Woman Who Fell From the Sky - Jennifer Steil [91]
Faris suggests that I move into my own office. We could transform the conference room, he says. I remind Faris that al-Asaadi is due to leave the country in fourteen days, so it’s absurd to move me now. I am thrilled that al-Asaadi has received a fellowship to spend four months studying in the United States, because this means that I might finally be able to do what I want with the paper.
ZAID HAS RETURNED to the paper on holiday from his studies in London. He is full of enthusiasm, and I am grateful to have him. Still, it surprises me to read his stories and to see that his English has not noticeably improved in the four months he spent in England. I hope that this will change in the second semester. In fact, I am counting on it. Now that it is clear that al-Asaadi is uninterested in learning anything new and has no intention of carrying on my reforms when I leave, I have become anxious about finding a successor. I’m determined to create changes that are sustainable.
I figure Zaid is my best bet. He is due to finish his program in London in June, which means I will have at least two months to train him before I leave. When he is back in December, I sit him down and explain that I would like him to succeed me—assuming we can get Faris’s support.
It distresses me deeply that I have failed to win al-Asaadi over, even after months of attempting to bond. No one else at the paper is surprised, however. Luke tells me that no other editor has survived even this long trying to power-share with al-Asaadi.
Al-Asaadi has promised me, as a result of his conversation with Faris, that I will have his pages by six thirty P.M. Despite the fact that he himself picked that deadline, he fails to show up at the office until eight P.M. When I open my mouth to remind him of the deadline, he shrugs.
“You only have six more days, khalas.”
Six days, two issues, one hundred and forty-four hours. Not that I’m counting.
AL-ASAADI COMES IN the next day around eleven A.M., dressed all in black and looking somber.
“Kayf halak?” (How are you?) I ask.
He shakes his head. “Mish tammam. Not good at all.”
“Are you going to a funeral today?”
He looks surprised. “You knew?”
“You’re dressed in mourning.”
“Yes, a friend of mine died.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
A little while later I find out a second reason for his distress. “I didn’t get my visa,” he says. “So I cannot go to the States.”
My heart falls straight through the floor.
“What?”
No sooner are the words out of his mouth than I am e-mailing my friend Nabeel, the deputy U.S. ambassador. I am desperate. All of my hopes and dreams for this newspaper are at stake. “Please,” I beg him. “Is there anyway you can fast-track al-Asaadi’s visa? If he doesn’t go to the States I will never be able to do anything with this paper.”
Nabeel’s response is prompt and reassuring. He tells me that he is aware of the delay and says they are waiting for Washington to give al-Asaadi security clearance. “Tell him not to fret,” says Nabeel. “We will take care of him (and you).”
A few days later, al-Asaadi is on a plane.
Now, I think, the work can really begin.
THIRTEEN
pillars of rayon
I am impressed that Najma is still with us in January. During my first few months, she often appears in my office panicky and on the verge of tears. She can’t finish her story on time, she says. There is no driver to take her where she needs to go. Or she can’t find the sources I want her to interview. She becomes so hysterical about these things that it is difficult for me to reassure her that we can find solutions. I keep expecting her to give up, to decide it is simply too much to handle.
But she doesn’t. No matter how traumatized she is over a story, she always perseveres. If anything, Najma works too hard. She stays in the office straight through lunch and sometimes into the early evenings, struggling to finish her page.
She has only just finished