The Woman Who Fell from the Sky (36 page)

“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 Farouq, 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.

“But he’s denying it,” says Faris.

“Yes, I
know
. But I am quite certain that Radia would never lie.” On this point, I will not budge.

Faris has calmed down and seems almost willing to accept that Radia hasn’t committed a crime. He asks me to promise that I will call him if we run anything else on the Huthis. Saleh is very touchy about any story about these rebels. God forbid we actually find out what the government is doing up there in the North.

Later that night, after a glass of wine with my neighbor, it all seems funny. We laugh about it until after midnight, when I reluctantly head home to bed.

THE STORY ABRUPTLY CEASES
to be humorous the following Wednesday, when Faris summons me to his office.

“I need to speak with you,” he says. Faris never needs to speak with me if things are going well. Heart racing, I leap up the stairs to his office.

“We’re in trouble,” he says. “The minister of the interior is suing us. What do you think we should do?”

“But we never printed the story!”

“About twenty Arabic papers managed to pick it up from the Web before we took it down.”

“Christ.”

“He denies that he said anything. He is denying that he even spoke to a reporter. That anyone in his office spoke to a reporter.”

“But Radia did speak to someone in his office.”

“He’s saying she didn’t.”

“I really don’t think Radia would lie.”

“Well, either he is lying or she is lying.”

“He has a motive to lie; she doesn’t.”

“Look….” Faris clicks through a few Web pages. “He put it on the Web. That he is denying everything.”

“Hmmm.”

“So what should we do?”

“Well …” I think for a minute. I am glad that Faris is asking my advice and has not just called me to his office to chastise me. “In the States what we would do is write another article, with the minister’s reaction to the previous story. Set the record straight.” I still think the minister is lying, but we have no way to prove that anyone spoke with Radia because we have no way to record phone calls. And Faris is basically asking me how to cover our asses and not get the paper closed.

“That won’t work.”

“But then it would be on record that we wrote the ‘correct’ version.”

“That would just make everything worse. Things aren’t done like that here.”

“Okay, so what are our other options?”

“I don’t know.” He fidgets with his mouse, clicking on and off websites and twirling in his chair. “Jennifer, the minister of the interior refused to shake my hand yesterday at the Italian embassy. I have never been snubbed like that. Do you know what that is like?”

“No …”

“I have a lot of enemies here. There are a lot of people who are after me, and I want to keep them from getting at me through the
Yemen Observer
. You understand? So the next time we have a story like this, just print the official government press release and that is
all
, okay?”

I nod. So much for holding power accountable.

We sit quietly for a few minutes.

“I mean, who is going to take responsibility for this?” he says. “They could put someone in jail.”

“I will.” I am not going to let Radia—or any of my reporters—go to jail. But they will never send me to jail. It would be political suicide. Besides, it would be far too embarrassing for Faris; he simply would not let it happen.

By the time I’m dismissed, I have the feeling that Faris didn’t really want my advice after all. What upset him most was that the minister had refused to shake his hand. People in power were irked with him. And he wanted to make it clear to me that this was my fault and unacceptable. I could do anything I wanted to with the paper—so long as I didn’t lose him any friends in power. One more false step, I think, and even peanut butter cups won’t be able to save me.

Slowly, it dawns on me that this is not going to change. There will always be limits to what we can write. Faris will never allow me to hire the staff we need. Salaries are not going to rise. My reporters won’t all stick around, and those who do are not going to become paragons of the profession in one year. This is what I have to work with. These are the parameters within which I will have to find new ways to define success.

SEVENTEEN
a world beyond work

Now that my reporters are submitting almost all of their stories promptly on
deadline, I’m spending more time with them than ever before. It’s immensely gratifying to have the luxury of explaining all of my edits to them and chatting with them about their lives. I’ve even changed my routine; I go to the gym before work, so I can lunch with my staff.

My favorite lunches are at the fish
souq
, where al-Matari or one of the other men picks out a large fish or two and we take it to a restaurant to be roasted and served with squishy, buttery bread called
ratib
. I am always the only woman there, and men stare at me the entire time. But surrounded and protected by my male staff, I don’t mind. Some afternoons we go for
saltah
, a Yemeni meat stew with a bubbling broth of fenugreek, in Baab al-Sabah, the market street near my house. The men spread strips of cardboard on the stones for me to sit on and run off in different directions to buy
saltah
and bread and tangy raisin juice. They even order me my own little pot of vegetarian
saltah
, which tastes like a spicy potato stew. We squat in a circle while passing men stare at the oddity of a woman eating in public. It makes all the difference that I now have time to do this; my relationships with my reporters become easier as we spend more nonwork time together.

The mere act of getting the paper on schedule has transformed my life. Not only can I spend more time with staff, but for the first time in six months, I have time to go out with friends after work. Of course, I first need to find friends. I have some, but I’ve spent so much time in my newsroom that I’ve hardly met anyone outside of work other than Shaima, Marvin, and Pearl. My solitary times on Soqotra musing on distant loved ones reminded me of how critical my friendships are. The e-mails I get from faraway friends are a comfort, but I need people
here
.

