The Woman Who Fell from the Sky

by Jennifer Steil

  I wondered if the same could happen here. Yemen was moving toward democracy. Would that result in an even more conservative and restrictive culture? Faris didn’t seem to think so. Saleh was almost guaranteed reelection, and Yemen was already an Islamic country.

  When we left the restaurant at around ten P.M., Faris invited me to watch the World Cup with him and his friend Jalal, who had joined us, but I begged off. “If I don’t get to bed I will be useless to you tomorrow!”

  So Faris had Salem drive me home. I was asleep three seconds after I crawled into bed, although I woke briefly at three thirty to hear “Allaaaaahhhu Akbar!” wail through loudspeakers across the city. A sound that would become as familiar to me as the rumble and blare of Manhattan traffic.

  IF I HAD THOUGHT that things would slow down after that marathon first day, I was seriously mistaken. Every day I accumulated new students, every day more of my reporters dragged me off after class to edit their stories, every day Faris would think up some new thing he wanted from me. In addition, I began studying Arabic for an hour a day with a tutor. I almost never slept.

  But while I had never worked so hard in my life, I had never felt so useful or so motivated to get to the office. Letting down this group of reporters who had so willingly handed me their trust was unthinkable. They really thought I could turn them into professional journalists. I had to live up to their hopes. Besides, I kept telling myself, it’s only three weeks. I can go flat out for three weeks. There will be time for sleep when I get home.

  Still, there were moments when the size of the task overwhelmed me. I was expected to achieve something lasting during my short stay, but when I saw the stories my reporters wrote about my staged fight with Theo, that suddenly seemed impossible. Almost all lacked a coherent first sentence. Most got the facts wrong. And not one of them used anything approaching proper English. This last problem was not something I could fix. No matter how dedicated I was, I could not perfect the English of fifteen reporters in a few weeks. So I focused on what I could change: structure, reporting, and accuracy.

  We began our second class by reading these pieces aloud. Here is Zaid’s, in its exuberant entirety.

  It was very surprising for everybody to see Theo acting that way. The exchange that people heard between the two, Theo and Jennifer is anything but understood. Theo talking to Jennifer or let’s say quarreling with her over a fifty dollars that she owed him or he give it to her, we don’t exactly know. The quarrel heated a little and we all saw Theo snatching Jennifer’s purse and rushed outside after asking for her camera. What did he do with her purse outside we all didn’t know if really did something from her purse.

  I myself was perplexed as I have never seen Theo in this manner especially with a nice woman like Jennifer. We all knew Theo very well. To him money is no object and will never quarrel over it with anybody specially those who are very close to him. Probably Jennifer is the last person who would quarrel with over it. She is the one who responded to his call and came to Yemen in order to train us. She left a dying grandfather and rushed to middle of a place she never knew about. She can never ever be treated this way. It was more of a joke I reckoned in second thought.

  But when I looked deeply inside the eyes of the two I saw chemistry. I learned that they both were together in grade 11 and 12 and very competitive. So the whole thing happened between the two is Theo recollection of the memories that he terribly missed back in his school days that were brought back to his mind with the presence of Jennifer. Jennifer brought back all the sweet memories and things that Theo was craving. One could see that from the way he talks and the active attitude he took since the arrival of Jennifer.

  Theo and I were laughing too hard to talk at first. “So,” I finally managed. “I see you’ve written an opinion piece. Or was that news analysis?”

  After all, I had not told them what kind of news story to write. I wasn’t quite sure where to start.

  “Um, Zaid, I guess I wasn’t looking for quite so much interpretation. I want to see all of you write a straightforward news lead, with that who, what, where, when, and how that we talked about. Tell us what happened without your personal views interfering with the action.”

  Zaid nodded and wrote something down in his flowered notebook. (Yemeni men were quite comfortable carrying around notebooks festooned with flowers, hearts, or cartoon characters, something that charmed and amused me, given how macho their culture seemed from the outside.) I noticed a tape recorder on the table in front of him, its red light flashing.

  “Zaid? Are you tape-recording me?”

  “Yes!” He smiled. “I am going to memorize everything you tell us. I need to have it to refer to.”

  “I see.” I was flattered, but now I’d have to watch what I said.

  “Okay then, who is next? Let’s look at Arwa’s story.”

  Arwa had written a newsier piece. “In her first class as a trainer in Yemen Observer, Jennifer’s camera is taken by Theo Panderos who work also as an editor of Arabia Felix magazine,” her story began.

  This illustrated a few more of my challenges. Where did I start with prose like this? Grammar? The importance of spelling names correctly? (Theo’s surname is Padnos.) The use of the passive voice?

  Arwa continued: “The accident happened after a cute an argument between them … Eyewitnesses said that Theo burst in anger shut the windows close, picked up her bag from meeting table before he pushed out of the room, neglecting all her attempts to explain. ‘Don’t attend my class again, Theo,’ Jennifer said.”

  Most of this was patently untrue. So we had a little chat about factual reporting and the unreliability of eyewitnesses. “Many people who witness the exact same event will remember it in different ways,” I said. “As you have seen. Even people who believe they are telling you the truth may not be telling you what actually happened. Each person is telling you her version of what happened. You need to be aware of this.

