN: 978-0-307-71587-6
Cover design by LAURA DUFFY
Cover photography by JESSICA BOONE/GETTY IMAGES (pomegranate); JENNIFER F. STEIL (city)
v3.1
For Kawkab,
and all the other feisty Yemeni women
who give me hope for the country
she was a woman
who fell from the sky in robes
of dew
and became
a city
CONTENTS
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
one FANTASIA IN GINGERBREAD
two READING, WRITING, AND ROBBERY
three AN INVITATION
four THINGS TO CHEW ON
five YOU’LL DIE OVER THERE!
six WHEN, EXACTLY, IS INSHA’ALLAH?
seven MY YEMENI SHADOW
eight KIDNAPPINGS, STAMPEDES, AND SUICIDE BOMBINGS
nine THE FRONT LINES OF DEMOCRACY
ten HOMEMAKING IN THE HOLY MONTH
eleven THE TRIALS OF MOHAMMED AL-ASAADI
twelve TUG-OF-WAR
thirteen PILLARS OF RAYON
fourteen TROPICAL DEPRESSION
fifteen THE ARTIFICIAL MAN
sixteen THE POWER OF PEANUT BUTTER CUPS
seventeen A WORLD BEYOND WORK
eighteen DRAGGING DESIGNERS FROM THE QAT SHED AND
OTHER DRUG PROBLEMS
nineteen BRIGHT DAYS BEFORE THE DELUGE
twenty THE DELUGE
twenty-one BOMBS, BREAKUPS, AND BASTILLE DAY
twenty-two POMEGRANATE SEASON
&nbs
p; twenty-three SHE’S LEAVING HOME
twenty-four REASONS TO RETURN
EPILOGUE
AFTERWORD
About the Author
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Nothing in this book or my life would be remotely possible without the entire staff, past and present, of the Yemen Observer. Thank you for working so very hard for me, despite my mercurial management style. I owe you all an infinite debt of gratitude.
I also owe bottomless thanks to:
Theo Padnos, for getting me here.
My friend Tom Zoellner, whose invaluable assistance and encouragement from the very beginning helped this book to get off the ground.
My agent, Brettne Bloom, for believing in this book, for her unflagging enthusiasm and support, and for her inspirational thoughts on my original proposal.
My editor Kris Puopolo and her assistant editor, Stephanie Bowen, for their wise counsel in shaping this book, their meticulous editing, and their patience with my frequent long-distance phone calls.
My editor Christine Pride, for guiding this book through its final stages of labor and birth and for so indefatigably championing it.
Faris al-Sanabani, for trusting me. Sometimes.
Sabri Saleem, for his warm friendship and for providing me with my first Yemeni home.
Sami al-Siyani, for being the best friend, neighbor, and guide to Old Sana’a I can imagine.
My neighbors in the al-Wushali district of Old Sana’a for their infinite hospitality.
Muhoro Ndungu, for his tolerance of my moods during the darkest times, for his witch doctor skills, and for taking me in when I was homeless.
Bushra Nasr, for her generosity and friendship.
All of my Arabic teachers, but especially Fouad, for their patience with my erratic progress.
Mr. Jamal Hindi and the entire staff of Al Mankal restaurant, who always know exactly what I want for lunch.
The well-behaved taxi drivers who kept their hands on the wheel.
Harris Collingwood, for emotional and material support during difficult times.
Anne-Christine, Angelica, Carolyn, Koosje, and Jilles, housemates who turned my gingerbread house into a home.
Aida, without whom we would all have been wading through several feet of dust.
Rasheed, for showing me his Soqotra.
Anne Leewis, for helping me find a life outside work.
Phil Boyle, for making me laugh, feeding me curry, and granting me a pivotal interview with a British MP.
Don Lipinski, for the wine, movies, and loyal support, despite our political differences.
Marvin and Pearl, for the bootleg gin and Soqotra.
Tobias Lechtenfeld, for the lovely times in Sana’a, and for remaining a friend.
Peter Toth, for his phenomenal generosity, for his devoted friendship, and for Paris.
Chris and Peta Shute, for housing me as I wrote the first chapters of this book.
Lloyd, Dave, Colin, and the entire CP team, for keeping us all safe during the writing of this book and beyond.
Negesti, Alem, and Emebet, for taking such good care of us at home.
Cole and Ali, for keeping their senses of humor when I lost mine.
Manel Fall, for keeping me from bursting into flames.
Nick Janik, for saving me the horror of shopping.
Saleh and Didier, for their friendship and for Taiz.
Abdullah, for never failing to make me feel welcome.
My classmates and professors from the Columbia University Graduate School of Journalism, for their assistance in creating my original training course.
My friends in New York and elsewhere in the world—too numerous to list here—whose love and e-mails help keep me sane.
My parents, who are always supportive, even when they doubt the wisdom of my career choices.
Timothy Achille Torlot, for reading this book more times than anyone should, and for loving me more than I thought anyone could.
ONE
fantasia in gingerbread
I didn’t immediately see Zuhra when I walked into the bridal chamber. The room was dim, and she was curled over in prayer on the floor to my left, a mass of white satin with a black scarf over her head. Few people were allowed in the room with her—only sisters and dearest friends—and everyone was quiet. I stood still against a wall, watching her, waiting for her to finish. I hadn’t thought I would see Zuhra until she began her slow, deliberate march down the catwalk that ran the length of the wedding hall. But her sisters had summoned me, pulling me by the hand into this back room. Zuhra looked tiny and vulnerable, solemnly whispering her prayers.
