The Woman Who Fell from the Sky (23 page)

EID ALSO BRINGS ME
the gift of Anne-Christine. A German woman about my age who has worked in Sana’a for several years in hospital management, Anne-Christine is living in a small flat under my house when I move in. But when its tenant returns from Denmark in October, she finds herself suddenly homeless. I discover her in tears one night on my stairs. Though I hardly know her, I invite her to live with me. I have so much space, and she is so distressed.

The arrangement works out marvelously for both of us. Anne-Christine is not only a vegetarian, and so shares my eating habits, but she is also a talented cook. She is happy to have someone to cook for, and I am ecstatic to eat something other than salad and bread, which is all I can ever muster the energy to throw together. For the entire two months she lives with me, Anne-Christine makes dinner every night. Even when she goes out to dinner with friends, she still cooks me an eggplant curry or stewed lentils and leaves the dish for me with a note. As if I couldn’t possibly manage to fend for myself.

On nights that I fail to come home for dinner or am late because of work, Anne-Christine is distraught. “Oh, I just
wish
I knew when you would be home!” she says to me one night. Feeling a bit like a 1950s husband, I start to leave work earlier, so as not to upset her.

Al-Asaadi finds this greatly amusing. “You have a wife!”

“Yeah,” I say, shutting down my computer. “She’s the best thing ever. I can see why you guys would want four of them.”

After she’s been living with me a few weeks, I cannot imagine how I ever survived before Anne-Christine. It makes such a difference to come home to someone. I’ve also begun to recognize that it is a matter of survival to have a few non-Yemeni friends to whom I can confess the whole of myself. This keeps me sane and keeps me from overconfiding in people who do not have the cultural context to understand some of the decisions I have made. I am still feeling my way toward the boundaries of what I can tell and what I need to keep secret.

Anne-Christine is so integrated into the fabric of Yemen that she has a Yemeni lover, Yahya. I cannot hide my astonishment when she confesses that he is married. I wonder if she is risking her life with this relationship in a culture where adultery can be punishable by death. The night I meet Yahya for the first time, he’s terribly shy and worried that I will think poorly of him, though Anne-Christine reassures him that in Germany and the United States, it is perfectly normal for a man to visit a woman in her home. When he rings to say that he is on his way, she becomes giddy as a schoolgirl, running around the house fixing her hair and changing her dress. I’ve never seen down-to-earth Anne-Christine like this. Her face has flushed crimson, and she looks pretty and all of sixteen.

Yahya is tall for a Yemeni, attractive, and very soft-spoken. He speaks English, though slowly. I speak too quickly for him, and Anne-Christine tells me to slow down. He seems kind and not at all the sort of man to take the risks he is taking. But people here, I am learning, are rarely what they seem.

NOT ONLY DO I
now have someone cooking for me and a few friends in whom I can confide, I also have what I consider the ultimate luxury: a cleaning woman. I’ve never had one before. No one but me has ever scrubbed my bathroom or washed my dishes. In New York, it was so expensive to hire someone to clean that I didn’t even know anyone who had a cleaning woman. But Shaima has insisted that I have someone. “I don’t know what we’d
do
without a housemaid,” she says. She sends me Aisha, a Somali woman desperate for work.

Yemen is home to some 150,000 Somalis, most of whom have fled to Yemen to escape violence in their homeland. They are granted automatic refugee status in Yemen—as long as they can reach the country alive. Thousands of Somalis save their money to buy passage on tiny, overcrowded smugglers’ boats across the Gulf of Aden. Many don’t survive the journey. They are often victims of violence on the boat, and many of the smugglers transporting the Somalis dump them so far from Yemen’s shores that they drown. But Aisha has survived. She doesn’t speak a word of English, so I uncover her story gradually, as my Arabic improves. She lives in Sana’a with five children and a husband. A tall, heavy woman, Aisha wears a
hijab
but doesn’t cover her face. When she smiles, she reveals a mouthful of enormous teeth. At first I ask Aisha to come just once a week—I don’t make much of a mess given that I am rarely home. But she is so desperate for work that I relent and have her come twice a week. I pay her $10 per visit, which Shaima tells me is the going rate. This seems staggeringly little to me, but Aisha accepts it without complaint. She leaves my house gleaming, with the smell of bleach wafting up from my stone floors.

