Journalists deported from Yemen

SAN’A, Yemen | In many ways, Yemen has a glorious tradition of free speech.

Yemeni men spend their afternoons chewing qat leaves, a mild stimulant, and arguing about politics without fear. In an interview, one man told me that Yemen’s president gives him nothing but a sore back.

When his mother and brother shushed him, fearing backlash from the government, the man waved his hands dismissively. He said: “I don’t care. I can say what I want. This is a free country.”

But the Yemeni government does not want you to know about the Southern Movement and its efforts to sever the south from the already fragile nation. Earlier this year, Al Jazeera tried to report in the south, and the government confiscated their equipment, saying it had not been registered. A few weeks later, photographer Adam Reynolds and I traveled to southern Yemen to get the story for The Washington Times.

We were detained for 3 1/2 days before being deported. My notes, pictures and recordings were confiscated along with my equipment. Adam lost all but a few of his pictures, along with his computer and cameras.

Yemen officially has a free press, but information is controlled quietly. Some journalists are punished when they publish stories the government doesn’t like, while others self-censor to protect themselves. Military checkpoints litter almost every road in the country, and if government officials want foreign reporters to keep away from a story, they simply refuse to issue travel permits. Adam and I got in trouble for traveling without a permit, not for reporting on the southern separatists.

Before we left the capital, San’a, separatists said they knew a road to their territories that had no checkpoints and we could visit without sneaking around. When we landed in the southern port city of Aden, they told us that all of the routes were guarded carefully. Already halfway there, we donned black veils to get past the military disguised as Yemeni women.

In the countryside, a government informant spotted us traveling with rebel leaders and their convoy of followers, bodyguards and friends. We did not see the informant.

Back in Aden that night, our passports were confiscated about an hour after we checked into the hotel. That night, we naively believed Mohammad, the hotel manager, when he said he would help us straighten out the whole thing. The next morning he drove us to the visa office, supposedly to retrieve out passports. The chief was called in, and then a car was summoned.

The car took us to a political security detention center in Aden, where we were questioned for hours. They wanted every detail about our trip, and I quickly got tangled in my own vague answers. I was trying to withhold the names of people who said they could speak only anonymously for their safety.

During the questioning, political security interrogators seemed more concerned with the fact that Adam wore women’s clothes to sneak past the military than the fact that we sneaked past the military. Being gay is punishable by death in Yemen, and although Adam was not accused of homosexuality, drag is considered a big no-no.

Around midnight, we were told we were going to a “hotel.” I said I would rather stay in the offices until everything was sorted out, and the chief exploded. “You can go to the hotel or someplace not so nice,” he shouted.

We were marched out into the dank lobby filled with frayed, mismatched furniture and tired-looking officers. Adam’s pockets were turned out. I handed over my cell phone. It was turned off with just enough juice left to send a text message for help, if I got a moment alone.

A few minutes later, the chief stormed into a hotel lobby adjacent to the detention center with the two of us in tow. “They get two rooms and no phones, and they cannot see each other or talk to each other,” he barked at the skinny desk clerk in Arabic. We were brought to our rooms, and an officer was stationed in a chair outside the doors.

We remained with political security for the next three nights. I stayed in the hotel and was not questioned again until after I left. I was told to write out my “love story” by hand. Being unmarried, I was confused and tried to write as much nonessential information about the people I love in the U.S., wondering if they were planning to threaten my family. Adam later told me the officer meant to say “life story” so they could run a background check.

The guards said the hotel usually housed low-security prisoners and prostitutes. I was offered food, drinks and cigarettes. They said I was their guest, and they knocked on my door regularly to see if I needed anything. When I asked to call the U.S. Embassy or one of my friends, I was ignored.

On the second day, Adam was told to wait in a jail cell after he wrote out his “life story.” The next morning, he was returned to the hotel, dirty and tired. The guards gently teased him, and I got the impression that he was jailed for a lark. Adam said the jail was hot, but they kept a door open for ventilation. As he paced the night away, he saw another detainee led away wearing a black hood.

That night, when Adam was once again escorted out of the hotel, I panicked. Maybe they really did think we were part of the southern rebellion? One interrogator had asked me if I knew rebel supporters in America. I laughed and said, “I don’t know many people in America that can find Yemen on a map.” With visions of black hoods, I pondered a prison break. When Adam returned less than an hour later, he was smiling. We were just inventorying our belongings, so we could be released.

On the fourth day, a smiling guard banged on my door at 7 a.m. He said he had good news, that we were going to San’a, where Adam and I both lived. I knew that we were not going to our apartments in San’a’s medieval Old City. Instead, we were taken to the country’s central political security offices.

In San’a, we were questioned again, and I was asked to write all of the passwords to my e-mail accounts. Our equipment was inventoried out of Aden custody and into San’a custody. The chief who had been so angry three days earlier was jovial and friendly, and rushed to get rid of our belongings. But as he left, I sunk. We were not being freed. We were being transferred to a higher security prison.

Maybe an hour later, as we sat on the floor of a stone room inventorying our things yet again against an Arabic checklist with the help of two friendly armed soldiers, embassy officials appeared. I heard an American voice say, “Thank you for letting us take them.” We were given our passports, keys, money and clothing. And then we left. In the car, the embassy officials told us we had a few days to gather our things and to get out of Yemen.

A few days later, I was on a plane to New York, having said goodbye to only some of my friends. I had reported from Yemen for 11 months without incident and was surprised to be exiled with such gusto. Our pictures are now part of an airport database: If we try to return, we will be arrested.

After I left the country, I called the separatists but could not get through. I wanted to know if the government had used my confidential information against them, so I sent one man an e-mail.

In typical separatist fashion, he held our detention up as yet another way he views the south as oppressed. “You should know that they are always doing this [to] us, even for nothing,” he wrote. “Please write for the American people what happened [to you] in our country.”