article 12

Kansai Time Out , January 1998

Travelers will sometimes reflect upon the questions most often put to them in foreign lands, hoping to gain some insights into local preoccupations, hopes and worries. Thus, being asked, "Do you like Japan?" in that country, might seem to point towards a concern with national identity and foreign perceptions thereof. In Bali, "Do you want transport?" shows the reach of a money economy, and in Hong Kong, "How long are you staying?" generally shows the same thing, if more obliquely.

In Dili, the capital of East Timor, one is invariably approached several times daily by young men who ask the same questions in the same order, "What is your name? Where are you from? Are you a journalist? Where are you staying? When are you leaving Dili and where are you going next "? What this shows is not hard to imagine. Something is very, very wrong in East Timor, and that the officials and soldiers, to whom these young men report, would prefer it not be known to the outside world.

While traveling in East Timor, it is wise to be careful. I had expressed an interest in going to a certain town in the interior when a local person took me quietly aside and said, "It wouldn't be good for you to go there. It is the 'situation'. I can't tell you any more but I hope you understand". Situation is a neutral word that allowed the speaker to convey a clear warning and avoid any trouble should someone be listening. I was often to hear the word 'situation' used in this context.

One other reason that travelers are approached this way so often might be that of supply and demand—there is a glut of spies. Very few tourists make it to East Timor and it is possible to be the only foreign visitor in the entire province on a given day. Although East Timor has been 'open' since 1989, it carries two heavy burdens that keep the tourist dollars away—that of history, by far the heavier, and that of poor infrastructure.

For hundreds of years, East Timor was a Portuguese-ruled backwater, largely ignored by the home country, and notable to travelers largely for having the cheapest flight from Asia to Australia (provided one made it to East Timor). The end to Portugal's military dictatorship in 1974 set off a chain reaction of decolonization in the African possessions such as Angola and Mozambique. This trend eventually spread to East Timor and political parties began to form. Only one proposed that the territory be integrated with Indonesia and this one, Apodeti, possessed no support in East Timor. The two main parties UDT (Uniao Democratica Timorense) and Fretilin (Frente Revolusionario Timor L'este Independente) formed a coalition, which soon broke down and ended in a brief civil war. Fretilin, the most popular movement in the province, came out on top and declared independence on November 28, 1975. Independence was to last less than two weeks.

Indonesia, contriving an invitation from disaffected Apodeti and UDT members, launched a brutal invasion on December 8, 1975. An Apodeti leader was appointed governor (with zero real power) in an attempt at a veneer of legitimacy. Fretilin put up a strong fight for years (and continues to wage a guerrilla campaign in the interior, despite its isolation from arms sources), but the Indonesia forces eventually gained the upper hand by making extensive use of napalm, aerial strafing, and cluster bombing (Western arms sales played a big role) and to employ 'pacification' methods that led to famine. A population of 750,000 was reduced by (claims vary) 100,000 to 200,000 or more.

After 1989, the province was felt secure (or intimidated) enough to allow the outside world in. A book written in the province, and thus heavily censored, contains the following unconvincing lines, "The Armed Forces, who during the period of being closed were known by the people as 'grim' suddenly appeared totally different. They were brotherly, close to the people, helped them work their ricepaddies and dry fields and showed them better methods of carving". Not all has gone according to plan. There have been numerous massacres by the security forces through the years, but on November 12, 1991, foreign journalists, with video cameras, were present during a demonstration at Dili's Santa Cruz cemetery when the army opened fire on unarmed civilians (who had been chanting 'Viva Timor L'este' for "Long Live East Timor) killing over 100. If this has kept away the tourists, it hasn't put off the thousands of migrants who have arrived each year since 1989 from such places as Java, Bali, and especially Sulawesi, and whose arrival is encouraged by the government (with special benefits, especially concerning land rights), much to the intense resentment of local Timorese. Communal rioting, often involving the burnings of market areas where migrants have shops, has been the result.

Despite their tragic history, I found most Timorese I met to be kind and gentle, non-acquisitive, and quite unlike the people in the other parts of the archipelago. The racial mix covers almost every shade imaginable, a legacy of colonialism. Names are Portuguese ones such as Francisco, Carlos, and Christina. Siestas are observed between 12PM and 4PM, a wise custom in such a torrid place.

Dili, a town of some 150,000 has a languid Mediterranean feel to it. Many of the buildings betray a colonial origin, with government ones receiving attention and upkeep, the others slowly decaying. The seaside serves as promenade for couples, children, and families of pigs and goats, who stroll past the rusting landing craft lying along the beach, which are a visible reminder of how the Indonesian military arrived. If that is not enough for the forgetful, an appalling 'Integration Monument' has been constructed in Dili. It displays a wild man on top a pedestal, ripping off the chains of colonialism.

