The Woman Who Fell from the Sky

by Jennifer Steil

  Work is beginning to follow something of a schedule when Ramadan arrives abruptly. I am dining at Zorba’s with Shaima, my worldly World Bank friend, when she gets a text message from a friend telling her that Ramadan will begin the next morning. She immediately texts others to spread the news. I wonder how this was all done before cell phones.

  No one is entirely sure when Ramadan will start until the evening before, as it depends on the first sighting of the crescent of the new moon. The Islamic calendar is lunar and shorter than our solar calendar. Islamic months thus rotate through the seasons, with Ramadan falling about eleven days earlier each year. Yemen turns upside down during this holy month. One of the Five Pillars of Islam is that Muslims must fast from sunup until sundown during Ramadan to burn away their sins. But in Yemen, after breaking their fast at sunset, everyone stays up until four A.M. binge eating and then sleeps half the day away. It seems a bit like cheating to me, to sleep until three P.M. when only three hours of fasting are left before sundown and iftar, the fast-breaking meal. But who am I to judge?

  At the Yemen Observer, we don’t go completely nocturnal, but our hours change dramatically. I have only just begun to inch our deadlines earlier when our Ramadan hours throw everything off kilter again. Our official hours during the Holy Month are ten A.M. to three P.M. and then nine P.M. until one A.M. (except on closing nights, when we’re often there until five A.M.). But in reality, the men never straggle in before eleven and seem to find it a struggle to get back by nine, despite the six-hour break for iftar.

  Unsurprisingly, everyone is much more productive in the evenings. During the day, they are cranky with hunger and thirst. My original impulse is to fast along with my staff. It seems like the right thing to do. I want to squeeze myself into as much of Yemeni life as possible. But at the moment, fasting is inconceivable. I am already losing weight and am constantly so tired I can barely stay upright. I often go days without eating meals—I have no time to cook or go out—but forgoing water just seems unhealthy. Fasting throughout Ramadan would indubitably weaken me too much to run this newspaper properly.

  Al-Asaadi is quick to reassure me that no one will judge me. “We are open-minded,” he says. “We understand you are being true to your own culture.”

  But I am careful not to eat or sip from my water bottle in front of my staff. Only when my office door is firmly shut do I delve into the secret stash of dried fruit, nuts, and oat biscuits I keep in my desk drawer for emergencies. Luke isn’t fasting either and comes into my office to sneak food. Occasionally, a reporter will burst in and catch us with our mouths full and our hands dirty with crumbs. Like guilty children, we hide our hands under our desks and swallow hard. But our reporters never seem to mind; we are not Muslim and are thus held to different standards.

  Luke and I have grown much closer as a result of an intimate hour we spent in my office while closing the election issue. This was when he finally confessed to me that he is gay, which I had suspected all along (the Will and Grace videos on his laptop, his love of Project Runway, etc.). I am curious about what it is like for him to live here, in a country where homosexuality is punishable by death.

  Yet homosexual acts between men are hardly rare in Yemen, he tells me. A large percentage of the male population has sex with men. Luke, for one, is propositioned regularly. This doesn’t surprise me; he is blond and blue eyed, attractive, and speaks charming Arabic.

  “But how does it work?” I ask. “I mean, how do you know who it is safe to hit on?”

  “Well, once in Aden a guy cruised me in an ice cream shop. When I left he chased me down, and I got his number and he came over later that night. Easy.”

  “Very interesting.”

  “Naturally, this does not leave this office.”

  “I wouldn’t dream of saying anything.”

  In return, I confess my past romantic relationships with men and women alike. This is an enormous relief. I hadn’t realized just how half-alive I was feeling, unable to be my full self with anyone here. Suddenly I can tell someone the truth about my sexuality and not risk punishment or judgment. I am so grateful for Luke I want to hug him. I feel lighter than I have in weeks.

