The Woman Who Fell from the Sky (24 page)

“That’s where I used to sleep,” al-Asaadi says, pointing to a corner toward the back.

The men continue to stare at us, silently, until we turn to go.

“They never let anyone in there,” al-Asaadi tells me as we walk back out into the sunshine and the guard locks the door behind us. “But I formed a good relationship with the guards.”

“I can see that.” We climb back into his car and return to the office to work. And to wait.

When the next court date rolls around in December, everyone feels certain we will finally get a verdict. The day before, the Yemeni Journalists Syndicate, an advocacy group for journalists’ rights, holds a rally to support al-Asaadi and the paper. I meet al-Asaadi and Farouq in the courtyard of the YJS first thing in the morning, and we mingle with the journalists trickling in.

The rally is held outside, under a blue-and-white-striped tent. Propress slogans demanding the unshackling of journalists have been printed on sheets of white paper and pasted on all the walls of the courtyard. The crowd of sixty or so journalists is almost entirely male, with two Yemeni women sitting quietly toward the back. Because the sexes are almost always segregated in Yemen, it is unusual for a woman to sit near men. But I take a seat in one of the front rows. I’m the editor of the paper, damn it. A series of journalists then make impassioned speeches in Arabic for about an hour (Ibrahim translates). It’s all preaching to the choir—everyone present is on the same side. I wonder if the rally would be more effective if it were held, say, in front of the courthouse. This doesn’t seem to have occurred to anyone.

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 collective 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.”