Well away from the seaside lies Santa Cruz cemetery, a hauntingly beautiful place. The gravesites are laid out in rows and the monuments are exquisitely decorated, often displaying cameo photographs of the diseased. Looking from the south, the hills behind Dili provide a superb background. It is indeed sad that such a beautiful place of repose for the dead should have become a place of death for the living.

There are many churches and at mass times they are overflowing with people standing at the doorways. The Catholic Church holds a position of great respect among East Timorese. Officially, 90% of the local population is Catholic but for many, animist beliefs are still strong. Animism is not considered a religion by Indonesia, whose citizens must claim membership in one of five accepted religions, and atheism is an even more dangerous affiliation in a country that ran amok in the mid-sixties, slaughtering as many as 500,000 suspected communists. What the church has done is to learn to coexist with local beliefs, to offer sympathy and aid to a demoralized population, and to speak out against flagrant human rights violations. In "An Empire of the East", the British writer Norman Lewis describes this with great care and humanity.

The Bishop of Dili, Carlos Ximenes Belo, was co-recipient of the Nobel Peace Prize for 1996 (the other recipient was the Fretilin spokesman, Jose Ramos Horta, whose name people are very much afraid to mention in the province). Every Sunday at 6:30 AM a mass is held within Bishop Belo's compound in an oval-shaped courtyard abutting his house. The courtyard is bisected by paths in the shape of a cross and it is along these that little children sit. Adults sit or stand outside the oval. Hundreds of all ages attend, dressed in their best clothes. There are a number of male church assistants wearing special frocks, who, aside from helping with the seating and keeping the children from misbehaving, seemed to be keeping an eye on the crowd. Although Bishop Belo was not officiating that day (his secretary was) this was not surprising since the Bishop has been a target of several assassination attempts, and the church itself has now become a target. Its popularity has led Indonesia to blame what government and military officials call 'Catholic activists' for trouble.

Transportation, both within and outside Dili, is limited. Dili has a few bus and bemo (minibus) routes, but the most noticeable form of transport is the taxi fleet, not because of size (rather small) but because of appearance. Twenty-year old, stitched-together, blue Nissan station wagons predominate, belching out smoke and often sounding like the wounded contraptions they are. Walking distances are usually not that great though.

Outside Dili, the main roads are now paved, a fact Indonesia points to as a sign of its commitment to develop its newest province. Nice roads are all well and good, but the original reason for the paving was to facilitate military operations and maintenance of 'security'. The hills along these roads are often capped by huts that have an Indonesian flagpole and radio antenna next to them. The presence of these posts puts a damper on landscape photography as the accounts of some previous travelers have mentioned. The large military trucks, I was told, are referred to by the locals as 'mobil tidak apa ada', which means truck for which it doesn't matter what's in front.

130 kilometers from Dili lies Baucau, the second largest town. Some fifteen kilometers before it lies the airport that backpackers of old used as their gateway to Darwin, Australia. It is now a military facility. Baucau is composed of two areas, a newer town where migrants and officials live. This is distinctly lacking in character. The old town is much more pleasant and is dominated a highly attractive colonial-style market building, the Mercado Municipal, constructed in the shape of a semicircle. Unfortunately, this market was the scene of communal rioting in 1995 and now lies empty. The marketplace has been moved three kilometers away and closer to the watchful gaze of the officials in the new town. Baucau lies on a plateau and one of the best ways for visitors to pass the time is to walk along the five-kilometer path that leads to the seashore, past wooden and bamboo huts where women can be seen weaving cloth, children playing, and men contemplating the world.

Staying in Baucau presents the visitor with a difficult choice between a single hotel and a guesthouse. The guesthouse is a small, rather unclean facility, with large holes in the walls, so that your every move represents a potential form of theater for the children who constantly look through. It is Timorese run, though. The other place is the Hotel Baucau, formerly called the Flamboyant. It isn't hard to see the reason for the original name. The hotel is an unmistakable large white structure that makes one think of a Babylonian ziggurat located in an amusement park, and has small statues of colored elephants leading up the steps. Unfortunately this place, while cleaner than the guest house, contains more than its share of anguished ghosts. Military-run, it was used as a detention and torture center.

