The Woman Who Fell from the Sky

by Jennifer Steil

  Kamil al-Samawi, the lawyer representing us in court, makes a speech in defense of press freedom. He works with HOOD, a nonprofit, nongovernmental human rights organization. HOOD reports human rights violations and defends victims, offering free legal assistance. It is unpopular with the government, which doesn’t like to be reminded of its shaky human rights record. A short, stocky man with glasses and a broad smile, Kamil is a passionate speaker, and the crowd murmurs its assent as he talks.

  I am particularly fond of Kamil for helping Zuhra overcome many of her initial fears about becoming a journalist. She first met him at the courthouse when the Observer’s trial began, and they became friends. He was close to her oldest brother, Fahmi, so Zuhra felt comfortable with him. “I liked the way he speaks about human rights. He is very open-minded,” she said. “He feels it is important for victims to speak up. I have never seen a man that respects people like Kamil.”

  She had always thought she was “a coward journalist” because she avoided controversial stories. “This was before you came,” she says. She worried that covering provocative topics would make her a target. “I remember Rahma Hugaira [a female Yemeni journalist]—her reputation was assassinated because she attacks the government.” Rahma was called a whore and worse, just for having the courage to speak out. Zuhra was terrified of suffering a similar fate. But when Kamil took her to court to meet Anisa al-Shuaibi, Zuhra knew she had to write about her case.

  In 2003, Anisa was accused of killing her former husband but was acquitted of the crime when no evidence was found against her—and her ex-husband was found to be living. At the time of her arrest, she was brutally dragged out of her home at night and locked in prison, where she was raped. When she was released, more than a month later, she accused the head of the Criminal Investigation Unit, Rizq al-Jawfi, and the head of the CIU’s investigations department, Saleh al-Salhi, of illegally imprisoning her and of being responsible for her rape and torture in jail.

  Zuhra interviewed her, as well as her two small children, and was shocked by the tale. “The Anisa case represents in all ways part of what we are suffering here as women,” says Zuhra. The men who put her in prison knew that no one would support Anisa, she continued. “If you are being raped and speak out about it in Yemen, you are going to be scandaled and face social denial.” It is unacceptable to talk about rape, and any woman who claims to have been raped is blamed for the crime and ostracized. Zuhra admires Anisa’s bravery and hopes she will inspire other women to speak out. Since Anisa’s protest, Zuhra adds, fewer women have been put in jail, because officials became afraid that they would be accused of abuse.

  Zuhra’s stories on Anisa have prompted threatening letters from readers. But while these frighten her, she has no intention of silencing her pen. “I was afraid to cover it, but it makes me feel good about myself,” she says. She doggedly follows the story, never missing a court date and filing several front-page pieces on Anisa’s plight. “I have started my war and I have decided not to stop.”

  DECEMBER 6 IS D-DAY for al-Asaadi and the Yemen Observer. I am at the office by eight thirty A.M. to check in with my staff before heading to the courthouse. Najma and Noor are late with the Culture page, so I tell them they must stay and finish it. But I am forced to relent when Mohammed al-Matari says he has spoken to Faris, who wants everybody there. Al-Matari colors his graying hair black and dresses in suits that fit him the way a refrigerator fits a stick of butter. His lapels are often stained with something, spots of tea or dried beans. There’s a kind of old-world gentlemanliness about him, a persistent chivalrousness.

  Al-Matari’s insistence that everyone attend the trial shames me—I should not have tried to make the women stay in the office on such an important day. Of course they should come with us. We should be filling the courthouse and squeezing out the fanatics who will be there in the hopes of seeing al-Asaadi laid low. I am surprised when Faris himself does not show. Since the fate of his paper hinges on this trial, one would think he might want to attend. When he doesn’t appear by nine A.M., we all pile into the Yemen Observer van.

  At the courthouse, Zuhra glues herself to me. We push through the mobs at the gate and building entrance and up the stairs to the courtroom.

  “I haven’t missed a single court date for this trial,” says Zuhra. “Even al-Asaadi missed one date when he was sick, but I have never missed one!”

