The Woman Who Fell from the Sky (9 page)

Most of this was patently untrue. So we had a little chat about factual reporting and the unreliability of eyewitnesses. “Many people who witness the exact same event will remember it in different ways,” I said. “As you have seen. Even people who believe they are telling you the truth may not be telling you what actually happened. Each person is telling you her
version
of what happened. You need to be aware of this.

“I am unclear, however, whether this is what Arwa believes she actually
saw
or if she was merely trying to heighten the drama of the whole incident. Which is something we should try to avoid if possible. Let the facts be enough. Okay, next?”

Arwa bowed her head and I couldn’t see her eyes. I hoped I had not embarrassed her. I couldn’t bear the thought of hurting any of the women or giving the men something to tease them about. I was still a little afraid of the women, afraid to intrude on their carefully drawn boundaries.

While my reporters would often laugh at each other and openly criticize their colleagues’ work, they never questioned my authority. My status as a westerner who had written for national magazines and newspapers in the United States granted me their automatic respect and immunity from criticism. I was surprised that the men were so deferential right from the start. I had expected them to challenge me, or to refuse to take me seriously, because I was female. But this was far from the case. The men were almost obsequious, falling over each other to try to please me. My education, career, and foreignness, it seemed, trumped my sex.

This passive attitude in the classroom wasn’t unusual. The Yemeni education system does not encourage critical thinking. Children learn almost entirely by rote, and corporal punishment is common. Teachers are never, ever questioned, and school is largely a grim, daunting place. I have never heard Yemenis speak with fond nostalgia about their early school days.

After all the stories had been read, I took a marker out and walked to the board. “I notice a few things missing from all of these stories,” I said. “First, no one, except Adel, interviewed me, and no one interviewed Theo. Yet the story was about
us
. Didn’t you want to know if Theo had a history of stealing things from me, or if maybe we had had another fight before, if there might be other reasons we are angry at each other?”

We went over what else they should have done to get this story right—interview their fellow classmates and witnesses, ask to inspect my purse, and spell our names correctly.

For homework, I passed out a
Wall Street Journal
story with a textbook-perfect anecdotal lead and a BBC news story with a direct lead, so we could spend the entire next class on leads. My reporters were unclear on the concept. Every single story in the
Yemen Observer
began with a lengthy attribution. For example: “The Ministry of Arabian Absurdity spokesperson said in all his glorious wisdom today June 11 that …” Or “The Minister of Myopia announced in a beautiful way today that on June 17 they will plan a meeting to deal with the issues of the opposition party signing a contract about the election with the dignitaries of the Party of the Usual Insanity, affirmed Ali al-Mallinguality …” That isn’t much of an exaggeration.

So, in our next class, I taught them what I call the “Hey, Jolyon!” rule, which I developed at
The Week
. Jolyon used to write the art pages at
The Week
and sat next to me. Whenever I saw a really interesting story, I’d swing away from my computer and say, “Hey, Jolyon! Listen to this!”

I told them to write the leads of their stories as if they were telling their story to their own Jolyons. “Look away from your notes, your sources, your lists of names, and simply tell me what the story is about. In one sentence. So that when a Yemeni man, for example, reads the paper, he will turn to his wife and say, ‘Hey, Arwa! Listen to this!’”

AS THE DAYS PASSED,
my relationships with my students grew warmer. When I arrived at work on my third day, Zaid met me at the door, wearing a long white
thobe
and
jambiya
, with a flash drive dangling from his neck. “Look, Jennifer!” he said, pointing to the
jambiya
and the flash drive. “I am both old-world and new-world!” He then followed me into the newsroom and bombarded me with questions about word definitions and how things were done in the West until my lesson began.

Now that we had all grown at ease with each other, I had no trouble getting anyone to speak up in class. They were so eager to tell me what they knew that they were continually interrupting each other.

The men often behaved like schoolboys, hiding each other’s shoes in wastebaskets, stealing each other’s chairs, and trying to one-up each other. They asked me things like “My lead was better than Zaid’s though, right? Mine was the best? Jennifer! Tell us who is the
best!”

One morning, Qasim and Farouq would not stop taunting each other. Qasim dialed Farouq on his cell phone while holding it under the table, just to get Farouq in trouble for having his phone on in class—which I had strictly forbidden.

“That’s it,” I said, extending my open palm. “Hand them over.” Both men sheepishly handed me their phones, which I tucked into my purse. The women gazed at me in awe.

Qasim also handed me a television remote control that was lying on the table. “Great idea,” I said. “Now you can only talk if I am pointing this at you!”

This helped enormously.