I thought it wise never to initiate any political discussions while in East Timor, and not to really encourage Timorese who wanted to, in public. Information was available overseas and that wouldn't compromise anyone. Occassionally, though, I would be approached by people who felt they had to get something off their chests, so I listened quietly and nodded afterwards , "Do you know about the situation in East Timor in your country? Will you try to tell them about it? We are not happy here". (RH)


	Question Time in East Timor Kansai Time Out , January 1998 Travelers will sometimes reflect upon the questions most often put to them in foreign lands, hoping to gain some insights into local preoccupations, hopes and worries. Thus, being asked, "Do you like Japan?" in that country, might seem to point towards a concern with national identity and foreign perceptions thereof. In Bali, "Do you want transport?" shows the reach of a money economy, and in Hong Kong, "How long are you staying?" generally shows the same thing, if more obliquely. In Dili, the capital of East Timor, one is invariably approached several times daily by young men who ask the same questions in the same order, "What is your name? Where are you from? Are you a journalist? Where are you staying? When are you leaving Dili and where are you going next "? What this shows is not hard to imagine. Something is very, very wrong in East Timor, and that the officials and soldiers, to whom these young men report, would prefer it not be known to the outside world. While traveling in East Timor, it is wise to be careful. I had expressed an interest in going to a certain town in the interior when a local person took me quietly aside and said, "It wouldn't be good for you to go there. It is the 'situation'. I can't tell you any more but I hope you understand". Situation is a neutral word that allowed the speaker to convey a clear warning and avoid any trouble should someone be listening. I was often to hear the word 'situation' used in this context. One other reason that travelers are approached this way so often might be that of supply and demand—there is a glut of spies. Very few tourists make it to East Timor and it is possible to be the only foreign visitor in the entire province on a given day. Although East Timor has been 'open' since 1989, it carries two heavy burdens that keep the tourist dollars away—that of history, by far the heavier, and that of poor infrastructure. For hundreds of years, East Timor was a Portuguese-ruled backwater, largely ignored by the home country, and notable to travelers largely for having the cheapest flight from Asia to Australia (provided one made it to East Timor). The end to Portugal's military dictatorship in 1974 set off a chain reaction of decolonization in the African possessions such as Angola and Mozambique. This trend eventually spread to East Timor and political parties began to form. Only one proposed that the territory be integrated with Indonesia and this one, Apodeti, possessed no support in East Timor. The two main parties UDT (Uniao Democratica Timorense) and Fretilin (Frente Revolusionario Timor L'este Independente) formed a coalition, which soon broke down and ended in a brief civil war. Fretilin, the most popular movement in the province, came out on top and declared independence on November 28, 1975. Independence was to last less than two weeks. Indonesia, contriving an invitation from disaffected Apodeti and UDT members, launched a brutal invasion on December 8, 1975. An Apodeti leader was appointed governor (with zero real power) in an attempt at a veneer of legitimacy. Fretilin put up a strong fight for years (and continues to wage a guerrilla campaign in the interior, despite its isolation from arms sources), but the Indonesia forces eventually gained the upper hand by making extensive use of napalm, aerial strafing, and cluster bombing (Western arms sales played a big role) and to employ 'pacification' methods that led to famine. A population of 750,000 was reduced by (claims vary) 100,000 to 200,000 or more. After 1989, the province was felt secure (or intimidated) enough to allow the outside world in. A book written in the province, and thus heavily censored, contains the following unconvincing lines, "The Armed Forces, who during the period of being closed were known by the people as 'grim' suddenly appeared totally different. They were brotherly, close to the people, helped them work their ricepaddies and dry fields and showed them better methods of carving". Not all has gone according to plan. There have been numerous massacres by the security forces through the years, but on November 12, 1991, foreign journalists, with video cameras, were present during a demonstration at Dili's Santa Cruz cemetery when the army opened fire on unarmed civilians (who had been chanting 'Viva Timor L'este' for "Long Live East Timor) killing over 100. If this has kept away the tourists, it hasn't put off the thousands of migrants who have arrived each year since 1989 from such places as Java, Bali, and especially Sulawesi, and whose arrival is encouraged by the government (with special benefits, especially concerning land rights), much to the intense resentment of local Timorese. Communal rioting, often involving the burnings of market areas where migrants have shops, has been the result. Despite their tragic history, I found most Timorese I met to be kind and gentle, non-acquisitive, and quite unlike the people in the other parts of the archipelago. The racial mix covers almost every shade imaginable, a legacy of colonialism. Names are Portuguese ones such as Francisco, Carlos, and Christina. Siestas are observed between 12PM and 4PM, a wise custom in such a torrid place. Dili, a town of some 150,000 has a languid Mediterranean feel to it. Many of the buildings betray a colonial origin, with government ones receiving attention and upkeep, the others slowly decaying. The seaside serves as promenade for couples, children, and families of pigs and