  ONE BENEFIT of our Ramadan schedule is that I actually have free time during the evenings. On the first day, I head home a couple hours after my staff have fled and make myself dinner for the first time since arriving in Yemen nearly a month before. I boil water and cook whole-wheat pasta. This feels like a major achievement. I take my bowl of pasta into my bedroom and eat it while watching a DVD on my computer. This is the first truly relaxing, nonproductive, leisurely thing I can remember doing in weeks.

  But this would be more satisfying if I could do it in a real home. Maybe if I bought some spices and flour, I might start cooking for myself. I could fill a corner of my kitchen with water bottles so I wouldn’t have to stop and buy water every day. I could make friends with my neighbors. I really have to ring Karim’s friend Sami soon. I’m tired of living in between places; I want to be here.

  Salem comes to take me back to work at eight thirty. My reporters arrive enormously cheerful after their massive iftars. Ramadan fasts are traditionally broken with dates, with which the Prophet Mohammed broke his fasts. These are followed by deep-fried samosa-type potato dumplings called sambosas, yogurt drinks, fruit juice, a pale wheat porridge, and then meat, rice, and bread. Before sunrise, everyone eats again to store up for the day. Ironically, many people complain that they actually gain weight during Ramadan.

  Final election results are declared on the first day of Ramadan. We knew them already, but now it’s official. The city goes wild with joy. Firecrackers explode the whole evening, and men on neighboring roofs empty rifles into the air. The country has been saved from a tricky transfer of power, saved from unpredictability.

  I run out to go buy some gum and candy for the office, wanting to give the staff a treat after their day of fasting. Farouq stops me at the door. “Why don’t you send someone to the store?” he says. “You are the boss; you don’t have to go yourself.”

  “Because it’s right there,” I say, pointing down the street. “I can walk.”

  “But you don’t have to walk.”

  “But I want to walk.”

  “Send someone! Someone can go for you!”

  “Farouq! I like to walk!”

  We both start laughing, and he finally moves aside and waves me down the steps. My days are filled with plenty of these small, happy moments with my staff, enough to keep me fond of them even when they are thwarting my deadlines or returning late from lunch.

  One of the most striking things about Ramadan is how clearly it illustrates the cohesiveness of the culture. I have never in my life lived anywhere where everyone belonged to the same religion (although Yemen is divided between Sunni and Shia Muslims, and within these groups are scores of subgroups). I have never lived in a country where everyone is doing exactly the same thing at exactly the same time. For example, at sunset during Ramadan, every single Yemeni is eating a date. This alone is remarkable. At this time, there is no one, no one, on the streets. Every single Yemeni man, woman, and child is home breaking his or her fast. No stores are open and no taxis are on the streets.

  I don’t find this out until the second day of Ramadan, when I go to the Sheraton in the afternoon, emerging from the hotel just before six P.M., in time to see a spectacular sunset over the city. The Sheraton is perched on a hill over the bowl of Sana’a, and the purples and pinks descending across the mountains above and valleys below take my breath away for a few moments as I stand on the totally abandoned street. But my awe is short-lived as I look up and down the hill. Not a car in sight. No taxis, no dabaabs, no trucks, nothing. How will I get home?

  Fortunately, just as I am despairing of a ride, a Sheraton taxi driver who remembers me from June passes by and sees me standing in the empty road looking bewildered. He mimes eating gestures to explain where everyone is and drives me swiftly home. We make it from the S
heraton to Sabri’s house in about three minutes—without stopping once—a miracle! Sana’a is a ghost town. We do not pass a single car or person. My driver speeds away as soon as he drops me, no doubt late for his own feast.

  ON SEPTEMBER 25, the kidnapped French tourists are finally released. Karim gets photographs of them as they disembark at Sana’a airport, and we run them on our front page. I’m relieved, although the Yemenis have all been predicting this outcome, so they didn’t worry. While I am upstairs with Karim, Faris stops by. I tell him again how much I need more staff and that I can’t hope to get the paper under control until I have an adequate number of reporters. I mention the hours I am working.

  “Jennifer,” he says, looking concerned, “I don’t want 100 percent from you. Do this gradually. Aim for 40 percent improvement or 60 percent improvement. I am afraid you will burn out if you try to do too much.”