  Zuhra makes Najma change places with her so she can sit next to me on the wooden bench lined with splitting, chocolate-colored cushions. The narrow courtroom fills up quickly, mostly with fellow journalists. My women are the only women in the room. I am the only westerner. I take several photographs of the crowd.

  Faris never arrives.

  AL-ASAADI IS LATE. He told me on the phone earlier that his lawyer had advised him to be a little late, to make a dramatic entrance I suppose. But he is so late that his lawyer finally calls him and says, “Where are you? Do you want to just go straight to jail?” (The lawyer is standing in front of us, and Zuhra translates.) He and Qasim and several other men in the front row laugh. There is much nervous laughter and chatter, but the anxiety in the room is palpable. We are all journalists; we all have a stake in this. If the Yemen Observer is shuttered, my staff and I will be jobless. I have no idea what I will do if this happens. I suppose stay and fight to get it reopened. I couldn’t possibly go back to New York now. To return to New York would be admitting defeat. Besides, I have grown attached to my reporters. I cannot imagine abandoning them.

  A cheer goes up in the courtroom. Al-Asaadi has arrived, making a grand entrance from the judge’s end of the room. Men rush to the front of the pews and surround him, kissing him and squeezing his hand. He looks very sharp in a black suit and striped tie. I feel an impulse to hug him, but naturally this is impossible, so I settle for a wave and an affectionate nod.

  By the time the judge arrives, the room is filled to overflowing. The back of the room is so packed that guards have to push people to keep them from surging forward. A dozen or so men dressed in army green and wearing red berets watch us intently, their hands fiddling with the triggers of machine guns and pistols. Their presence reminds me that violence is expected. If al-Asaadi and the paper are not convicted, the fanatics could go mad. Fortunately, there isn’t much room in the courtroom for fanatics; we journalists take up almost all of the benches. I crane my neck to try to spot them. Zuhra says they are in the back, but I can’t tell who they are.

  Several more guards stream in with the judge, who takes a seat at the head of the bench.

  I am so anxious I might throw up. My heart pounds so loudly I have trouble hearing Zuhra, and my hands tremble as I scribble notes.

  Al-Asaadi stands at a small, low lectern on our right. His supporters close in, hovering protectively around him, clinging to each other’s hands. I find it touching that Yemeni law allows someone about to be sentenced to stand surrounded by dozens of his closest friends.

  His face solemn as death, the judge—gray hair, glasses, green sash—begins to read from a paper. Zuhra whispers a translation of his words while furiously taking notes. He begins by recapping the cases of both the prosecution and the defense. The only sound in the room other than his words is Zuhra’s occasional “Oh my God!”

  I hardly dare to breathe. Not knowing exactly when the sentence is coming, I watch the audience closely for clues. The men look stern and frightened. Al-Asaadi is slumped against his lectern, as though he can’t quite hold himself up.

  Finally, a murmur goes up from the crowd, and I hear the words “YR500,000.” “Is that a fine?” I whisper to Zuhra. “Are we getting a fine?”

  She nods and tells me that al-Asaadi has been convicted. I draw a sharp breath.

  “Of insulting Islam?”

  “Yes, by republishing the cartoons. The judge just confirmed that it was a crime.”

  But al-Asaadi will receive no jail term, she tells me. Even better, the paper will stay open!

  There is a collect
ive release of breath. Men begin to whisper to each other and shuffle their feet.

  When the judge finishes reading, there is scattered applause. Along with relief for al-Asaadi, however, comes concern that this conviction makes him more vulnerable to being attacked by extremists. A conviction of insulting Islam is a serious thing, and the fanatics might just take it upon themselves to punish him, now that his crime has been confirmed.

  Guards whisk al-Asaadi away to a holding cell until a guarantee can be deposited. We quickly follow, streaming down the stairs and out into the sunshine.

  A Reuters television reporter has grabbed me in the courtroom and asked if he could interview me, so I follow him to an area away from the crowds. He asks my opinion of the verdict and the Yemeni courts, while al-Matari translates. A crowd gathers to watch.