After the first couple of weeks, I start to give her things to take home, usually food. I give her whole cakes, boxes of cookies, chocolates, and even some jewelry and clothes, mostly gifts I have received for which I have no need. A few weeks later, I give her the keys to my house. I trust her.

DESPITE THE REST
and nutritious meals, my ribs refuse to heal. I still cannot laugh without agony, so finally our photographer Mas takes me to the hospital for X-rays. I don’t know quite what the point is, because if they are cracked there is nothing I can do but rest. But it couldn’t hurt to see a doctor.

We walk into an office in the emergency pavilion of the Yemeni-German Hospital, where three men sit idly shuffling papers. The one in the middle is apparently the doctor. I explain my problem, and he gives us a written order for an X-ray. We then find our way to Radiology, up and down stairs and through doorways. The technician ushers us right in and has me change into a hospital gown (even more modest than ours). I change in private, but during the actual X-ray, he allows Mas to stay in the room. Does the technician not know that he is exposing Mas to radiation? Or does he just not care? No one even asks me if I am pregnant. Do they know that pregnant women shouldn’t be X-rayed? Maybe they just think I look too old to be pregnant?

We have to go to a different department to pay. It costs a whopping YR800, or about $4. We return to the doctor, who takes me to a room where a woman sits next to a tiny infant attached to an IV. It is screaming its lungs out.

The doctor sits me on another bed and draws a screen around us. My heart thuds nervously. I have not been to a male doctor in at least a decade. This man pokes and prods my rib cage, making me yelp with pain, and then moves his hand higher. I draw back in shock. “That is
not
my rib.” I am too stunned to get up and walk out.

“I think you are having pain in your liver and gall bladder,” he says. “You might have a liver disease.”

I glare at him.
“I fell down my stairs and landed on a rib
. There is nothing wrong with my liver!” I struggle to pull down my shirt and stand.

He
insists
that I have a liver function test and asks me if I have been sick. Yes, for nearly three weeks, I say, desperate to escape him. He hems and haws and hands me over to the phlebotomist. I figure there is no harm in having the blood tests, so I let a gloveless woman take a couple of test tubes of my blood. She hands these to Mas and tells us to go to the lab. Clearly, there’s no chain of custody for blood samples. I could stick any sort of substance in my test tubes, or even trade them for someone else’s on the way to the lab. But I’m in a Third World country, I remind myself. I should know better than to have First World expectations of the medical care.

The lab is in a different building. We hand the unlabeled test tubes to a man behind a glass window, who struggles to write my name on them. He tells us they will be ready the next day and that the test will cost YR 4,300, nearly $25, a fortune here. I don’t have that much left, so I will have to dig around the house for loose change. I don’t get paid until next week.

A couple days later, Mas and I go back to the hospital, which is much more chaotic in the daylight. We want to pick up my X-ray as well as the test results, but the X-rays are nowhere to be found. The men in the emergency room walk about their office, looking under piles of paper. Then one of them finds a stack of dusty X-rays sitting unprotected on top of a metal filing cabinet.

“Here,” he says, handing me the stack. “See if you can find one of ribs.”

I stare at him in disbelief but thumb through the transparencies. There are legs and arms and collarbones. Finally, I find one rib cage and hold it up. The doctor looks at it. “It
could
be yours,” he says. There is no name on the film.

We give up on the X-ray and go to fetch my blood test results, which of course show that I have the healthiest and happiest of livers. The entire experience has been nothing but a monumental waste of time.

