Woman Who Fell From the Sky - Jennifer Steil [77]
“Salaam aleikum,” says al-Asaadi.
“Aleikum salaam,” they chorus back.
I gaze around. The dingy yellow walls are scrawled with graffiti. On my right, the entire corner is littered with empty water bottles. Just beyond them is the toilet. It doesn’t smell all that horrible, though I have a cold again, so I’m not smelling much in general.
“That’s where I used to sleep,” al-Asaadi says, pointing to a corner toward the back.
The men continue to stare at us, silently, until we turn to go.
“They never let anyone in there,” al-Asaadi tells me as we walk back out into the sunshine and the guard locks the door behind us. “But I formed a good relationship with the guards.”
“I can see that.” We climb back into his car and return to the office to work. And to wait.
When the next court date rolls around in December, everyone feels certain we will finally get a verdict. The day before, the Yemeni Journalists Syndicate, an advocacy group for journalists’ rights, holds a rally to support al-Asaadi and the paper. I meet al-Asaadi and Farouq in the courtyard of the YJS first thing in the morning, and we mingle with the journalists trickling in.
The rally is held outside, under a blue-and-white-striped tent. Propress slogans demanding the unshackling of journalists have been printed on sheets of white paper and pasted on all the walls of the courtyard. The crowd of sixty or so journalists is almost entirely male, with two Yemeni women sitting quietly toward the back. Because the sexes are almost always segregated in Yemen, it is unusual for a woman to sit near men. But I take a seat in one of the front rows. I’m the editor of the paper, damn it. A series of journalists then make impassioned speeches in Arabic for about an hour (Ibrahim translates). It’s all preaching to the choir—everyone present is on the same side. I wonder if the rally would be more effective if it were held, say, in front of the courthouse. This doesn’t seem to have occurred to anyone.
Kamil al-Samawi, the lawyer representing us in court, makes a speech in defense of press freedom. He works with HOOD, a nonprofit, nongovernmental human rights organization. HOOD reports human rights violations and defends victims, offering free legal assistance. It is unpopular with the government, which doesn’t like to be reminded of its shaky human rights record. A short, stocky man with glasses and a broad smile, Kamil is a passionate speaker, and the crowd murmurs its assent as he talks.
I am particularly fond of Kamil for helping Zuhra overcome many of her initial fears about becoming a journalist. She first met him at the courthouse when the Observer’s trial began, and they became friends. He was close to her oldest brother, Fahmi, so Zuhra felt comfortable with him. “I liked the way he speaks about human rights. He is very open-minded,” she said. “He feels it is important for victims to speak up. I have never seen a man that respects people like Kamil.”
She had always thought she was “a coward journalist” because she avoided controversial stories. “This was before you came,” she says. She worried that covering provocative topics would make her a target. “I remember Rahma Hugaira [a female Yemeni journalist]—her reputation was assassinated because she attacks the government.” Rahma was called a whore and worse, just for having the courage to speak out. Zuhra was terrified of suffering a similar fate. But when Kamil took her to court to meet Anisa al-Shuaibi, Zuhra knew she had to write about her case.
In 2003, Anisa was accused of killing her former husband but was acquitted of the crime when no evidence was found against her—and her ex-husband was found to be living. At the time of her arrest, she was brutally dragged out of her home at night and locked in prison, where she was raped. When she was released, more than a month later, she accused the head of the Criminal Investigation Unit, Rizq al-Jawfi, and the