My flight from West Timor to Dili gave me my first glimpse of the half-island I'd been studying for the last few years. Dominated by mountains, East Timor's terrain is often quite rugged, but it's also quite beautiful. 

As my flight approached Dili's Comoro Airport, the rural landscape gave way to a medium-sized, Mediterranean-looking town, nestled around one of Timor's few natural harbors. With a population of about 100,000, Dili is East Timor's largest city. Since it suffered extensive bombing in World War II, many of its buildings are fairly new, but much of its architecture still bears the stamp of its Portuguese colonial past. 

The first day, I tried to get my bearings. Walking around Dili, I could get a sense of the diverse ethnic origins of the East Timorese. The population is largely a mixture of Malay, Makassarese and Papuan peoples who speak a number of indigenous languages. Tetum serves as the indigenous lingua franca and is spoken and understood in most parts of the country. Indonesian and—to a far lesser extent—Portuguese are also spoken. My very limited Portuguese and Indonesian (combined with English, Spanish and French) allowed me to communicate with many of the people whom I encountered. 

It didn't take long to get a sense of the resentment and fear that permeate East Timorese life. In Indonesia itself, the streets are full of bustling activity, and a foreigner hears the ubiquitous greeting of "Hello, Mister" from young faces. In Dili, the streets are more deserted, and when you pass people, many seem afraid even to say hello. 

On my first day, I stopped a young man on the street for directions to the nearest restaurant, and asked him how things were in Dili. His vague, hushed reply—that there were many problems—warned me not to press further. 

His fear wasn't hard to understand. There are dozens of military installations throughout the city, and truckloads of young Indonesian soldiers frequently drive through the streets. Less obvious but even more pernicious is the extensive network of spies, and paid or coerced informants (often East Timorese), that permeates the city. 

A Catholic priest in Dili told me he feared spies in his own congregation. In central East Timor, a seminarian described the situation as "a prison" in which "we are slaves of the Indonesians." In the town of Baucau, a young man darted out of the bushes near my hotel and thrust into my hand a letter for the International Committee of the Red Cross. (He probably thought I was with the Red Cross, since it's the only international organization with a presence in the country.) He disappeared before I could talk with him. 

In Los Palos, a town in the eastern end of the island, a teenager told me of seven friends accused of associating with the underground resistance. They had been arrested and severely beaten until their faces were "black." 

Also in the eastern end of the island, a nun whom I'll call Sister Maria told me the story of Rosa, a young girl enrolled in a local Catholic school. The nuns were having great difficulty getting Rosa to accept the Christian concept of forgiveness. But then she told them why she couldn't forgive her enemy. 

A few years ago, some ABRI soldiers came to Rosa's home and took away her older brother, who they accused of ties to the resistance. Too afraid even to inquire about his whereabouts, the family had no idea where the army had taken him, or if he was even alive. A month later, the soldiers returned to Rosa's home with a bag. Inside it was her brother's head. 

Understandably, stories like these frightened me—and with good reason. On a number of occasions, I was followed, and there were times when a "friend" would ask far too many questions of me. The photographer who had met my flight and snapped pictures of deplaning passengers subsequently appeared at a number of restaurants where I was eating. 

I later learned that he met all planes or ferries from West Timor and other islands. Twice he came to my hotel, pretending to socialize with the proprietors. After a couple of weeks, it became even more obvious that I was attracting attention from Indonesian intelligence. When I visited a town about 25 miles from Dili, an East Timorese who worked for the Indonesians came looking for me only a half hour after I arrived, and told me that the military commander of the district wanted to talk to me. 

When we met, the commander (who had studied English at Fort Benning, Georgia) told me he simply wanted to "welcome me" to town. We were then joined by the chief of police, a man in his fifties who proudly flexed his biceps to show his youthful vigor. Then they asked me a number of questions: What did I know about Santa Cruz? Why, among all the great places in Indonesia, did I choose to come to East Timor? How did the "reality" of East Timor compare with the picture presented to the outside world? I did my best to sound like an ignorant American tourist. 

I doubt I fooled anyone, since the Indonesians' interest in me continued. Two days later, someone stood outside the window of my low-budget hotel for a couple of hours, peering through a little hole in the window as I lay in bed. 

Although such experiences left me almost constantly fearful, my anxiety paled in comparison to the constant fear that permeates everyday life in East Timor. It would be difficult to find an East Timorese who has not lost a family member or a close friend to the Indonesian military. 

Yet to report on the terror and tragedy alone would be only part of the story. In most places I visited, there was also evidence of the resilient, defiant spirit that's fueled almost two decades of guerrilla war and a national resistance movement. A small but vibrant guerrilla army and an extensive underground are also active in towns and villages throughout the country. 

Through a combination of my own luck and the eagerness of the East Timorese resistance to communicate with foreigners, I made contact with members of the resistance. A few times I was led or driven at night to places where information, documents and rolls of film were passed to me to carry to the outside world. 

But usually the signs of resistance were more subtle. People would flash me the V sign for victory or approach me to ask that I tell the United Nations to help, and that I ask the US government to stop sending military and economic aid to Indonesia. 

Everywhere I went it was obvious that Indonesia had failed to win the hearts and minds of the vast majority of the East Timorese. As a prominent figure associated with the resistance said to me several days before my departure, "Politically we have won. However, it is a question of force—something we do not have." 

It was clear to most East Timorese with whom I spoke that—barring radical changes in Jakarta—their fate lies in cities like Canberra, Tokyo, London, and, most importantly, Washington, where decisions to support Suharto's regime and supply it with arms have provided Indonesia with the means to carry out its genocidal policies. 

I left Timor unharmed, probably because the authorities were never quite sure who I was and what I was doing there, but also because my American identity afforded me some protection. Needless to say, the East Timorese have no such protection—as the death, often by torture, of more than 200,000 of them demonstrates. 

back to Contents... 
continue reading... 

[For a hard copy of this book, try your local bookstore or call Odonian Press at 800 REAL STORY.  Or visit Common Courage Press]