Woman Who Fell From the Sky - Jennifer Steil [17]
“Fine.” He reached across the table, grabbed my big ugly black purse (bought especially so as not to attract attention in Yemen) from the table, and ran from the room.
“I’ll get you for this!” I called after him, running to the door. “But I am not going to chase you! I refuse to interrupt my class!”
I turned back to my students, who were suddenly very alert, staring at me wide-eyed.
“How could Theo do this to you?” said one of the women. They had known Theo for months before I arrived; they liked and trusted him. They were shocked by his behavior toward a guest of honor—one whom he had invited, no less!
I had opened my mouth to answer her, trying very hard not to laugh, when Theo returned to the classroom, tossing my purse on the table, smiling broadly.
“You better check the contents,” said one of the men.
“Yeah,” concurred the others, getting excited about the prospect of drama. “You had better check!”
I looked inside. “Theo? Where’s my camera?”
I couldn’t help smiling a little, and the students caught on to our little performance. “Yes! Where is her camera, Theo?”
“What camera?” asked Theo.
“Okay,” I said. “I want you to write me three paragraphs about what you just saw. What just happened here? Can you remember exactly what we said and did? Make sure you have a good lead, and turn it in to me by eight A.M. tomorrow.” They scribbled furiously in their notebooks.
At one end of the table the three women—Zuhra, Radia, and Arwa—sat clustered together. At the other end were the men: Qasim, Farouq, Adel, Mohammed al-Matari (who went by al-Matari), and Theo. The women were all in their early twenties, as were Adel and Farouq. Qasim was a bit closer to my age, and al-Matari was at least a decade older. Theo was exactly my age. I had asked Theo not to participate, as his presence made me nervous, but he had insisted, promising to be supportive and to refrain from the kind of class-clown behavior that got him in trouble in high school. I didn’t believe him, but if I had locked him out of the classroom, he would have simply climbed in the window. Theo had the obedience skills of your average housecat.
Before class, each of my student reporters had greeted me with passionate reverence. “We have been waiting so long for you,” they told me, clutching my hand until my bones hurt. “We are so grateful you have come. We are so honored.” Where was all that anti-American sentiment I had read so much about? Where were the bitter tirades against Western tyranny? The only times American newspapers ever wrote about Yemen were to report violence against Western interests. Yet so far, not one person in this country had been anything short of hospitable. My reporters fell upon me as though I were bestowing on them the greatest favor imaginable. I felt like Princess Diana. I felt like Seymour Hersh. I felt like a tribal sheikh. (Later, I would in fact be given the nickname Sheikah Jenny by the current editor of the paper, Mohammed al-Asaadi, who was curiously absent from my first class.)
There is quite a difference, however, between being an honored guest and being a boss. In these early days, it was impossible to imagine that one of these sweet, docile journalists, who treated me with such courtesy, would some months later try to tear up one of my editorials or storm out of my office. Just as it was impossible to imagine that I would ever raise my voice to them or threaten to dock their pay.
I HAD BEGUN the class by introducing myself and telling them a few highlights of my ten-year journalism career so as to reassure them they were dealing with a professional. Not that anyone had questioned me. On Theo’s advice, I had explained to them that this was a training course designed for professionals, to alleviate their fears of being patronized with a beginners’ course (though Theo told me this was what they desperately needed).
I had planned to start by saying, “I am not here to teach you the American way of journalism. I am here to teach you the reporting and writing techniques that