goats, who stroll past the rusting landing craft lying along the beach, which are a visible reminder of how the Indonesian military arrived. If that is not enough for the forgetful, an appalling 'Integration Monument' has been constructed in Dili. It displays a wild man on top a pedestal, ripping off the chains of colonialism. Well away from the seaside lies Santa Cruz cemetery, a hauntingly beautiful place. The gravesites are laid out in rows and the monuments are exquisitely decorated, often displaying cameo photographs of the diseased. Looking from the south, the hills behind Dili provide a superb background. It is indeed sad that such a beautiful place of repose for the dead should have become a place of death for the living. There are many churches and at mass times they are overflowing with people standing at the doorways. The Catholic Church holds a position of great respect among East Timorese. Officially, 90% of the local population is Catholic but for many, animist beliefs are still strong. Animism is not considered a religion by Indonesia, whose citizens must claim membership in one of five accepted religions, and atheism is an even more dangerous affiliation in a country that ran amok in the mid-sixties, slaughtering as many as 500,000 suspected communists. What the church has done is to learn to coexist with local beliefs, to offer sympathy and aid to a demoralized population, and to speak out against flagrant human rights violations. In "An Empire of the East", the British writer Norman Lewis describes this with great care and humanity. The Bishop of Dili, Carlos Ximenes Belo, was co-recipient of the Nobel Peace Prize for 1996 (the other recipient was the Fretilin spokesman, Jose Ramos Horta, whose name people are very much afraid to mention in the province). Every Sunday at 6:30 AM a mass is held within Bishop Belo's compound in an oval-shaped courtyard abutting his house. The courtyard is bisected by paths in the shape of a cross and it is along these that little children sit. Adults sit or stand outside the oval. Hundreds of all ages attend, dressed in their best clothes. There are a number of male church assistants wearing special frocks, who, aside from helping with the seating and keeping the children from misbehaving, seemed to be keeping an eye on the crowd. Although Bishop Belo was not officiating that day (his secretary was) this was not surprising since the Bishop has been a target of several assassination attempts, and the church itself has now become a target. Its popularity has led Indonesia to blame what government and military officials call 'Catholic activists' for trouble. Transportation, both within and outside Dili, is limited. Dili has a few bus and bemo (minibus) routes, but the most noticeable form of transport is the taxi fleet, not because of size (rather small) but because of appearance. Twenty-year old, stitched-together, blue Nissan station wagons predominate, belching out smoke and often sounding like the wounded contraptions they are. Walking distances are usually not that great though. Outside Dili, the main roads are now paved, a fact Indonesia points to as a sign of its commitment to develop its newest province. Nice roads are all well and good, but the original reason for the paving was to facilitate military operations and maintenance of 'security'. The hills along these roads are often capped by huts that have an Indonesian flagpole and radio antenna next to them. The presence of these posts puts a damper on landscape photography as the accounts of some previous travelers have mentioned. The large military trucks, I was told, are referred to by the locals as 'mobil tidak apa ada', which means truck for which it doesn't matter what's in front. 130 kilometers from Dili lies Baucau, the second largest town. Some fifteen kilometers before it lies the airport that backpackers of old used as their gateway to Darwin, Australia. It is now a military facility. Baucau is composed of two areas, a newer town where migrants and officials live. This is distinctly lacking in character. The old town is much more pleasant and is dominated a highly attractive colonial-style market building, the Mercado Municipal, constructed in the shape of a semicircle. Unfortunately, this market was the scene of communal rioting in 1995 and now lies empty. The marketplace has been moved three kilometers away and closer to the watchful gaze of the officials in the new town. Baucau lies on a plateau and one of the best ways for visitors to pass the time is to walk along the five-kilometer path that leads to the seashore, past wooden and bamboo huts where women can be seen weaving cloth, children playing, and men contemplating the world. Staying in Baucau presents the visitor with a difficult choice between a single hotel and a guesthouse. The guesthouse is a small, rather unclean facility, with large holes in the walls, so that your every move represents a potential form of theater for the children who constantly look through. It is Timorese run, though. The other place is the Hotel Baucau, formerly called the Flamboyant. It isn't hard to see the reason for the original name. The hotel is an unmistakable large white structure that makes one think of a Babylonian ziggurat located in an amusement park, and has small statues of colored elephants leading up the steps. Unfortunately this place, while cleaner than the guest house, contains more than its share of anguished ghosts. Military-run, it was used as a detention and torture center. I thought it wise never to initiate any political discussions while in East Timor, and not to really encourage Timorese who wanted to, in public. Information was available overseas and that wouldn't compromise anyone. Occassionally, though, I would be approached by people who felt they had to get something off their chests, so I listened quietly and nodded afterwards , "Do you know about the situation in East Timor in your country? Will you try to tell them about it? We are not happy here". (RH)