Woman Who Fell From the Sky - Jennifer Steil [24]
Arwa continued: “The accident happened after a cute an argument between them … Eyewitnesses said that Theo burst in anger shut the windows close, picked up her bag from meeting table before he pushed out of the room, neglecting all her attempts to explain. ‘Don’t attend my class again, Theo,’ Jennifer said.”
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