Woman Who Fell From the Sky - Jennifer Steil [11]
Theo shrugged. “Explain that to Faris.”
Sabri, a friend of Faris’s, smiled knowingly. “I’ve also noticed some mistakes in the reporting,” he said.
“Some mistakes?” said Theo. “Anyway, that’s why Jennifer is here.” He turned to me. “And could you teach them how to do Internet research? And how to know which sources are valid? And, you know, they sometimes refuse to put bylines on stories. You should get them to do that.”
I tried not to dissolve into a puddle of terror.
I’d been a journalist for more than ten years, but I had never taught a journalism course before, let alone in the Arab world. I was jellied with nerves. “You’ll need to show them you are in command right away,” said Theo. “You will have to find some way to make them show up on time every day. Oh—and you will need to tell them you are married. No woman your age here is unmarried, and if they find out that you are single they will assume something is terribly wrong with you. You don’t want to give them any reason to look for something wrong with you.”
He had said this to me before I left New York, which is why I was wearing my divorced friend Ginger’s wedding ring on my left hand. I don’t normally wear jewelry, and it felt tight and uncomfortable on my finger.
Sabri was westernized enough to be able to handle the knowledge that I was unmarried. Earlier that morning, when he found out I was vegetarian (except for fish, a recent addition to my diet) he said, “Well! You would make someone a very cheap wife!”
Still, to be careful, I told him I had a boyfriend in the States, as a kind of insurance policy against any possible advances. It wasn’t a lie; I did leave behind a romance. But it was complicated, like everything in New York.
AFTER LUNCH, Theo and I left Sabri to his work and walked through Tahrir Square, the large plaza at the heart of Sana’a, to the walled Old City, weaving our way to his apartment.
As we walked, emaciated cats and children darted across our path. The streets were so narrow that if I stretched out my arms I could touch rough stone on either side. An earthy, damp smell wafted up from the ground. We passed men asleep in wheelbarrows, their legs dangling over the sides.
I was overwhelmed by the city’s architectural beauty. I never could have dreamed up the edible-looking buildings. I wanted to take a bite out of their walls. It is almost impossible to see into the boxy tower houses; they have few windows on the lower floors, to keep men from spying the women within. The upper floors are adorned with elaborate stained glass windows often referred to as qamaria (although I was later informed that the word qamaria originally referred only to alabaster windows, which were used to soften the sun’s rays and keep the interiors cool). I had never seen a lovelier city.
I quickly realized that a map would be utterly useless. Even as I followed Theo to his house, I knew I would not be able to find my way back easily. He had told me that there were no addresses in Yemen, and he was serious. The Old City is a labyrinth of seemingly unnamed streets and addressless buildings. While each neighborhood does have a name, I would eventually learn that even Sana’anis could rarely locate streets outside of their own neighborhood.
Tiny boys wearing tiny daggers in their belts ran after us as we passed, calling out, “Hello! I love you!” Theo spoke to a few of them in Arabic, and they laughed and scattered. A man in a white robe passed us carrying an enormous television on his shoulder.
Little girls were running around in pink satin princess dresses with puffy short sleeves. When I asked Theo if they were dressed this way for the holy day, he said, “They are dressed that way because they are princesses of the dust.”
Theo’s apartment, located at the top of a gingerbread building, was magnificent. We walked up a dozen flights of uneven stone steps—there is not a uniform set of stairs in the entire country—to a large metal door with three locks. Inside was a warren of rooms, including a large, airy mafraj filled with cushions