  “I am very pleased that the paper will remain open,” I say, squinting in the bright sunlight. “That is a victory for freedom of the press. But I am very disappointed with the conviction. I am concerned that it puts our colleague Mohammed al-Asaadi at risk.”

  The men around me murmur to each other and ask al-Matari what I have said. Several of them seem to nod in agreement. When I am done, I turn and scan the crowds for Zuhra. She is busy interviewing people, darting from man to man. It’s easy to spot her; she’s the fastest-moving object in the courtyard.

  Al-Asaadi has appeared in a window of the courthouse and is making the most of his audience, clinging to the bars of the window and posing for photographs. He calls out to me.

  I climb up the embankment under his window.

  “Mohammed! What are you doing in there?”

  He looks awfully cheerful for a convicted man. “I’m in prison!” he chirps.

  “How do I get you out?” This is a serious question. I wonder if I should pay the fine myself, so that we can take him back to the paper with us. But I don’t have enough riyals on me. Where the hell is Faris?

  “I will be out in a little while, after we make the guarantee. Go back to the paper and get the story online.”

  “Of course. Zuhra is on it. Do you need money?”

  “No, not now.”

  “Well, I can get you some if you need it.”

  “Thank you.”

  I find Zuhra and try to take her to the van, but she keeps spotting new sources to tackle. We are about to make it out of the gate when she sees one of the men who want us dead.

  “There’s one of the fanatics!” she cries, recognizing a man she met in court before. “I have to get a quote!” I watch her flap away, bursting with pride.

  Finally, we all pile into the van to go back to the paper. Zuhra and I decide that it will be fastest to write the story together. She has all of the quotes from the judge and other sources, and I have descriptions of the proceedings and quotes from al-Asaadi. We run to my office, and Zuhra pulls a chair up to my desk. We send someone out for tea.

  “Have you had breakfast?” I said.

  “No.”

  “Eat this. We can’t have you falling over before deadline.” I hand her an energy bar, a package of peanuts, and a parcel of toast from my secret food drawer.

  We are a good team, working fast and efficiently, me typing, Zuhra reading and translating her notes for me. Our story is online within an hour—and we are the first to break the news, beating Reuters, Agence-France Presse, and the BBC.

  I am very pleased and flushed with manic energy. Zuhra and I high-five each other and toast ourselves with sugary tea.

  Ibrahim calls in the afternoon to congratulate me. “It was so brilliant, so professional, and you even got a quote from a fanatic!” he says.

  “That’s all Zuhra,” I say. “She did all the real reporting.”

  “I called al-Asaadi to tell him what a wonderful job you did.”

  “You did?”

  “I said, ‘She even mentioned your tie!’”

  “Well, it was a very nice tie!”

  Al-Asaadi sends me a text later to thank me for my support and the story. I glow with happiness.

  OF COURSE, our busy morning means that we fall behind with the rest of the paper. So, feeling quite like Sisyphus, I put my shoulder to the stone and begin, slowly, to roll it back up the hill.

  TWELVE

  tug-of-war

  Unfortunately, the solidarity al-Asaadi and I experience during our day in court is short-lived. Now that we have been reprieved, we resume our slowly escalating power struggle. I’ve tried my utmost to avoid conflict, but it’s hard when al-Asaadi refuses to acknowledge deadlines. By now, I’ve realized that the first thing I need to achieve is a proper schedule. Not until I get the paper moving in an orderly way, with pages coming in at predictable times and issues closing on time, will I be able to turn my attention to the development of my staff’s journalistic skills.

  By December, the only thing standing between me and a regular schedule is al-Asaadi. The rest of my reporters now turn in their pieces on time, so we could close every issue by eight P.M. But al-Asaadi purposely withholds his stories until the last minute and drags out our closes for hours. To make a point, Luke and I finish absolutely every page, send everyone else home, and ring al-Asaadi to tell him we are just twiddling our thumbs waiting for his story, which is the last thing we need in order to close. This has little effect. Al-Asaadi still refuses to come to the office before eight P.M. on a closing day. He doesn’t seem to care that he is holding us all hostage. Thursdays are particularly bad, because he spends all afternoon chewing qat with his friends and is reluctant to come to the office at all. When he gets there, he is so wired that he is perfectly happy to stay up all night—and keep us up with him—closing the paper.

