“The key to doing that is keeping a firm wall between advertising and editorial. If our readers see that we are writing about our advertisers, if they see that we write about people who give us money, they will think that every story we print we only write because someone paid us to run it. It destroys our credibility.”
Faris nods as if he might understand.
“I don’t want them using my reporters for that reason—it teaches them the wrong ideas about journalism. Also, I am short-staffed as it is. I can’t spare news reporters to do advertising.”
“I know you need people.”
“So we should hire advertising their own people. Qasim obviously needs a staff.”
I have become so fed up with Qasim stealing my reporters that I ran a help-wanted classified seeking an advertising intern. But when a man showed up who was eager to help, Qasim sent him away.
Faris has no suggestions. He just reiterates how much he needs me to help the advertising people. But he isn’t done with me yet.
“Regarding al-Huthi,” he says. “Tone it down. Do you hear me?”
“Tone it down? It’s the biggest story in the country!” The Huthis are conservative Shiites in the North who have been periodically battling the government since 2004. Their specific demands are unclear, but they seek the restoration of Zaydi Shia dominance in Yemen and denounce Saleh’s close relationship with the West.
In January, fighting between Huthis and the government resumed, and hundreds are rumored to have died. We are not allowed to send a reporter to Sa’dah, the northern province where the fighting is centered, because the roads are blocked and there is a complete media blackout. So Ibrahim has been reporting the story based on phone calls to the governor of the region and other sources.
“I am telling you: Do not run it on the front page of every issue. Do you hear me? Tone. It. Down.”
“I hear you, but—”
“There were errors in the last story.”
“If the government doesn’t want us to make mistakes, then it should let us into Sa’dah so we can see what’s going on for ourselves.”
“You want to go to Sa’dah?”
“Yes, I want to go to Sa’dah!” How thrilling it would be to be able to do some real reporting on this story. I am certain that the information we get from the government is far from accurate.
“Fine. I will see if I can get you in. I would love it if I could send you to Sa’dah.”
“Why? Anxious to get rid of me, Faris?” Small smile.
“No—we’d have an exclusive.”
“And possibly some real information.”
Ignoring this, Faris comes to what seems to be an even bigger problem: I’ve fired our photographer Mas. I explain again why I dismissed him: He did no work. He sat around listening to music on his laptop and complaining about being bored, but the minute I needed him to photograph something, he was nowhere to be found. After months passed without Mas producing a photo, I fired him.
Yet some people in the office seem to think I should have kept him, largely because he is the Doctor’s son and a favorite of Faris’s.
They may be right. It has hurt my standing with my staff and it has upset Faris deeply.
“When Mas was young and had leukemia, I paid for his treatment,” Faris says. “Mas is like a son to me. I like to see him around the office.” His eyes glisten with tears. I am consumed with self-loathing. How could I be such a beast? I knew about Mas’s cancer. He had told me after doing a photo essay on a little boy in a Sana’ani cancer ward. “If you don’t want to work with him, couldn’t you still have kept him around the office?” says Faris.
I’d love to work with him, if he would actually work, I think. Instead I say, “Faris, I am sorry.”
I feel terrible that I have failed to understand the intricacies of Faris’s relationship with Mas, and also the difficulties of firing someone in an office controlled by nepotism. I might have avoided this pitfall had Faris spent a little more time with me, helping me to understand how things work here. Now I find out these things too late.
I apologize abjectly, saying that I will do anything to make things right. Faris says he hasn’t told me this before because he didn’t want to cry in front of me. And on cue, he sheds two tears. I feel sick.
Before I leave the office, we go quickly through the other things on my list. For example, I need the plane fare to the United States for my two-week break, as my salary is not enough to cover it.
Without a word, Faris pulls a wad of $100 bills the size of a grapefruit out of his pocket. I stare wide-eyed, never having seen that much cash in my life. He peels off thirteen bills and hands them to me. Feeling that I am being paid to go away, I crumple the bills in my fist and slink out of the office.
