Woman Who Fell From the Sky - Jennifer Steil [79]
By the time the judge arrives, the room is filled to overflowing. The back of the room is so packed that guards have to push people to keep them from surging forward. A dozen or so men dressed in army green and wearing red berets watch us intently, their hands fiddling with the triggers of machine guns and pistols. Their presence reminds me that violence is expected. If al-Asaadi and the paper are not convicted, the fanatics could go mad. Fortunately, there isn’t much room in the courtroom for fanatics; we journalists take up almost all of the benches. I crane my neck to try to spot them. Zuhra says they are in the back, but I can’t tell who they are.
Several more guards stream in with the judge, who takes a seat at the head of the bench.
I am so anxious I might throw up. My heart pounds so loudly I have trouble hearing Zuhra, and my hands tremble as I scribble notes.
Al-Asaadi stands at a small, low lectern on our right. His supporters close in, hovering protectively around him, clinging to each other’s hands. I find it touching that Yemeni law allows someone about to be sentenced to stand surrounded by dozens of his closest friends.
His face solemn as death, the judge—gray hair, glasses, green sash—begins to read from a paper. Zuhra whispers a translation of his words while furiously taking notes. He begins by recapping the cases of both the prosecution and the defense. The only sound in the room other than his words is Zuhra’s occasional “Oh my God!”
I hardly dare to breathe. Not knowing exactly when the sentence is coming, I watch the audience closely for clues. The men look stern and frightened. Al-Asaadi is slumped against his lectern, as though he can’t quite hold himself up.
Finally, a murmur goes up from the crowd, and I hear the words “YR500,000.” “Is that a fine?” I whisper to Zuhra. “Are we getting a fine?”
She nods and tells me that al-Asaadi has been convicted. I draw a sharp breath.
“Of insulting Islam?”
“Yes, by republishing the cartoons. The judge just confirmed that it was a crime.”
But al-Asaadi will receive no jail term, she tells me. Even better, the paper will stay open!
There is a collective release of breath. Men begin to whisper to each other and shuffle their feet.
When the judge finishes reading, there is scattered applause. Along with relief for al-Asaadi, however, comes concern that this conviction makes him more vulnerable to being attacked by extremists. A conviction of insulting Islam is a serious thing, and the fanatics might just take it upon themselves to punish him, now that his crime has been confirmed.
Guards whisk al-Asaadi away to a holding cell until a guarantee can be deposited. We quickly follow, streaming down the stairs and out into the sunshine.
A Reuters television reporter has grabbed me in the courtroom and asked if he could interview me, so I follow him to an area away from the crowds. He asks my opinion of the verdict and the Yemeni courts, while al-Matari translates. A crowd gathers to watch.
“I am very pleased that the paper will remain open,” I say, squinting in the bright sunlight. “That is a victory for freedom of the press. But I am very disappointed with the conviction. I am concerned that it puts our colleague Mohammed al-Asaadi at risk.”
The men around me murmur to each other and ask al-Matari what I have said. Several of them seem to nod in agreement. When I am done, I turn and scan the crowds for Zuhra. She is busy interviewing people, darting from man to man. It’s easy to spot her; she’s the fastest-moving object in the courtyard.
Al-Asaadi has appeared in a window of the courthouse and is making the most of his audience, clinging to the bars of the window and posing for photographs. He calls out to me.
I climb up the embankment under his window.
“Mohammed! What are you doing in there?”
He looks awfully cheerful for a convicted man. “I’m in