  “I am unclear, however, whether this is what Arwa believes she actually saw or if she was merely trying to heighten the drama of the whole incident. Which is something we should try to avoid if possible. Let the facts be enough. Okay, next?”

  Arwa bowed her head and I couldn’t see her eyes. I hoped I had not embarrassed her. I couldn’t bear the thought of hurting any of the women or giving the men something to tease them about. I was still a little afraid of the women, afraid to intrude on their carefully drawn boundaries.

  While my reporters would often laugh at each other and openly criticize their colleagues’ work, they never questioned my authority. My status as a westerner who had written for national magazines and newspapers in the United States granted me their automatic respect and immunity from criticism. I was surprised that the men were so deferential right from the start. I had expected them to challenge me, or to refuse to take me seriously, because I was female. But this was far from the case. The men were almost obsequious, falling over each other to try to please me. My education, career, and foreignness, it seemed, trumped my sex.

  This passive attitude in the classroom wasn’t unusual. The Yemeni education system does not encourage critical thinking. Children learn almost entirely by rote, and corporal punishment is common. Teachers are never, ever questioned, and school is largely a grim, daunting place. I have never heard Yemenis speak with fond nostalgia about their early school days.

  After all the stories had been read, I took a marker out and walked to the board. “I notice a few things missing from all of these stories,” I said. “First, no one, except Adel, interviewed me, and no one interviewed Theo. Yet the story was about us. Didn’t you want to know if Theo had a history of stealing things from me, or if maybe we had had another fight before, if there might be other reasons we are angry at each other?”

  We went over what else they should have done to get this story right—interview their fellow classmates and witnesses, ask to inspect my purse, and spell our names correctly.

  For homework, I passed out a
Wall Street Journal story with a textbook-perfect anecdotal lead and a BBC news story with a direct lead, so we could spend the entire next class on leads. My reporters were unclear on the concept. Every single story in the Yemen Observer began with a lengthy attribution. For example: “The Ministry of Arabian Absurdity spokesperson said in all his glorious wisdom today June 11 that …” Or “The Minister of Myopia announced in a beautiful way today that on June 17 they will plan a meeting to deal with the issues of the opposition party signing a contract about the election with the dignitaries of the Party of the Usual Insanity, affirmed Ali al-Mallinguality …” That isn’t much of an exaggeration.

  So, in our next class, I taught them what I call the “Hey, Jolyon!” rule, which I developed at The Week. Jolyon used to write the art pages at The Week and sat next to me. Whenever I saw a really interesting story, I’d swing away from my computer and say, “Hey, Jolyon! Listen to this!”

  I told them to write the leads of their stories as if they were telling their story to their own Jolyons. “Look away from your notes, your sources, your lists of names, and simply tell me what the story is about. In one sentence. So that when a Yemeni man, for example, reads the paper, he will turn to his wife and say, ‘Hey, Arwa! Listen to this!’”

  AS THE DAYS PASSED, my relationships with my students grew warmer. When I arrived at work on my third day, Zaid met me at the door, wearing a long white thobe and jambiya, with a flash drive dangling from his neck. “Look, Jennifer!” he said, pointing to the jambiya and the flash drive. “I am both old-world and new-world!” He then followed me into the newsroom and bombarded me with questions about word definitions and how things were done in the West until my lesson began.

  Now that we had all grown at ease with each other, I had no trouble getting anyone to speak up in class. They were so eager to tell me what they knew that they were continually interrupting each other.

  The men often behaved like schoolboys, hiding each other’s shoes in wastebaskets, stealing each other’s chairs, and trying to one-up each other. They asked me things like “My lead was better than Zaid’s though, right? Mine was the best? Jennifer! Tell us who is the best!”

  One morning, Qasim and Farouq would not stop taunting each other. Qasim dialed Farouq on his cell phone while holding it under the table, just to get Farouq in trouble for having his phone on in class—which I had strictly forbidden.

  “That’s it,” I said, extending my open palm. “Hand them over.” Both men sheepishly handed me their phones, which I tucked into my purse. The women gazed at me in awe.

  Qasim also handed me a television remote control that was lying on the table. “Great idea,” I said. “Now you can only talk if I am pointing this at you!”

  This helped enormously.

  Theo, to my surprise, turned out to be one of my most enthusiastic cheerleaders. Not only did he help me to steer classroom discussions in constructive directions, he also cooked me dinner most evenings and helped me to plan out my days. Life outside the Yemen Observer offices (what little there was) was rarely more relaxing than life inside them, given how unfamiliar everything remained. I had to negotiate fares with taxi drivers in Arabic several times a day, for one thing. Grocery shopping was still beyond me and I never saw women eating alone in restaurants, so I ate only when either Sabri or Theo fed me. There was no time for me to meet people outside of work. I wondered how single foreigners survived the seeming dearth of romantic possibilities.

  AFTER CLASS ONE DAY, Zuhra, who was showing herself to be the most passionate of my reporters, asked me to sit and go through yet another story line by line. There were many corrections to be made, but she was learning quickly. Her questions had no end. She was a starving little plant and she thought I was the rain.

