Woman Who Fell From the Sky - Jennifer Steil [86]
I turn back to my computer, and al-Asaadi taps away at his keyboard, for once in total silence.
I finally get caught up on my editing, after skipping both the gym and lunch, enabling us to close by the not unreasonable hour of ten thirty P.M. I’m pretty pleased with the front page, although nervous about what Faris will think, as it is packed with what he is sure to see as negative stories. Headlines include QAT-CHEWING DOOMS YEMENI FOOTBALL TEAM, GUN-TOTING YEMENIS DISCOURAGE INVESTMENT, and ATTACKS ON JOURNALISTS CONTINUE.
I am even more nervous about my editorial, in which I attack President Saleh for not standing up for journalists. He has said nothing to condemn the imprisonment and harassment of journalists, and I think this is disgraceful, particularly given all his big talk about how Yemen is such a swell democracy.
Yet Faris doesn’t notice. I start to suspect he doesn’t even read the paper unless someone makes a complaint. I never hear a single word from him about anything we publish.
Qasim has begun giving me almost as much trouble as al-Asaadi. Noor comes to me one morning to say that she wants to cover a big concert for her Culture page. This sounds fine to me, so I agree to write her a letter confirming that she is a journalist. Faris is still refusing to give my staff press IDs, which means they are constantly getting thrown out of government buildings and hospitals for lack of credentials. He claims that my reporters must prove themselves trustworthy before they deserve IDs, although I point out that it is nearly impossible for them to do their jobs without identification.
Just after I give Noor permission to go to the concert, Qasim storms my office. “You cannot let Noor cover the concert!”
I am bewildered. “I want this story for the Culture page,” I say. “Why shouldn’t we cover it?”
“Arabia Felix is writing about it.”
“Arabia Felix is a magazine and comes out twice a year. It’s not exactly a conflict of interest for us both to write about it.”
“Well, Noor can’t get in. I only have two passes.”
“I’ll get her press passes then. Who is the press contact?”
“He only speaks Arabic.”
“Fine. I’ll find someone to call him.”
Qasim is beside himself. “No! A professional journalist should cover this concert.”
I stare at him. Noor is standing right in front of him.
“Noor is a professional journalist,” I say coolly. “And I am sending her and Najma to cover the concert. I will buy their tickets with my own money if I have to.”
I do have to. Qasim persists in refusing to help the women, so I give Noor and Najma enough cash to cover both their tickets and transportation, along with a letter stating that they work for me. They are delighted, thank me effusively, and write a colorful feature about the event. I wonder sometimes how much more we could get done if men were not constantly trying to stand in our way.
I HAVE BEEN at the paper for three months when the Ministry of Information telephones to ask about my specific role at the paper and for my visa number. Enass comes into my office to take my passport, sending me into a panic.
“Am I going to be thrown out of the country?”
She laughs and shakes her head.
Al-Asaadi says I must write a letter to the ministry saying that my title is merely honorary and that I make no editorial decisions at all. I agree to do this because it is illegal for a foreigner to run a Yemeni paper. But I am suspicious of the ministry’s sudden interest. Why now, when I have been on the paper’s masthead for three months? Have they just not been paying attention, or has someone tipped them off? I wonder briefly if my editorials criticizing the government are to blame, but they are unsigned.
The letter does the trick, and the ministry backs off. My title, however, has slipped down the masthead and been changed to consulting editor. Al-Asaadi must be thrilled. But it doesn’t bother me. As far as I’m concerned, they can call me staff janitor as long as I can do my job.
MY NEXT TACTIC in my