Anne is the first to step into the void. I’d met her a couple of months earlier at my first diplomatic party, but now I finally have time to see her. An intern at the Dutch Embassy, Anne is twenty-two, but age has ceased to mean anything to me. In New York, most of my friends were close to my age or older. But in Yemen, I collect friends from ages twenty-two to sixty-seven. There are so few expats in Yemen that just living here gives us a strong common bond. Besides, Anne is precocious. She grew up in Saudi Arabia and has traveled extensively. A voracious reader, she often whips through a book a day, speaks perfect English and decent Arabic, makes friends easily, and is consistently sunny and cheerful. I am a little bit in awe of Anne. Our mutual love of books initially brings us together; there are few books in English available in Yemen, so we trade our stocks. In the evenings, she is often the person who drags me from the office after a long day. We make dinners together at my house or go out to eat, and she introduces me to her legions of friends.

In early spring, she invites me on a trip to Kamaran Island with a group of mostly Dutch friends. I’ve gotten bolder about taking time off, and so without even telling Faris, I leave the paper in Luke’s hands on a closing day and head for the Red Sea. I don’t want to miss a chance to meet people away from work.

The occasion is Floor’s birthday. Floor is Ali’s new girlfriend; they began dating while he was working for me (much to the dismay of my women). When we go to Kamaran, Ali is temporarily away in the United States. Floor is slender and blond, easygoing, and drives her own car, a massive army-green jeep. With her is her best friend, Serena, an Australian doctoral student in political science, and Matt and Nina, a couple from New York.

Xander, a tall, dark-haired Dutch development worker, drives the second car, with Anne and her new Dutch boyfriend Florens. I am squeezed into the last car with Yahya, a Yemeni; Lama, a tiny, wild, married Yemeni woman; and Zana, a vastly fat Albanian with short-clipped blond hair and watermelon breasts.

Zana is from Kosovo and works for the National Democratic Institute with Floor and Lama. We pass the time asking Lama how to say various things in Arabic, focusing on phrases to make men leave us alone. Zana asks how to say “It is nothing that would interest you.”

“There is no Arabic translation for that,” says Lama, “because here, everyone is interested in everything.”

We drive up over the jagged peaks of the Haraz Mountains, majestic and misty. It is cool in the mountains, and I am astonished at their greenness. The color comes from the crops planted in diminishing terraces rising up the slopes all around us. On one peak, our three cars meet up at a bootleg alcohol shop. I am amused to find the tiny, unmarked shed plastered with enormous photographs of Saddam Hussein and stocked with bottles of Glen’s gin, Bell’s whiskey, and Heineken. When I ask what other contraband is available, Serena says, “Anything you want.” Several of the Dutch buy hashish, and we all chip in for cases of beer.

As we descend from the mountains toward Hodeida, the air grows softer and warmer, and the valley alongside the road greens with banana trees. Soon, it is so hot that we have to roll our windows all the way down.

We arrive at the boat launch in Selim just after dark. The air is thick, warm, and sticky. The police at the docks make a big fuss over our papers, delaying us while they hold conferences among themselves. The man who seems to be in charge is very confused about how many of us there are. Serena tells him there are fourteen of us, but he doesn’t understand. “Five and five and four,” she says, pointing out our three groups. He cannot add, and she shows him on her fingers. He frowns and scribbles and counts us again.

Finally, we are allowed to board three rickety fishing boats, our bags of contraband clanking as we heave them over the sides. Even then, the boat drivers are in no hurry to set off. They busily compare cell phone features while we grow impatient. We have already been traveling for seven hours. After sitting for ages breathing exhaust fumes from the boat, little Lama finally loses patience.
“Mumkin,”
(“Can we …?”) she says, tapping the driver. And we all join in with the
“YALLA!”
(Let’s go!)

With a sudden push, we are speeding across the water. I look up. The stars are bright and the moon fuzzy with humidity. There are no lights anywhere. Our boats themselves lack headlights and the water is dark around us. The enchantment hits us all in a rush. Our boats fly, faster than our cars had on land, through the dark. Our wake and the waves around us glow white in the moonlight.

“Wow,” we say in one awestruck voice. I trail my fingers in the water.

“This is my first time on the Red Sea,” says Nina.

I’m suddenly excited. “Me too!”

Our driver asks Nina for her flashlight, and she hands it over. It strikes me as odd that he doesn’t have his own. He flashes the light skyward and then toward the other boats. They flash back, directing us.

It takes us twenty minutes to cross the water. As our boats push up against the rocks of Kamaran, which is still invisible in the dark, a voice booms from above.

“Welcome to Kamaran!” It is a Yemeni voice speaking warmly in English. As I clamber across the other boats and up the rocks, a strong hand grips mine and hauls me to the top. Mohammed al-Zubairy’s round brown face appears in the dark, glistening. He introduces himself and turns to the next guest. “Zana! You made it!” He remembers the name of everyone who has been there before, particularly the women.