WHEN I RETURN
to work after Eid, I am told that Hadi will be replacing our designer Samir, who is being moved to
Arabia Felix
. Despite my sadness at losing Samir, I quickly realize that Hadi is a big improvement. Samir is a lovely designer but slow. I like a pretty front page as much as the next editor, but newspapers are ephemeral things, and what’s most important is that the news gets printed in a timely manner. With Hadi laying out our pages, we close earlier than ever. By eleven
P.M
., all of the pages are closed and we are in a van home, the men stunned to be heading out so early.

All of the hospitality I experienced around Ramadan and Eid leaves me feeling curious about something. Total strangers often invite me to their homes for meals or tea or
qat
chews, but my staff members never do. At first I take this personally. I figure that it isn’t that they don’t want to spend time with me. After all, al-Asaadi and Qasim have both invited me out several times. But I am never invited to their homes. Even odder is that Faris has never once invited me to his home.

I bring this up with Anne-Christine one night over dinner. She has lived in Yemen for much longer and is much more knowledgeable. “It just seems so un-Yemeni,” I say, “given how hospitable everyone I meet outside the office has been.”

“But they are afraid to bring you home,” says Anne-Christine. “They are afraid of their wives. They cannot introduce them to you.”

“Because I am a Western woman?”

“Because you are a beautiful woman. And women are very jealous. They would not allow their husbands to work—and until such late hours!—with a woman like you.”

A woman like me. I’m not sure I even know what that means anymore.

ELEVEN
the trials of mohammed al-asaadi

The fanatics are calling for our heads. They’ve been calling for our heads since
last February, when the
Yemen Observer
republished controversial Danish cartoons depicting the Prophet Mohammed, one of which shows the prophet with a bomb tucked in his turban. The paper reprinted three of the cartoons on the Op-Ed page, alongside an editorial condemning them. A large black X obscured the cartoons, yet this did nothing to temper their inflammatory impact. Islam considers even respectful depictions of the prophet to be blasphemy. The
Yemen Observer
and Mohammed al-Asaadi have been on trial for nearly ten months.

The twelve cartoons, originally printed in the newspaper
Jyllands-Posten
in September 2005 and reprinted by scores of Western publications, sparked outrage. Muslim protestors staged violent demonstrations throughout Asia, Africa, and the Middle East, during which at least fifty people were killed. The cartoonists received death threats, editors went into hiding, and Danish goods were boycotted.

Despite the
Yemen Observer
’s explicit condemnation of the cartoons, the Yemeni government insisted that the mere reprinting of them constituted an unforgivable offense against Islam. Fanatics called for the execution of al-Asaadi, and the courts shut down the paper for three months. Al-Asaadi spent twelve days in prison before he was released on bail. Yemeni prisons do not provide inmates with food and water, so reporters and family ensured al-Asaadi was fed during his internment.

Court date after court date passes without a final ruling. If we are convicted, the paper could be shut down. We could all lose our jobs. But the judges keep postponing the sentencing. The wait is taking a toll on al-Asaadi, who by November looks exhausted and drawn.

Al-Asaadi has worked for the
Yemen Observer
since 1999, when Faris plucked him out of an Internet shop in Ta’iz. “It was always my dream to be a journalist,” al-Asaadi told me. “Since seventh grade. Either a journalist or a diplomat.” But he was unable to study for either of those careers. Al-Asaadi grew up in the village of Ramadi in Ibb Governorate, the greenest, most fertile part of Yemen. He headed to nearby Ta’iz for university, where there were no courses in media studies or international relations. Media courses were offered in Sana’a, but al-Asaadi had no money to travel. So he studied English.

Just a couple months after graduation, al-Asaadi was working in an Internet café in Ta’iz when Faris walked in to check his e-mail. He was sitting there reading the
Yemen Times
, and Faris asked if he ever read the
Observer
. Al-Asaadi said he did. Faris then quizzed him about a recent issue, asking him what he thought of various stories, including one that he himself had written. Al-Asaadi gave his opinion, not suspecting he was speaking with the publisher of the paper. Faris said, “I am Hessam, the brother of Faris. If you want a job at the
Yemen Observer
, maybe I can talk with him.”

