Woman Who Fell From the Sky - Jennifer Steil [97]
“What’s the deal with Kamil al-Samawi?” I ask her one day. “You’ve quoted him in your last three stories.”
Zuhra smiles mysteriously. “He’s the lawyer on all these cases. I have to quote him!”
“Well, try to figure out what cases the other lawyers are working on and write about them,” I say. “You are banned from mentioning Kamil al-Samawi for a month.”
DESPITE HER NEAR-CONSTANT PRESENCE in my office, Zuhra is still careful about what she reveals to me about her life. She tells me all about her career ambitions, her mood swings, and her physical ills, but when she falls in love in the middle of my tenure, she holds this secret close to her chest. It will be months before she can confess it all to me. For a Yemeni woman to admit to love before marriage is to risk social ruin. Women are not supposed to have friendly contact with men who are not close relatives, let alone spend enough time with one to fall in love. Very few Yemeni women choose their husbands, and most matches are arranged.
Thus, Zuhra has plenty of reasons to keep quiet. To confess to even one person is to risk exposure and censure. She lives in a conservative neighborhood, where her neighbors gossip, and the women are particularly vicious about each other. “Sex is the most important thing in all of our society,” Zuhra tells me with bitterness in her voice. “Even homosexuality isn’t as bad as a woman committing sex outside of marriage. A woman isn’t just representing herself as a person; she is representing the whole family, the whole tribe. If my sister’s reputation is bad, my reputation is bad.” When one of Zuhra’s sisters broke off an engagement, the whole family suffered the condemnation of their community. Zuhra fears what her family would say if they knew of her secret love. Because her father is dead, Zuhra needs permission from her brothers and uncles in order to marry. Or to travel. Or to do so many things.
ON MY RECOMMENDATION, Zuhra has applied to the Columbia University Graduate School of Journalism, my alma mater. She is the one person on my staff with what my Columbia professors liked to call the “fire in the belly” necessary to become a brilliant journalist. So I think she would thrive there. I’d especially like her to be admitted because she plans to return to Yemen afterward and eventually launch her own newspaper. Then, in a way, she can carry on my work after I leave. As part of the application process, she is required to take a news-writing test, which I proctor on the last day before the deadline. It must be postmarked that day, but because it’s the end of the month, no one has enough money to pay for postage with DHL, one of the only reliable mail services to the United States. I give Zuhra my last YR1,000, which isn’t even close to enough. We have to take up an office collection. Manel, Hassan, Jabr, and Jelena all contribute their last riyals. We send Hassan off to fax a copy to New York, and Manel runs to DHL to mail it. It’s inspiring to see that even the poorest among us empties her pockets.
To my great disappointment, Zuhra’s improved English is not quite good enough to get her into Columbia. A professor on the admissions committee calls me personally to tell me that although the committee absolutely loves her application, they have reservations about her English. Zuhra takes the news like someone accustomed to disappointment and vows to try next year.
“We will find another way to get you to the U.S.,” I say. “I promise.” She needs to perfect her English abroad, as there is little chance of doing so in Yemen. Diligently, Zuhra begins applying for every fellowship abroad she can find. So many, in fact, that if a fellowship were offered for applying for the most fellowships, Zuhra would definitely win it.
It is Zuhra, and the rest of my women, I am most desperate to help. The men will be all right. They will always find work in Yemen; they will always have society’s approval. My women I worry about. What will become of them when I am gone?
ONE DAY, I am editing a health story with Najma when she says, “Jennifer,