From the top of the cliff, I see the modest buildings of the Two Moon Tourist Resort silhouetted in the moonlight. Those on land are already scurrying to pick out their round, pointy-roofed, thatched Tihama huts. These are scattered across the sandy plain around a circular, stone main building that houses the dining room, kitchen, and bathrooms.

I follow the group slowly, wondering who might let me share their hut. All the seventh-grade anxieties about not fitting in with the popular crowd surge up from my unconsciousness. Everyone else already knows each other. Anne is the only person I really know, and she is sharing a hut with Florens.

“Jennifer!” calls Floor. “Do you want to be in our hut?”

Rescued from social rejection! Floor is the ringleader of this group, and I am grateful for her warmth. I hurry to join her and Serena.

By the time we’ve dropped our things and run into the main building, everyone is lounging in wood and rope chairs, sipping their first cold beers. Floor announces that she is going for a swim, followed by Anne. I waver long enough that they head out without me. (Alcohol or swimming? It’s a tough call.) But I finally decide I want nothing more than to be underwater, and Mohammed leads me across the sand in the dark.

He remembers having seen me before, somewhere in Sana’a.

“I was attracted to your face,” he says. “And here you are, on my island!” I am flattered.

We walk across a dune, passing the dripping Floor and Anne on their return trip, to a small square building. Not until we get there can I make out the outline of the shore. I start for my swimsuit, but Mohammed tells me I don’t need it here. “Just swim! Be free!” he says. “It is night. There is no one to care.”

These are magic words to a girl who has been swaddled from head to toe for months. Euphorically, I strip off my long skirts and walk naked across the sand. Mohammed has gone discreetly ahead and is already out in the water, wearing his boxers, far from me.

The water is deliciously cool. We swim out, Mohammed (staying a respectful distance ahead) guiding me away from underwater hazards. I flip onto my back to see how the moon looks from the Red Sea. It looks fuzzy. My worries about the paper dissolve and float out to sea. I follow Mohammed’s instructions and feel free. I am tempted to float out here all night, but I remind myself that I didn’t come here to be alone.

I join the others for a beer before dinner. We’ve all shucked our Yemeni drapery—even Yemeni Lama has stripped down to a tiny pair of shorts. It feels like the first day of summer vacation. Mohammed and his staff have whipped up a vast feast of seafood and salads, which we boisterously inhale before heading outside to relax under the stars and fuzzy moon. Nina passes me a joint, and I take a couple of hits. I never smoke hashish, and the drug immediately blows me sideways. I fall asleep in my chair, and when I open my eyes Anne is watching me. “You look tired,” she laughs. I stumble over to our hut, curl up on my rope cot, and am instantly asleep.

We wake early to find crepes and mango juice already waiting for us. After breakfast, everyone heads in different directions—some to swim, some to take a boat to a nearby island, some to read in the shade. I linger in the main lodge with Mohammed, curious to know more about his resort. “I wanted to create a place where people could be free,” he says. “This is why I came here.” He opened the resort in 1997, after President Saleh gave him the land to open the island to tourism investment.

“I like the sea,” he says. “I grew up close to the sea. I wanted to protect the environment in some way, in my way.”

Using only natural, local materials, he followed the traditional building methods of the Tihama region, the western coastal area, to build the huts. The resort is isolated from the rest of the island, where some thirty-five hundred Yemenis make their living from the sea.

There are two reasons the island is called Kamaran, says Mohammed. First, if you sit at the very tip of this spit of land, just as the full moon rises in the sky, you can see its reflection on either side of you.
Qamaran
is a transliteration of the Arabic word for “two moons.” Second, for two weeks a month it is possible to see the moon shining in one side of the sky while the sun is shining in the other.

The forty-two-square-mile desert island is fringed with white sand beaches and surrounded by coral reefs. I’m eager to see these reefs but have never snorkeled, so Mohammed teaches me. I have seen coral before only off Soqotra. In flippers and masks, we drift over what looks like heads of cabbage. Tiny silver fish dart in and out of them. Beside these are the labyrinthine shapes of coral folded in upon itself to resemble the cerebellum of a sea monster. Spiky sea urchins abound. Branch coral reaches purple-tipped fingers toward the sky. A rainbow-colored fish swims by, flapping tiny wings, and an enormous mussel (which Mohammed calls a “murder shell”) opens and closes its rippled blue lips. A shoal of long, cylindrical fish—the kind served for dinner the night before—dashes quickly away as if suspecting the fate of their missing brethren.

As we swim, Mohammed silently points to things and I gurgle my awe. After an hour of exploring, I head to shore and trek across the dunes, thick with crushed white shells, to join the others on a distant beach.

It is early evening when we all return. I take some photos of the sunset and join the others for a riotous cocktail hour. Florens and Xander amuse us by covering their sunburned bodies with yogurt. We trade our Yemeni adventure stories and laugh and then eat another fish and vegetable feast.

Afterward, we move outside to celebrate Floor’s birthday with more drinks, dancing, and even a fireworks display. We crank up the stereo. I lift my arms to the starry desert sky, relishing the tickle of my loose hair across my spine, and feel happier than I have felt in months. Festivity, food, and, finally, some nonwork friends.