“Yes!” cried al-Asaadi, feeling lucky indeed. The two men exchanged phone numbers and Faris went on his way.

Two days later, al-Asaadi rang Faris at the
Observer
. “I met your brother,” he said. “And he said you might have a job.”

Faris then confessed his true identity. “I just wanted to see how interested you really were,” he said.

Al-Asaadi began working as an office assistant. Faris helped him to get training, and al-Asaadi received several grants to study journalism abroad. By the time I came to the paper, al-Asaadi had risen as far up the masthead as it is possible to go.

I first accompany him to court in early November. “I just want a
verdict,”
he says. “But I know they are just going to postpone again.” Faris claims that the delays are beneficial because they give the fanatics time to calm down and lose interest in the case. I repeat this to al-Asaadi, but it doesn’t seem to quell his anxiety. Though al-Asaadi and I are increasingly at odds over how to run the paper, we put aside our differences when the trial date comes up. Neither of us wants to lose our job and I certainly do not want al-Asaadi sent back to prison—or worse, put to death.

One of the
Yemen Observer’s
early stories on the case (the paper continued to publish on the Web after it was shut down) reported that twenty-one lawyers for the prosecution called for the death penalty for al-Asaadi, as well as the permanent closure of the newspaper and the confiscation of all of its assets. The lawyers “recounted a story in which a lady was killed during the Prophet’s lifetime after she insulted him, and that the Prophet then praised the killer. They said that they wanted the same punishment to be applied on ‘those who abuse the Prophet’ (PBUH).” This drives home to me the very real risk my reporters are taking by attempting to report what goes on in the world.

My reporters always follow the name of the prophet in their copy with PBUH, for “peace be upon Him.” I am unsure how to deal with this. To me, newspapers are secular, reporting objectively on all issues, including religion. So for the paper to wish peace upon the prophet at first strikes me as editorializing. The articles about the cartoons naturally include scores of “PBUH”s in a concerted effort to prove how unlikely it is that the paper would insult the prophet.

The first few times I encounter “PBUH,” I delete it, and no one complains. But eventually, this strikes me as overly pedantic. I am living in an entirely Muslim country. Does it hurt anyone to allow the “PBUH” to stay? Will this put the paper on the slippery slope to promoting a religion? My fears that the paper is biased toward religion feel slightly ridiculous in a uniformly religious society. I resolve to overcome my knee-jerk secularism. Besides, until our court case is over, I’m not taking unnecessary risks.

According to the
Observer
, lawyers for the prosecution also demanded “personal financial compensation for the psychological trauma they claimed they suffered by the actions of the newspaper, which they said has impaired their ability to do their jobs and follow their normal daily lives.”

This is laughable. Reprinting the cartoons has psychologically dismantled the extremists? How mentally healthy can they have been to begin with if a mere cartoon can unhinge them? I despair of the Arab world ever achieving press freedom.

The defense team pointed out that the newspaper had condemned the cartoons, had defended Islam and the prophet, and had reported the different reactions from all across the Arab and Islamic world. But the prosecution said their case rested on the cartoons alone and that the accompanying articles were irrelevant.

The Ministry of Information first revoked the newspaper’s license on February 8, 2006. At the same time,
al-Rai al-‘Aam
, another weekly that reprinted the cartoons, was also shut down. And
al-Hurriyah
weekly not only lost its license, but its editor was jailed along with his assistant.

Prison had a profound effect on al-Asaadi. The following is an excerpt from a personal account he wrote of his incarceration, which we published on the anniversary of his arrest.