A FEW DAYS LATER, I am scrambling to finish an issue early enough to attend a Dutch friend’s farewell qat chew before meeting a Jordanian friend for dinner when Faris rings.
“This is really important. There’s this British guy here, head of Middle East security or something. We need an interview with him. Set something up immediately and get back to me.”
“Great,” I say. “We can interview him Saturday.” It’s a Thursday, and I am looking forward to having a night off and a free day Friday to pack for my trip home.
“Saturday is too late, he’ll be gone. Arrange it for before then.”
So much for my evening plans. But I need to get back into Faris’s good favor. “I’ll talk with him tonight,” I say. “What did you say his name was? And his title?”
“I don’t know,” says Faris. “Something to do with the Middle East. Find out.”
I ring the British Embassy, but because it is the weekend for the rest of the Yemeni world, it is closed. There’s an emergency number on the recording. I hesitate. This isn’t exactly an emergency. But I really need to make Faris like me. I think about his disappointment if I fail to get this interview, and my fingers start to dial the emergency number all by themselves.
The woman on duty says she’ll pass on my message, and five minutes later, Ambassador Mike Gifford calls me back.
“Look,” he says, “I am having a dinner at my house tonight for Peter Gooderham,” (my target, the director for the Middle East and North Africa in the British Foreign and Commonwealth Office). “Why don’t you join us? We have plenty of room. And you can interview him there.”
“If you’re sure it won’t be a problem. I hate to intrude on his dinner.”
“No problem at all. We would be delighted to have you.”
So relieved I’m bordering on happy, I ring Faris and give him the good news.
Mike Gifford’s wife, Patricia, welcomes me warmly and introduces me to a few others, including a chatty man named Khalid who works for Islamic Relief and has been to Sa’dah. I question him furiously about the situation there. I also talk with a reporter from 26 September, also there to interview Peter; a British man working with the Yemeni Coast Guard; and a member of the British House of Commons. I drink a gin and tonic and enjoy myself immensely. There are worse jobs.
Peter Gooderham is seated near me and is quite charming, quizzing me about my work. He finishes eating before I do, so I regretfully abandon my third helping of fish and brussels sprouts to interview him in the living room. He talks for nearly an hour, and I fill my notebook. I hardly have to ask any questions. He just rattles on until the other journalist gets impatient.
I stay until close to eleven P.M., heading out with the last stragglers. At home, I kick off my boots and write the entire interview by twelve thirty A.M. The photo is e-mailed to Faris by one A.M. I fall asleep feeling very pleased with myself indeed.
I RETURN from a brief holiday in New York in early May with renewed determination to work on my relationship with Faris. There are urgent reasons for this. Al-Asaadi and Zaid are both due back in Yemen in June, and I need to figure out whom I am training to be my successor. It seems obvious to me that it won’t be al-Asaadi, because he hasn’t shown any
interest in learning from me or in perpetuating my reforms at the paper. Zaid, on the other hand, has been eager to learn and seems ripe for training. One of my main reasons for doing this job is to create reforms that outlast me.
My first discussion with Faris on this topic is not inspiring.
“Al-Asaadi will be editor in chief and Zaid will be managing editor,” he says when I ask him what will happen in June.
My heart sinks. This will never work. Al-Asaadi and Zaid cannot stand each other. When they both come back, I expect nothing short of total catastrophe.
“Faris,” I say, “you know those two do not get along.”
“I need everyone to work as a team,” he says.
“Of course. But I need al-Asaadi not to disrupt what I have done. We have a terrific schedule now, but when he was here before, he constantly tried to sabotage me. We do get along as people, you know. We’ve even been e-mailing each other since he’s been gone. But I do not want all of my work undone.” Faris seems to have the wild idea that he can just throw us all together, establish no clear hierarchy, and let us fight it out. I don’t know what to do. My reporters need a clear hierarchy. I need a clear hierarchy. Zaid and al-Asaadi will definitely need a clear hierarchy. I dread June.