  The office was empty; everyone else had gone home for lunch and a couple hours of qat-chewing. When we were finally finished, at close to three P.M. (too late for me to get to the pool before the evening class), she grasped my arm with both of her tiny hands and fixed me with fierce brown eyes. “Jennifer. You have to tell me. Please. Do you think I can do it? Can I be a journalist? A real journalist? I want to know, because this is the career I have chosen for myself and I want you to tell me if you think I can do it. So I am not wasting my time. I do not want to delude myself.”

  “Zuhra. I have no question that you can do it. But—”

  “But?” Her eyes grew anxious.

  “I don’t know,” I said truthfully. “I don’t understand yet enough about you, enough about Yemen, to know your particular challenges. As a woman, I mean. Aren’t there things you are not allowed to do? Like, could you interview a man?”

  “Not alone. My family would be upset. Maybe in a group?”

  “Okay.” I thought. “Could you interview a man on the phone and over e-mail?”

  “Yes.” There was no hesitation. “But I cannot go out at night.”

  “So you can work a day shift. This is something that can be worked around. Men can cover things going on at night. Can you run around town interviewing women?”

  “Yes!”

  “Well, that’s half the population, after all,” I said. “That gives you something to work with. You could certainly find plenty to write about women and children.” My brain was already at work, churning out story ideas for her. She could write about what was being done to combat the illiteracy of 70 percent of Yemen’s women. Or the astronomical maternal mortality rate. Or the polio epidemic that continued to cripple children. Or …

  She nodded. “So?”

  “We can find a way for you to do this.”

  “But you think I can do it? Jennifer, I want this so much; I have chosen this. I need you to help me.” Tell me you believe in me.

  “Zuhra. If this is really what you want, you absolutely can do this. And I will help you every way I can.”

  She squeezed my hands even more tightly. “I won’t let you down,” she said. “I want to make you proud of me. Just as long as I have your help.”

  “You do, you do!” But my stomach twisted. I had no idea how much I could really help her. How, I wondered, was I ever going to be able to tell her everything she needed to know in three inadequate weeks?

  I should have known then. I couldn’t.

  THE NEXT DAY, I ducked into my classroom for a minute to fetch something and discovered the women having their lunch. Somehow I had failed to notice that the women were never with us when I ate with the men outside in the courtyard. Faris had always invited me to eat with the men as an honorary member of the sex. We ate standing up, dipping Yemeni baguettes called roti into a communal pot of stewed beans called ful. How could I have forgotten the women? Of course they couldn’t lift their veils to eat among the men!

  Now the women were laughing at the surprise on my face. Wait a minute, I could see them laughing. They had mouths and noses and white teeth! They had lifted their veils. It had taken me a moment to realize this.

  “You have never seen us before!” they cried out gleefully. It took me a minute to figure out who they were. I didn’t recognize them without their niqabs! I had to start with the eyes, the only part of them I knew. The long lashes belonged to Arwa, the large round eyes to Enass, and the smiling, almond-shaped eyes were Radia’s.

  “Come, eat with us,” said Arwa.

  “I’d love to!” I said. I was trying not to stare too hard at them, for fear of making them shy. I had not yet been alone with the women, not yet been privy to this secret society. I wanted to memorize their faces before they disappeared again.

  They were so much easier with me away from the men. They laughed more often, spoke more freely, and teased each other. Every time a knock came on the door, they hastily flipped down their veils.

  Enass, the paper’s secretary, said that all the men tell her how smart I am. That I am the smartest woman they have ever met.

  “Really?” I said, elated.

  “They say this,” she replied.

  One of the other girls said
something to her in Arabic and they argued for a minute. “Oh!” Enass said, turning back to me. “I didn’t mean smart. I meant pretty! I got confused.”

  “Oh.” My face fell. “I think I’d rather they thought I was smart.”

  I was disappointed that Zuhra wasn’t with us. I didn’t know if she had gone home for lunch or already eaten. But then, just as I opened the door to leave, she flew toward it from outside. Clutching my arm, she dragged me back into the conference room.

  “You haven’t seen me!” she said. She pulled me past the door and closed it tightly behind us. Then, as we stood facing each other just inside the doorway, she drew back her niqab. Unlike the other women, she yanked off her hijab as well, loosing thick ink-black hair that tumbled to her waist.

  “Why, you’re adorable!” I couldn’t help myself. She really was, with chubby brown cheeks, dimples, and flashing black eyes. She glowed with pride, laughing, as she turned this way and that to let me admire her.

  I can’t express how thrilling this was. They had let me into their world; they had trusted me with their faces.

  “People have the wrong idea about the hijab,” said Zuhra with a toss of her glossy hair. “I wear it because I respect myself. And when the beauty is hidden the more important things rise to the surface.”

  “So people can appreciate you for your brains and not your beauty?” I said.

  She laughed. “Yes. But there is more. I can talk to you for hours about the hijab if you would like.”

  “I would!”

  “Careful!” said Arwa. “She can talk to you forever about the hijab!”

  “She can talk to you forever about anything,” said Enass.