I held my breath as I was locked in a dark room in the basement of the same building, where I was interrogated…. Fifteen people were in that dark and dirty room. Some people, who were still asleep, though it was midday, were interrupted by noise. The inmates recognized that the new comer was a high-profile person as a result of the protest that could be seen from the only window in the room. “Who are you and why are you here?” I was asked by the inmates. I revealed my profession but concealed my name and the reason of my imprisonment. I dared not tell them that I republished the cartoons. Whatever was the context of my story, I would not be welcome. I was really afraid … that I might be attacked by the prisoners. That fear was justified the second day when two bedouins from Ma’rib were jailed. They asked about everybody. I was pretending that I was asleep. They asked about me and the inmates told them that I was the journalist who republished the Danish cartoons. They jumped and said, “This is the dog, then.” They were calmed down by others who told them that I was defending the prophet….

I was asked to pay YR 200 for the toilet water, like any new comers to the cell. Then my family sent me a mattress, blanket and pillow. My colleagues from my newspaper and other friends flooded me with food, fruit and all edibles. I offered my fellow inmates food and other stuff. They appreciated my offer and started asking seriously about my case. I put off telling them the story until after the prayers. I wanted to assure them that I pray like all good Muslims. It worked out and they trusted me….

Mosque preachers and religious fanatics launched severe attacks against us. Many of our relatives and friends boycotted us, believing we really were offenders. Obviously, it was not only the government against me in this ordeal, but also influential Islamic hardliners. The latter, who proved to be the toughest, collected millions of rials to prosecute us….

After 12 long days, painfully as long as 12 years, I was released on bail. Everybody was happy for my release except the inmates…. They told me that they would miss the food, lectures and the cleanliness of the room. I was released, but the trial continued and the newspaper continued to be suspended from printing, but continued to be updated online. The staff and top administration’s determination to continue online was great. Their work during my stay in jail helped a lot to raise the profile of the case in the international community and contributed to my release.

When al-Asaadi parks his car near the courthouse for our November court date, at first I am unaware that we have arrived. The building, set in a dusty, rock-strewn courtyard, doesn’t resemble any courthouse I have ever seen. It is devoid of grandeur and looks to me like an ordinary modern Yemeni house. A crowd of men bustles around the entrance, and we have to push our way through. All of the guards kiss al-Asaadi hello. Even the prosecutor on his case comes over to kiss him several times as we arrive at the gate. The prosecutor tells al-Asaadi that his sentencing has been postponed yet again, to December. This was just what al-Asaadi feared. To make absolutely sure that we cannot get a verdict, we push our way into the building. The prosecutor tells me that there are three similar cases going on, involving the other newsmen accused. “None of the judges wants to be the first to rule,” he says. They are afraid of the response of the fanatics.

If al-Asaadi were not dragging me behind him into the building, I am not sure I would make it through the throngs. There are too many people. Too many men. Guards pat men down at the entrance to the building, but they have no female guards and so they don’t search me, despite the fact that I am toting an enormous bag. I see no other women.

We pass through a grubby narrow hallway and start up a filthy set of stairs at the back. At the top, we pass from small square white room to small square white room, greeting people and moving on. I have trouble keeping up with al-Asaadi, who is tiny enough to slip easily through crowds. I am also very busy trying to keep from brushing against any of the men, which is no easy task. When we at last reach a small square white room with a judge, al-Asaadi is unable to persuade him to issue a verdict, and we are turned away. On our way out, al-Asaadi stops to kiss a few hundred more men.

“Do you want to see the prison cell where I was?” he asks me.

I do.

Al-Asaadi greets (and kisses) one of the guards and convinces him to unlock the prison underneath the courthouse. The low-ceilinged room is crowded with men. They have been sitting on their thin sleeping mats, but most spring to their feet when they see us. They stare at me.

“Salaam aleikum,”
says al-Asaadi.

“Aleikum salaam,”
they chorus back.

I gaze around. The dingy yellow walls are scrawled with graffiti. On my right, the entire corner is littered with empty water bottles. Just beyond them is the toilet. It doesn’t smell all that horrible, though I have a cold again, so I’m not smelling much in general.