I ALSO RETURN from New York with a secret Faris-softening weapon. His two older sons have advised me to use, in times of crisis, Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups as a way to get their father to pay attention to me.
“He’ll give you anything you want if you bring peanut butter cups,” they tell me.
You cannot find peanut butter cups in Yemen, so it isn’t until April that I can get my hands on a good supply. I’ve brought back five bags.
So when Faris comes into my office one day to ask me to cover a story, I tell him I would really like to sit down and have a leisurely talk about my successor and the future of the paper.
“Sure, yeah, okay, but not now, I have a meeting,” he mutters while backing toward my door. It is clear that he has no intention of having a talk with me, leisurely or otherwise.
“Faris,” I say, “I have peanut butter cups.”
He stops in his tracks, turns to look at me, and walks back toward my desk. His eyes dart around my office. “Where?”
“I’ll tell you,” I say, “when you sit down and talk with me. Not before.”
“Ah,” he says, looking crestfallen. “I’ll get back to you.” And with one last wistful look at my desk drawers, he turns and walks slowly out my door.
A few days later, he waylays me at a party at Nabeel Khoury’s. I’m standing in the courtyard, halfway through a gin and tonic, being bored rigid by a series of earnest young men from the American Embassy, when Faris grabs my arm. “You wanted to talk?” he says, pulling me up the stairs to the house.
Yes, I think, though this wasn’t exactly the venue I had in mind. Still, Faris wanting to talk with me is so novel that not for anything would I miss this opportunity. I let him lead me into the empty living room, where we settle on the sofa.
“Now we can have that leisurely chat you’ve been wanting,” he says as he reclines.
Grateful for the gin in my hand, I explain how I would like to see things unfold. I would like Zaid to work under me, shadowing me until I leave, and then to take over the paper. “Al-Asaadi has had his chance to be the editor, and he is not a good manager,” I say. “He could be a great reporter, or maybe do something else—you mentioned the magazine—but I really feel that it is time to let Zaid have a chance to run things.” I need someone with Zaid’s passion, someone open to my ideas.
Faris nods and listens attentively, not interrupting or rushing me. I am beside myself with delight. He says that he will talk to al-Asaadi (I am not to attempt this myself) and work things around the way that I want them. “Just keep in mind,” he says, “Zaid is not a marathon runner, he’s a sprinter. He’ll go all out and then give up suddenly.”
“I’ll keep a close watch on Zaid,” I promise. “I will keep him in line.”
We then discuss several story ideas Faris has from his sources at the top. He tells me about the panic going around that cell phones are mysteriously killing people. I’ve heard this rumor from my staff, who have all become frightened of their phones. “There are some people who are afraid to take my calls,” Faris says. “They say they can’t answer something that says ‘private number,’ because it might kill them.”
He gives me several other ideas. I am thrilled. This is the most productive talk I have ever had with Faris. I tell him so. After forty-five minutes, I actually feel satisfied, and we stand to rejoin the party outside. A rain shower has released a cool, starry night.
“So,” says Faris, looking at me expectantly as we walk toward the door, “do I get my peanut butter cups now?”
IN EARLY JUNE, I screw up again. The first Thursday of the month, I am having a bad closing day. Hadi has taken off just before deadline to attend a wedding, leaving me with no designer. Samir is enlisted to help us finish the issue, but he is slower than Hadi, and I get impatient and storm around the office.
Things are going much better overall, so why do I still have fits of temper? I think about my former editors. I remember Jim McGarvey at the Morris County Daily Record, who would scream that I was the most disastrous reporter on the planet one minute and then shower me with praise the next. Yet he was a brilliant editor. I think about all of the other editors I have known. Few of them were particularly stable, with the possible exception of my editor at The Week, but the pressures there were not the pressures of a daily. Maybe these fits of impatience on deadline simply come with the job.
