Woman Who Fell From the Sky - Jennifer Steil [90]
I pick up my things and go.
On my way out I stop in the newsroom, where only Hadi and Farouq are still working. I tell Hadi what we’re doing with the page, thank him for his work, and say good-bye. When I thank Farouq, he says, “It will be okay. These things happen. Just be patient.”
“Farouq,” I say wearily, “I get tired of being patient.”
He smiles at me. “Allah will help you.”
“Shukrahn, Farouq, I hope so.”
The worst thing about arguments with al-Asaadi is that by the end of them I feel as angry and disappointed with myself as I do with him. This is what I vowed I would avoid. The last thing I wanted to do was to come off like a patronizing, domineering, aggressive, culturally insensitive westerner steamrolling the locals. Yet somehow I too often end up in shouting matches with al-Asaadi, Qasim, or the Doctor. Given that no one ever shouts at the Doctor, there is great excitement in the office when this happens, and everyone gathers around to watch. I get the feeling that a few of them would cheer were that possible.
But I hate to shout. I’ve never been a shouter and I’ve certainly never yelled at anyone at work. I am uncomfortable with the discovery of this angry, frustrated, dictatorial part of me. After battles with al-Asaadi or the others, I am always in tears and full of self-loathing for losing control once again. Then I swear to myself that it won’t happen again, that I will reason calmly with my staff and hope that I can cajole them around to my point of view instead.
Thankfully, I rarely have to yell at the women, mostly because they rarely argue with me. When I do raise my voice, I feel particularly awful because they would never do the same to me. This happened with Najma in the early months, and I called her into my office.
“I am sorry,” she said as soon as she walked into my office. “I will do better.”
“Najma, I am the one who should apologize to you. I should never yell at you; there is no excuse.”
“No, you should. We deserve it.” Her eyes are dark and earnest.
This breaks my heart. “You do not deserve it. No one deserves to be yelled at. I will try not to do it again.”
“But you can—”
“I don’t want to. I don’t like to yell. I should be able to talk with you about work without getting upset. I make mistakes. I am sorry.”
On Saturday, Faris finally appears at the office, and we talk about al-Asaadi. He does not seem surprised by his behavior and tells me that al-Asaadi has an ego problem. He wants to be a media superstar without doing any of the actual work. Al-Asaadi has the potential to become a really good reporter, I say, and a better manager. The problem is that he is unwilling to learn or to work within a schedule. Faris agrees that al-Asaadi is a poor manager and is better suited for a glad-handing job in public relations. He promises to have a word with him.
Then he introduces me to an attractive, charming young man named Ali who wants to join our staff. The product of a Yemeni father and American mother, Ali grew up in Oregon and speaks perfect English. I am thrilled to have him and put him straight to work. He immediately earns my undying gratitude by turning my reporters’ stories into passable English.
The women are even more thrilled. They turn into adolescents around him, giggling and awkward and shy. When Zuhra comes to fetch her tea from Radia at reception, Radia tells her to go back into the newsroom. “I will bring you the tea,” she whispers. “Just so I can come look at him again!”
Even Manel, a fine-looking man himself, is impressed. “He is the best-looking Yemeni I have ever seen,” he says.
Ali is either unaware of the stir he creates or is simply accustomed to it. He types away at his desk, oblivious to the little black pillars of rayon swooning in his wake.
I’m feeling much more cheerful until Faris rings me again to tell me that al-Asaadi claims he cannot turn in his pages on deadline because he wants the news to be as fresh as possible. My dark mood instantly returns. “Look,” I say to Faris, “if