But all hint of gravity vanished as she finished and pulled the veil from her face to beam up at me. She stood, the silky scarf slithering from her bare shoulders, and came to let me kiss her. Above the white of her Brooklyn-bought dress, her arms, back, and clavicle were painted with curling flowery vines, rendered in nagsh, a black ink favored by Yemeni brides. We didn’t speak at first but just stood smiling at each other.
“Antee jameela,” I said, touching her tiny waist. “Beautiful. Like a little doll bride.”
“Really?” She turned this way and that, so I could admire all of her. Her thick black hair was piled on top of her head in fanciful hair-sprayed loops. Her dark eyes were outlined in kohl, her face thickly powdered, and her lips colored a pale pomegranate.
“Really. I wish I could take a photo!” We had all been patted down at the door, to ensure none of us smuggled in a camera.
Zuhra pulled me down beside her on cushions at the end of the room, where we stayed for another hour waiting for her guests to finish their sunset prayers and work themselves into a frenzy of anticipation. Zuhra passed the time chatting with me and making calls on her mobile phone, mostly to her groom, who was (contrary to tradition) picking her up at the end of the night. “You are sure you haven’t argued with anyone today?” she said into the receiver. “You sound like maybe you argued.” She was worried that her husband had squabbled with her brother but was evidently reassured.
“Are you nervous?” I said. All the Yemeni brides I’d seen before had looked stricken with terror on their walks down the aisle. But unlike those brides, Zuhra knew her groom.
“No,” she said, smiling placidly. “I am just happy.”
Her two older sisters, clad in long, shiny ball gowns, popped in to tell us it was almost time.
I stood next to Zuhra, feeling tall and awkward in heels, which I rarely suffer for anyone. Outside the door, we heard the increasingly boisterous ululations of women, meant as encouragement for the bride. As this Arabic yodeling threatened to reach a crescendo, Zuhra suddenly looked panicked.
“My pill!” She grabbed her purse from a friend standing nearby and rummaged through the pockets of her wallet. She pulled out a blister pack of birth control pills, with all but four missing. We’d spent an entire afternoon picking out these pills, making sure they were the right combination of hormones and made by a legitimate pharmaceutical company.
Zuhra struggled with the package, unable to get the pill out with her fake nails. “Here,” I said. “Let me.” I popped one out and handed it to her. She washed it down with a swallow of water from someone’s bottle and picked up her skirts.
“Jeez, Zuhra, just in time,” I whispered as we started out the door.
I entered the room just ahead of her. The hundreds of black-cocooned women I had seen hurrying into the hall earlier that evening had transformed into gaudy miniskirted butterflies, coated with glitter and lipstick, tottering on three-inch heels. There were no men.
Zuhra’s youngest sister thrust a basket of jasmine petals into my hand. “Here,” she said. “Throw.”
Zuhra stepped forward. The lights had been dimmed, and all of the younger women and girls were on the stage at the end of the catwalk, their hands over their heads, swaying like so many colored streamers. Music swelled from behind the screen, where the band was hidden. At first I couldn’t quite believe t
he evidence of my ears. At a Yemeni wedding I expected Arabic music. But no, Zuhra was starting down the aisle toward her married life to Celine Dion’s “My Heart Will Go On,” from the soundtrack of Titanic.
THERE IS AN OLD JOKE about Yemen, told to any traveler who sticks around long enough: “Noah came back to Earth recently, curious to see how it had evolved since his time. In a private jet on loan from God, he first flew over France and said, ‘My! Look at France! How it has changed! What exciting new architecture! What amazing innovation!’ He then flew over Germany. ‘Incredible! I would hardly recognize it! So much new technology! Such thrilling industry!’ And then he headed to southern Arabia. ‘Ah, Yemen,’ he said fondly. ‘I’d know it anywhere. Hasn’t changed a bit.’”
In many ways, it hasn’t. Of course, I wasn’t in Yemen back in the first millennium BC, when Noah’s son Shem is said to have founded the capital city of Sana’a. But in many parts of the country, people are living exactly as their ancestors did thousands of years ago. They herd goats and cows; they grow wheat, pomegranates, and grapes; they travel long distances to fetch water. They live in simple square mud-brick homes. They paint themselves with nagsh for weddings. They pray.
The ancient landscape reveals little evidence of the passage of time. On a flyover today, Noah would find that erosion has run light fingers over the jagged mountains of the central highlands. Long stretches of empty beaches in the south are touched by the same tides that have washed them since the Flood. In the east, desert sands shift in barely perceptible ways. The green terraces carved into the Haraz mountains in the west or the hills around Ibb and Ta’iz to the south may have been there since the dawn of agriculture, cultivated by generation after generation of Yemeni farmers. The dense vegetation of the valleys suggests the whim of a playful god who, weary of the relentless beige of Arabian rock and sand, tossed a thick emerald quilt over Yemen’s countryside, creating a fertile layer that has fed the Yemeni people for generations.
Noah would find the most familiar territory in the country’s remotest places, such as the island of Soqotra, located 220 miles off Yemen’s eastern coast. On Soqotra, there are few roads and fewer electric lights. The dominant structures are not the crumbling stone buildings (which blend so completely into the hillsides that you don’t see them until you trip over a small child running out of one) but its fanciful dragon’s blood trees, their tall, thousand-year-old trunks erupting into such a wild tangle of branches that they resemble a forest of umbrellas blown upward by the wind.
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