Feeling better, I write the final captions and pack up my bags. At seven thirty, just as I am grabbing a bottle of French wine from my house and heading for dinner with a new neighbor, my phone rings. It’s a private number. Faris.
“Salaam aleikum,” I say.
“I need you to go back to the office,” he says. “Did you put something on the front page about the Huthis being behind the explosions at the armory?”
It takes me a minute to remember. My brain erases each issue from its data banks as soon as it’s put to bed. The Huthi rebels in the north of Yemen were rumored to have caused explosions in a cave near Sana’a.
“Yes,” I say. “But we quoted someone from the Ministry of the Interior.”
“The minister is denying it,” says Faris. “Get back to the office and change the front page or the paper will be closed down and we will be taken to court. And I want you to fire whoever wrote that story.”
“Farouq and Radia wrote it,” I say. I presume Farouq did the interview, because he is the one with the contacts.
“People have to double-check their facts,” says Faris. “Radia should have—”
“Don’t blame Radia for this!” I’m incensed. Why is Faris jumping to the conclusion that Radia is at fault? Didn’t I just say Farouq and Radia wrote it? “Farouq worked with her, and he was the one who gave me the story.” He also has several more years of experience as a reporter, I want to point out. He is the one responsible for overseeing Radia’s work.
Yemeni men immediately blame the women for anything that goes wrong. If the accountant makes a mistake, he blames Radia. If an administrator makes a mistake, he blames Enass. God forbid the men ever take responsibility for their own mistakes.
A male Yemeni friend explains the phenomenon to me this way: “They cannot admit a mistake because they are afraid of the punishment. We’re used to being punished every time we make a mistake.”
I am immediately abashed that this had not occurred to me; it makes sense in a culture in which children are beaten for not having the right answers. Plus, Yemen is a country in which the government crackdown on any misstep can be severe. No wonder they don’t want to admit mistakes.
But Faris is hell-bent on punishing someone. “Well, when I find out who wrote it … !” he says.
“Faris, I just told you who wrote it.” He doesn’t want to have to fire Far
ouq, I think. Farouq is a man and therefore less dispensable. “Anyway, have you told the designers to hold the paper?”
“I have.”
“How did the ministry know about the story?”
“Apparently Enass posted it online and someone saw it and called the ministry.”
Well, that was fast! We finished the story five minutes before I left the office.
“Is Luke still in the office? I was on my way to meet people …,” I say lamely, knowing there is no way I can get out of going back to work. Yet a dinner date is such a rarity that I hate to miss it.
“Jennifer, this is the news business and in the news business—”
“You don’t need to tell me about the news business. I’ve been in it for twelve years.” Which, I want to point out, is longer than the Yemen Observer has been in print. I am also tempted to point out that no real newspaper would let the people in power tell us what we can write. “Anyway, I am on my way.”
I race back to the office. By the time I arrive, I have calmed down. Luke is still there, chewing qat with the guys. Faris had phoned and made Luke read him the story. It wasn’t even anonymously sourced—we used the name of the director of the interior minister’s office. Enass actually heard Radia interview the man, so there is a witness to the conversation. Of course, women aren’t taken seriously as witnesses. Luke and I figure that the director must have spoken out of turn, and then, when the story was posted, he got in trouble and was forced to deny his statement.
Luke has already found some additional photos for the front page, and together we reconfigure it. It all goes smoothly. We are just finishing when Faris calls to check in.
“What story did you put on the front page?” he says.
“A cheerful little story about Yemeni expatriates getting surveyed so that they can be provided with new services,” I say. “Do you want to know what is on the rest of the front page?”
“No,” he says. “I trust you.”
He trusts me?
I tell Faris our theory that someone at the ministry had spoken out of turn, got in trouble, and then retracted.
The Woman Who Fell from the Sky Page 27