  Things come to a head during the Consultative Group for Yemen’s donors’ conference in London, held to encourage foreign aid to Yemen. Yemen is the poorest country in the Middle East, but it receives surprisingly low levels of development assistance. Now Western and Arab countries are meeting to discuss Yemen’s development challenges and to pledge financial support. This is intended to help Yemen develop its economy, improve its infrastructure, and battle poverty and illiteracy. The money comes with strings attached, however. Donors insist that Yemen forge ahead with anticorruption reforms, bolster democratic institutions, create a more independent judiciary, and increase government transparency. Yemen has vowed its dedication to these reforms, but whether it will be able to fully realize them remains a great unknown.

  Al-Asaadi has traveled to England with Faris to attend the conference and has promised us a front-page story. The biggest news, that a total of $4.7 billion has been pledged, breaks on a closing day. This is a major increase over amounts pledged at previous donors’ conferences. Yemeni officials (and Faris) are euphoric.

  But we hear nothing from al-Asaadi. All day, I edit the rest of the issue and wait for his news. We cannot run the issue without it; the donors’ conference is the biggest story in the country. By seven P.M., we have edited everything else. I grow anxious. Just in case, I tell al-Matari to start putting a story together from the wires and calling local officials for comment.

  We are still waiting when Luke begins vomiting. He thinks it’s the pesticides on his qat. Pesticides illegal everywhere else in the world have a way of sneaking across Yemen’s borders and ending up on qat plants. Luke chews Yemeni quantities of qat and by deadline can hardly speak, his cheek is so packed with greenery. “He’s more Yemeni than most Yemenis,” Zuhra says.

  I send him home. Manel, a twenty-four-year-old Senegalese-American I recently hired to share the copyediting, stays to help me. Manel speaks fluent Arabic, French, and English and brims with infectious good humor. His copyediting is patchier than Luke’s, but he has such a sunny attitude that his mere presence in the office inspires all of us. Handsome, with a lean wiry body and neatly cornrowed hair, Manel is particularly inspiring to the women in the office. But everyone loves Manel, who wouldn’t even know how to go about getting stressed out. I’m hoping some of his Zen will wear off on m
e.

  I have already written several e-mails to al-Asaadi, asking him how the conference is going and when I will receive his copy. No reply. When the rest of the issue is done, I write again to tell him that if I don’t hear from him in the next half hour, I will have to run a wire story.

  He rings me in response. “Zaid and I will have the story to you in a couple of hours,” he says.

  “A couple of hours? Al-Asaadi, the rest of the issue is completely done! Please get it to me in the next hour.”

  Our conversation is cut off just after that, and I get an e-mail from him that says, “I am the editor in chief, and if I tell you to hold the paper until I send you the story then you have to hold the paper. I don’t have to answer to you.”

  Actually, I want to say, you do have to answer to me. It is in my contract that I am to have complete editorial control over this paper. Thus far, I have purposely avoided saying such a thing. I have never pulled rank on him, in an effort to preserve his dignity and our diplomatic relations.

  Even Faris has warned me about al-Asaadi. “He doesn’t like it when anyone else gets too good,” he told me. The reason al-Asaadi has been sabotaging every issue, Faris believes, is that he can’t stand to see me get the paper on a schedule. To see me succeed where he failed.

  I do not respond to his e-mail. I sit and stew, while Manel holds my hand and tries to keep me from erupting into flames. As it becomes clear why we are stuck in the office so late, my staff also grow impatient. It’s midnight by the time we get the story and photos from al-Asaadi. He fails to send me photo credits and doesn’t respond when I ask for them by e-mail. I am forced to run the photos without credit and send everyone home. I’ve been at work for twenty hours.

  I indulge in revenge fantasies all the way home. I imagine calling al-Asaadi and saying, “Why do you think they hired me? Because you were running the paper perfectly?” But I do no such thing. I go to bed with an aching stomach and dream that al-Asaadi is livid with me for not waiting in the office all night for him to send me photo credits.