Woman Who Fell From the Sky - Jennifer Steil [134]
My relationship with al-Asaadi has improved with distance. He calls and writes me enthusiastic e-mails from upstate New York, where he is studying and working as an intern at a newspaper, congratulating me on what I have done with the Observer (which he reads online). “Only now can I appreciate what you did for us,” he says. “I am so grateful for all I have learned from you.” I am astonished. Who is this man, and what has he done with my belligerent little fellow editor? Yet this doesn’t quell my fears that our old battles will resume once we are face-to-face again.
Al-Asaadi arrives in Yemen a week before Zaid. He demonstrates his Americanization by kissing me once on each cheek, a first. We have lunch together soon after his return, at al-Mankal, my favorite haunt. We chatter easily about his time in the United States and about work. Jamal Hindi, the Jordanian owner of al-Mankal, comes over to tell us that he is going organic. He spent eight years living in Hong Kong and the Philippines, where he learned about macrobiotics and became interested in organic food. Once he began eating organic, he says, he lost seventy-five pounds. Now, Mr. Hindi is still a very large man, so it’s a bit alarming to imagine what he looked like before.
The first organic restaurant in Sana’a! I pull out a notebook and interview him. I also interview the manager and several people eating nearby. In between, al-Asaadi tells me his plans for the new magazine, called Yemen Today. I look at his list of proposed sections and story lineup and am very impressed. Newsweek, look out! We discuss stories and timelines, and I’m amazed at how well al-Asaadi and I get along when we aren’t battling for supremacy. A huge burden has been lifted from my shoulders; now all I have to worry about is Zaid.
ZAID ARRIVES FROM LONDON about a week later, and I take him to the same restaurant. Like al-Asaadi, he greets me with a kiss on each cheek. Yemeni men who have been abroad are particularly fond of this Western custom. Frankly, I prefer not to be kissed. I’ve become incredibly protective of my physical space here; every touch begins to feel like a violation after a while in a country where most men and women never even speak to each other.
We have a fantastic lunch. He tells me about his studies in London, although he spends more time talking about all of the women he got to hug and all the whiskey he drank. He also tells me about the scandal he created when he arrived at Sana’a airport. “When I was in London, people asked me what was the first thing that I wanted to do when I got back to Yemen,” he says, “and I said that the first thing I wanted to do was to kiss my wife. I missed this woman like you would not believe.”
So when his wife met him at the airport, he lifted her veil and he kissed her. “She was angry at me for about twenty seconds,” he says. “Then she kissed me back.”
Her relatives are less forgiving. His wife’s father and brothers are still furious with him. Heaven forbid a man demonstrate his love for his wife in public.
I update Zaid on life at the paper, give him an outline of our schedule, and talk with him about how I would like our relationship to work. Until I leave, I am in charge. To present a unified front, I want him to run anything he says to the reporters by me first. Zaid concurs.
He then announces that he has given up qat entirely. I find this hard to believe, as I have rarely seen Zaid in the newsroom without a massively swollen cheek.
“You should ban it from the newsroom,