Woman Who Fell From the Sky - Jennifer Steil [44]
“This won’t be painful!” I say, trying not to laugh. “I am just going to help you.”
Zuhra rushes over to reassure her. “Do not be afraid,” she says as I lead Najma toward the conference room. “There is no one more supportive.”
I explain to the trembling Najma that we need to know where the information in her story comes from, so that our readers can judge its legitimacy. If we are to contend that Brazil nuts can elevate a person’s mood, then we need to be able to quote a specific study from a university or a hospital that proves such a thing.
This is all new to her. It seems she had thought that the mere fact that the words would appear in newsprint would give them authority. This was a common mind-set. One of the greatest challenges I would have working with Yemeni journalists is that they are too trusting, too willing to believe whatever they are told. In a deeply religious society such as this one, children are raised to take everything on faith, unquestioningly. The flip side is that they often do not feel they have to prove their contentions. I have to undo years of conditioning.
I spend the rest of the day editing other health stories and election briefs, and fretting about the dearth of stories we have for the front page. Farouq is still out, and he’s our main political reporter. There is no one to replace him. The new guys have none of his political contacts and no idea whom to call for story ideas or quotes, and the women are busy with culture and health.
Only late that evening, after running out through a rainstorm to cover a batik exhibit at the nearby German House, do I finally find Faris for the first time. I am happy, as I have a long list of requests for him, including reimbursement for my plane fare. I give him the dental floss he had requested from the States, and he is happy too. He gives me a warm little speech about how he now considers me family and that if I need anything at all, money or anything else, I am to come to him. He has VIP passes for me to cover election events, as well as hotel rooms, he says, which I hope means I will be traveling to cover the polls. (None of which comes to pass.) He also has a phone for me, but it is still charging, and no one is sure of the number, so I will get it from the office tomorrow. Insha’allah.
I GO BACK TO WORK after this meeting to edit an unreadable story of Hassan’s. Despite the fact that Hassan was in my original class, every single paragraph of his story begins with an attribution. I call him on Luke’s phone to tell him that this is no longer acceptable. “Before you hand in anything else, please make sure you are not starting all of your sentences with ‘according to’ or ‘he said.’” Hassan, being the sweet and deferential man he is, thanks me enormously and says he hopes we can talk more about this problem of his.
My day began at eight A.M., and I don’t leave the office until nearly eleven P.M. that night. Salem drives me home, where I finish editing a few more stories in my small suite in Sabri’s dormitory over some carrots and hummus, the first real meal I’ve had all day. I’ve stumbled upon a foolproof diet plan: Take over a newspaper in a poor, semiliterate Islamic country, and watch the pounds just fall away.
THE NEXT DAY, my third day at work, we close my first issue. It takes nineteen hours. Yet I am not unhappy, even with the overwhelming amount of work to do. The thing about being at the top of the masthead is there is never any question of leaving early or leaving anything undone. I find something very comforting about succumbing to this total commitment; it eliminates all other choices. I’m going to make this a better paper or die trying. I have nothing else to distract me. I am free of an intimate relationship, having