Theo, to my surprise, turned out to be one of my most enthusiastic cheerleaders. Not only did he help me to steer classroom discussions in constructive directions, he also cooked me dinner most evenings and helped me to plan out my days. Life outside the
Yemen Observer
offices (what little there was) was rarely more relaxing than life inside them, given how unfamiliar everything remained. I had to negotiate fares with taxi drivers in Arabic several times a day, for one thing. Grocery shopping was still beyond me and I never saw women eating alone in restaurants, so I ate only when either Sabri or Theo fed me. There was no time for me to meet people outside of work. I wondered how single foreigners survived the seeming dearth of romantic possibilities.

AFTER CLASS ONE DAY,
Zuhra, who was showing herself to be the most passionate of my reporters, asked me to sit and go through yet another story line by line. There were many corrections to be made, but she was learning quickly. Her questions had no end. She was a starving little plant and she thought I was the rain.

The office was empty; everyone else had gone home for lunch and a couple hours of qat-chewing. When we were finally finished, at close to three
P.M
. (too late for me to get to the pool before the evening class), she grasped my arm with both of her tiny hands and fixed me with fierce brown eyes. “Jennifer. You have to tell me. Please. Do you think I can do it? Can I be a journalist? A
real
journalist? I want to know, because this is the career I have chosen for myself and I want you to tell me if you think I can do it. So I am not wasting my time. I do not want to delude myself.”

“Zuhra. I have no question that you can do it. But—”

“But?” Her eyes grew anxious.

“I don’t know,” I said truthfully. “I don’t understand yet enough about you, enough about Yemen, to know your particular challenges. As a woman, I mean. Aren’t there things you are not allowed to do? Like, could you interview a man?”

“Not alone. My family would be upset. Maybe in a group?”

“Okay.” I thought. “Could you interview a man on the phone and over e-mail?”

“Yes.” There was no hesitation. “But I cannot go out at night.”

“So you can work a day shift. This is something that can be worked around. Men can cover things going on at night. Can you run around town interviewing women?”

“Yes!”

“Well, that’s half the population, after all,” I said. “That gives you something to work with. You could certainly find plenty to write about women and children.” My brain was already at work, churning out story ideas for her. She could write about what was being done to combat the illiteracy of 70 percent of Yemen’s women. Or the astronomical maternal mortality rate. Or the polio epidemic that continued to cripple children. Or …

She nodded. “So?”

“We can find a way for you to do this.”

“But you think
I
can do it? Jennifer, I want this so much; I have chosen this. I need you to help me.”
Tell me you believe in me
.

“Zuhra. If this is really what you want, you absolutely can do this. And I will help you every way I can.”

She squeezed my hands even more tightly. “I won’t let you down,” she said. “I want to make you proud of me. Just as long as I have your help.”

“You do, you do!” But my stomach twisted. I had no idea how much I could really help her. How, I wondered, was I ever going to be able to tell her everything she needed to know in three inadequate weeks?

I should have known then. I couldn’t.

THE NEXT DAY,
I ducked into my classroom for a minute to fetch something and discovered the women having their lunch. Somehow I had failed to notice that the women were never with us when I ate with the men outside in the courtyard. Faris had always invited me to eat with the men as an honorary member of the sex. We ate standing up, dipping Yemeni baguettes called
roti
into a communal pot of stewed beans called
ful
. How could I have forgotten the women? Of course they couldn’t lift their veils to eat among the men!

Now the women were laughing at the surprise on my face. Wait a minute, I could
see them laughing
. They had mouths and noses and white teeth! They had lifted their veils. It had taken me a moment to realize this.

“You have never seen us before!” they cried out gleefully. It took me a minute to figure out who they were. I didn’t recognize them without their
niqabs!
I had to start with the eyes, the only part of them I knew. The long lashes belonged to Arwa, the large round eyes to Enass, and the smiling, almond-shaped eyes were Radia’s.

“Come, eat with us,” said Arwa.

“I’d love to!” I said. I was trying not to stare too hard at them, for fear of making them shy. I had not yet been alone with the women, not yet been privy to this secret society. I wanted to memorize their faces before they disappeared again.

They were so much easier with me away from the men. They laughed more often, spoke more freely, and teased each other. Every time a knock came on the door, they hastily flipped down their veils.

Enass, the paper’s secretary, said that all the men tell her how smart I am. That I am the smartest woman they have ever met.

“Really?” I said, elated.

“They say this,” she replied.

One of the other girls said something to her in Arabic and they argued for a minute. “Oh!” Enass said, turning back to me. “I didn’t mean smart. I meant pretty! I got confused.”

“Oh.” My face fell. “I think I’d rather they thought I was smart.”