  Fine, I think. It’s good to know his expectations are low. But how do I do that? I don’t know how to give less than 100 percent.

  Because I end up working until iftar most Ramadan days, I walk home for dinner. It’s too hard to find a taxi. Besides, it’s so lovely to walk home when the streets are near-deserted. As I pass the restaurants along Zubairi Street, I see men poised to break their fast. Some even have plates of food in front of them, which they poke at hungrily as they wait for the cannon to go off so they can eat. The expectation in the air accompanying the approaching iftar always feels festive. Watching them makes me wish for a kitchen of my own, an iftar dinner waiting for me. If only I had a wife!

  One of these solitary nights, I finally ring Karim’s friend Sami about apartments. A slender, handsome twenty-four-year-old who studies English and works as a fixer for foreigners living in the Old City, Sami does a small business in tourism, arranging drivers to take people around the countryside, finding homes for expats, running errands, and generally being the most helpful person I have ever met. He is enthusiastic about meeting me and finding me a home. It doesn’t take long. In the last few days of September, at our third meeting (having looked at a house that was too vast and one that was too tiny), we find my gingerbread house in Old Sana’a.

  THE HOUSE SAMI FINDS for me is not just any house but my dream house. It’s a three-story, boxy stone house of my own, tucked behind a pale blue fence overflowing with pink flowers. I know I want it after just having seen the kitchen. It is vast, with a long counter, a small table for eating, a stove, a refrigerator, and antique Yemeni bread-baking ovens (in case I get really ambitious). On the same floor are a bedroom and a small laundry room/bathroom. On the way up the uneven stone stairs to the second floor is another small room, about the right size for an office. The next floor holds a large bedroom, with Star of David qamaria (Jews built this house 350 years ago, the landlord, Mohammed, tells me) as well as a couple of circular alabaster qamaria. I immediately decide this is where I will sleep. On the same floor is a large, airy mafraj lined with red cushions and adorned with several half-moon qamaria, a guest room, and a Western-style bathroom—with a tub!

  And there’s more! The top floor includes a tiny jewel of a room that looks out over all Sana’a, a storage room, and a door to a wide roof.

  A whole house! I have never had so much space in my adult life. Mohammed and his entire family follow me as I admire the house, and then we all take off our shoes and sit down in the mafraj of the neighboring house to sign the lease. The rent is $300 a month. Expensive for Sana’a, but worth every penny to me. Sami and Shaima translate each line of the lease. Ever since I moved here, Shaima has been my most loyal friend. We eat together once a week or so; she helps me run errands and introduces me to her family and friends.

  Several westerners have warned me away from the Old City, the most conservative part of town. Here, people keep a very, very observant eye on their neighbors. I will be watched, and all my guests will be duly noted. But what is the danger in that? I don’t have time to behave badly. Besides, there is nowhere else in Sana’a I can imagine living. I can think of no greater bliss than to inhabit these thick gingerbread walls in the cozy warren of cobblestone streets. In fact, I long for nosy neighbors. I am so incredibly lonely that the smallest kindness from strangers makes me teary. Sami lives right down the street and says he is willing to help me with anything, anytime.

  I sign my name to the lease, in both Arabic and English. I have a home.

  The morning I am to move into my new house, an exploded cyst in my ovaries sends me to the hospital. I’ve been bleeding, feverish, and in pain for days with no idea why. A female doctor assures me I’ll survive and sends me away with antibiotics. I’m too weak to carry anything, so Sabri’s guards kindly transport all my possessions to the Old City.

  But I can’t rest yet. I have no bed! I am so tired I can barely walk, but I head out shopping with Sami. The Old City streets are thronged with people; it is just before iftar and everyone is buying provisions. Around Baab al-Yemen, the main gate to the Old City, the ground is covered with cross-legged merchants selling heaps of dusty plastic sandals, pyramids of raisins, and bright red pistachios. Crippled children sit in cardboard boxes, their big dark eyes eloquent with despair; dwarves stretch out their palms for alms; and deformed children are pushed by their parents to beg for cash. The high rate of birth defects in Yemen is visible everywhere. I feel much less sorry for myself.

