Woman Who Fell From the Sky - Jennifer Steil [58]
The journalists gnawing on their qat leaves are pessimistic about the chances of a completely fair election. Saleh has a near-monopoly on media time and resources. All broadcast media is government controlled and airs nonstop coverage of Saleh’s rallies around the country. Even Sheikh Abdullah bin Hussein al-Ahmar, the head of the Hashids and the chairman of the Islah Party, endorses Saleh at the last minute. “Better the devil you know,” he tells reporters.
Some Salafi clerics go so far as to contend that democracy is un-Islamic. The ultra-traditionalist Salafis believe that Islam has strayed from its roots since the Prophet Mohammed’s day and desire a return to a “purer” version of the religion. “To compete with the ruler is an illegitimate act; this is un-Islamic,” says scholar Abu al-Hassan al-Maribi at an election rally. Naturally, the government broadcasts his speech.
In this last month before the election, there is hardly a surface in Sana’a that isn’t plastered with Saleh’s stern, mustached face. Posters paper the walls of the Old City, fill shop and car windows, and hang from bridges. I’ve begun to feel like I know the guy personally. My reporters tell me that the shopkeepers who put Saleh’s face in their windows aren’t necessarily supporters; they are merely trying to stay out of trouble with the ruling party.
The political talk at the chew eventually subsides and is followed by the inevitable Solomon’s Hour of Zenlike quiet. I find myself feeling rather depressed as I stare into the carpet with nothing to say. I’m not sure Yemen is ready for true democracy. How can a largely illiterate people with no access to independent broadcast media make informed choices about their future? I wonder.
AS PART OF MY EFFORTS to encourage impartial reporting, I am trying to keep the advertising department from telling my reporters what to cover. When I say advertising department, I mean Qasim, whom I originally found so charming. He constantly steals one or two of my reporters and sends them off to cover one of his advertisers or stands in the newsroom trying to dictate a positive story about Saleh. He fails to grasp that the editorial and advertising departments of a newspaper must be discrete entities. I explain that what he is doing is unethical, that a thick wall must be maintained between editorial and advertising. “We lose all of our credibility if our readers think we are reporting something because advertisers are paying us to write about it,” I tell him. “Besides, I am trying to teach my reporters how to do real reporting, and you are confusing them.”
He nods and smiles, and then goes ahead and sends one of my reporters to cover a fund-raising event for one of President Saleh’s charities.
THESE TENSE DAYS have unpredictable moments of brightness. One night, I am scrambling to edit a couple of election stories before closing day when Luke comes running into my office. Luke never runs. “Jennifer,” he says. “Come out and see the moon!”
I follow him outside, and we stand in the middle of the street, gazing up as the dark shadow of the sun creeps across the moon. A lunar eclipse! Farouq joins us and we all stand around with our faces to the sky and our mouths open. I run back in to fetch al-Asaadi. We stand in the courtyard breathing in the fragrance of jasmine and marveling.
“Call Mas,” al-Asaadi says. “Tell him to get photos of it.”
“Mas isn’t here,” I remind him. “He’s traveling with the president.”
“Jennifer,” says al-Asaadi. “Tell me where is Mas that he cannot see the moon?”
ON SEPTEMBER 11, I wake up in tears. I never anticipate how much the anniversary of the attacks on