Woman Who Fell From the Sky - Jennifer Steil [89]
Angered, I spit out an editorial condemning the broadcast media for circulating the video and parents for letting children see it. We have just closed the issue when al-Asaadi demands to read my piece. With a sense of foreboding, I hand him the page. His face tightens as he reads. “You have to take out this part about Iraqis killing Saddam,” he says. “Iraqis did not kill Saddam. Everyone knows Americans killed him.”
He has a point. Americans have their fingerprints all over the execution, but it ultimately was Iraqis who hanged him, something no one in Yemen will admit. It doesn’t even register in Yemen that the entire Iraqi population of Detroit danced in the streets at his death.
I am personally opposed to capital punishment, and I think that killing Saddam on the first day of Eid was a terrible public relations move. But it frustrates me that Yemenis refuse to acknowledge that Saddam did anything bad.
I keep all of this to myself. I tell al-Asaadi that I won’t change anything that is factual.
“Your editorial isn’t factual.”
“It is.”
“You need to say Americans killed Saddam.”
“I am not going to perpetuate untruths.”
“Then I will pull the editorial,” he says imperiously, attempting to yank the paper out of my hands.
“You will not pull the editorial,” I say, hanging on to the paper. “That is not your decision to make.”
“Hadi, kill the editorial,” he calls to our designer.
“Hadi, do not kill that editorial!”
Our reporters have all stopped working and turned around to watch us, their mouths hanging open. Their eyes are frightened, like those of children watching their parents fight. I’m glad the women aren’t here to see this. They miss my battles with al-Asaadi because they’re nearly always gone before he arrives.
We are both still tugging on the page. “Don’t make me behave in a bad way,” says al-Asaadi.
“You are responsible for your own behavior. If you behave in a bad way that’s your decision, not mine,” I say, refusing to loosen my grip.
He drops the page.
“You kill that editorial and I am going to Faris.”
“Go ahead, call Faris.”
I run to my office for my phone. My fingers are shaking as I dial. I have had it with al-Asaadi.
Faris, miraculously, answers his phone. I take the phone out to our courtyard and pour out my frustrations. I tell him about the editorial and about how al-Asaadi has been trying to sabotage every issue. I also remind him that my contract grants me total editorial control.
Faris tells me a story. “Jennifer, you know the tale of the robe?”
“No.”
“A man went out shopping one evening, and his wife asked him, while he was out, to please pick up a robe for her. Well, when the man came back later, he had everything else but had forgotten the robe. And the wife was very angry and yelled at him, and they had a huge fight. But the fight was not about the robe; it was about everything else in their relationship. Do you understand me?”
I do.
Faris tells me to e-mail him the editorial. He reads it and rings me back immediately. “You can run this if you want,” he says. “It would be best, however, if you run it as an opinion piece instead of an editorial. You see, I am trying to keep people from throwing bombs at the paper.”
“This would get bombs thrown at us?” I have failed to consider this.
“It’s possible.”
“Which part?”
“You cannot say that there is any argument against capital punishment. It is part of Islam.”
I am surprised. This is not the part of the editorial that I thought might get us killed.
“Oh,” I say. “I hadn’t realized.”
“Other than that it’s fine.”
I think for a moment. “I think maybe I won’t run it. Or I’ll run it as an opinion piece in the next issue.”
“It’s up to you.”
“I actually don’t want to get the paper bombed.”
Faris says he will sit down with us to talk this out on Saturday.
After I hang up, I tell al-Asaadi what Faris has said, adding, “You want a new editorial, you write it. I’m leaving. I’ve been here thirteen hours already and you’ve been here—what? Two?”
“Fine.” He is sitting at his desk, waiting for me to leave. He often stays until I am