  Sami weaves through the clusters of men as I hurry in his wake, breathing in a soup of male sweat, cumin, and exhaust. I am struggling to catch up when, a few blocks from the gate, a man grabs me hard, squeezing my left side and breast. My scream carries. Some 150 people turn around to look. Sami whips around and takes a step toward the man, intending to hit him.

  But the man is clearly crazy. He is half-dressed, in what looks like a large white diaper, with no shirt. His arms and legs are bent and wiry; his shoulder-length hair is dirty and wild, sticking out from his head in all directions; and his grin is toothless. Madness glazes his eyes. When Sami realizes this, he lowers his arm.

  “I would hit him,” he says. “Only it wouldn’t do any good because he is insane.”

  I concur, but the attack has shocked me into tears. Sami tries to find something comforting to say but is obviously unequipped to do this. Realizing how uncomfortable I am making him, I pull myself together. By the time we get to the mattress store, my eyes are dry. We pick out my bed things, and Sami negotiates the price. Finally, I have a place to lie down.

  SAMI HELPS ME furnish my house, fixes electrical and plumbing problems, and runs errands. Both he and Shaima are constantly trying to feed me. One night I enjoy a massive iftar at Sami’s house, and the next day I am invited to Shaima’s.

  Shaima and her sister Nada live in Hadda, the fancy part of town, in a large, two-story home with vast carpeted rooms and a kitchen big enough for a sit-down dinner for twelve. A froth of flowers surrounds the house.

  Shaima’s father, currently away in Germany receiving treatment for lymphoma, was a diplomat. When he was posted to Algeria, he fell in love with an Algerian woman, taking her as a second wife, much to the distress of Shaima’s mother, who stopped talking to him for a couple of years. Shaima’s stepmother (whom she despises) has children by Shaima’s father, but she has not been told about his lymphoma.

  Nada is married to an Italian man, Desi, who has also fallen in love with another woman. When he told Nada he wanted to make this woman his second wife, she was grief-stricken. This is why she is now living with Shaima. Desi comes to visit his daughters Ola and Mumina but doesn’t want to give up the other woman. It all sounds horrible and painful. Shaima says that if he were her husband, she would have drawn and quartered him by now. Throughout the year, I hear many more stories like this one. These multiple wives cause immense pain. Yemeni men seem to be about as faithless as American men—only instead of keeping their mistresses secret, they marry them. Islam permits up to four wives, as long as the man commits to treating them all equally. But this is impossible. Even the most perf
ect of humans cannot love four women equally. And in reality, this is rarely how it seems to work out. The women always suffer.

  Shaima herself was once briefly engaged to a man with a first wife in Aden. But she backed out of the deal after three days. “I am just too jealous to deal with another wife,” she tells me.

  When she was at university in Jordan, Shaima received several marriage proposals, which she turned down because she thought she wanted to marry a Yemeni. But when she returned to Yemen, she found Yemeni men not up to her standards. “They are not polite to women,” she said. “They do not hold doors, they do not want to chew qat with their wives, they don’t want to spend time together.” Now she is hoping to marry a Muslim foreigner, like her sister. “Jennifer, I am an atom bomb for Yemen,” says Shaima bitterly. “I am an educated woman. I won’t stay home. I work with men.”

  I ask her if there is really no contact at all between men and women before marriage. “Oh, everyone here is in a relationship,” she says. “They are just underground. Like people everywhere, they find a way.”

  “What kind of relationship?”

  “Like by texting. People have relationships by texts or by e-mail. Or they Bluetooth each other.”

  This intrigues me. I wonder if Shaima has such a relationship, but she assures me she doesn’t.

  WE START THE IFTAR MEAL with dates, of course. Then comes shafoot with salad, and sambosas filled with vegetables and cheese. Shaima has made the whole meal vegetarian on my account, which touches me. No one seems to mind—there is such a vast amount of food. After shafoot, they go one by one to pray before eating the rest of the meal.