By Brian Kelly
It is twilight. I am sitting in an outdoor restaurant in Becora, Dili, with several East Timorese youths, listening to local songs played by one of the teenage boys. The neighbouring children sit cross-legged in the grass around us, singing traditional Timorese songs in Tetum.
Not knowing the words, I beat the table and cups with a spoon and, engrossed in the music, am only half-aware of the passing minibuses and taxis and their blaring horns. Children play soccer on the footpath. The heat of the day over, pedestrians stroll along the side of the road, the women arm in arm.
Suddenly, the evening is shattered by a piercing shriek. The crowd on the road and path suddenly thickens. I hear a shrill, nightmarish women's scream, "Jesus Maria, Jesus Maria", over and over again. The teenage boy throws down the guitar and rushes to the road. The children run after him. I stand up, but am paralysed, as if caught in a dream.
All afternoon there has been tension in the air. One of the boys told me this morning that a US senator is visiting Dili and the students want to stage a demonstration. He said the senator is staying at the Hotel Turismo, which is owned by the Indonesian military and called "Intel base" by local East Timorese because it is staffed by spies.
Now it feels as if the tension is about to explode. And if something explodes in East Timor, by way of riots or public protest, it is always the East Timorese who end up in prison, tortured, or killed — many still in their teens.
This afternoon, I discussed the senator's visit with Manuel, who works in the clandestine front. Manuel, aged 22, has already been arrested three times. Each time, he has been imprisoned for several months and repeatedly tortured by the Indonesian military for information on the clandestine front. He has shown me the knife wounds on his head and the cigarette and candle burns on his skin.
Manuel explained that it would be almost suicidal for the students to demonstrate at Hotel Turismo, because it faces the sea and is backed by a huge ABRI (Indonesian military) area at the rear; there are no escape routes. The main road could easily be cut off by security forces on both ends and the protesters arrested, or identified by spies and arrested at night, as usually happens.
Although most of the boys want to demonstrate, Manuel said he and the other leaders have been trying to persuade them to conserve their energy. "It's just not worth it, losing our best youths for the sake of one demonstration", he told me.
Now, as I stare through the fading light at the crowd gathering on the road, the excitement has changed to anger. I don't know what might happen next. I am afraid, but find myself walking towards the road to find out what's going on.
I pause not far from the edge of the crowd of young, shouting boys and girls and wailing women. The centre of attention is a Javanese man, in his 20s, sitting on a motorbike. He is being cursed, pushed and shoved by youths and appears to be trying to drive the motorbike away.
Now he is pulled off the bike. I see a confusion of kicks and flying punches, and at that moment, I almost expect them to kill him. I spot one of the children — Jovita — and call her. She runs to me and holds my hand protectively.
"What happened?", I ask.
"Javanese ran over Paulina's little sister, the baby." She holds out her hand at waist height to indicate the size of the child. Paulina is one of the children who sometimes chat with me, helping me learn Bahasa Indonesia and Tetum. "There was blood ... at her mouth, her ears, her head. Family took her to hospital already."
Now I see the Indonesian tear himself away from the youths and race to a nearby taxi. The teenage boy who had been playing the guitar and singing 10 minutes ago is viciously punching the man through the open car window.
Part of my mind is afraid the boys will kill the Indonesian. Another is filled with dread that the police or military might turn up, which would almost definitely result in many East Timorese being arrested, or that this fury might grow. Now I can almost understand how easily riots begin.
I have been told that when there are riots, there are inevitably military crackdowns, with large numbers of East Timorese being arrested and sometimes shot. Visions of the Dili massacre scenes flash before my eyes. I hope the taxi will take the man away, but the vehicle doesn't move. After a moment, the Indonesian leaps out, ducking to avoid the blows and kicks which land on his back and head as he runs away.
To my relief, the military does not arrive. The boys who had been beating the Indonesian kick his motorbike a few times in disgust, then melt away. The crowd remains milling about the road for several hours. Everyone knows the baby is seriously hurt and might die.
"Always the Javanese!", a woman moans bitterly to another. Another cry, "A Timorese would have been more careful!", echoes my own thoughts, however unfair, as I reflect on the riots in East Timor during the last couple of years, most of which have been caused by an Indonesian causing a fight or defacing or destroying Catholic statues.
"Treating us like dogs", says someone and the cautious, clandestine whisper, "Resistencia" — the Resistance — catches my ear.
I go back to the restaurant, smoke cigarettes, think about the injured baby, and worry that the emotions of the people might cause the students to riot or demonstrate, which will inevitably lead to bloodshed. It is important to demonstrate: otherwise the world might forget about East Timor's war with Indonesia. And without international intervention, the East Timorese will never gain the independence they are all fighting for. But I can't bear the thought of boys and girls, whom I regard as my friends, being tortured.
Maria, who works in the restaurant, tells me that when there is an accident between Timorese people, both families get together afterwards and sort out the problems. The East Timorese would never call the police, she says, for the police, government and military are on the Indonesian side; they are all the "enemy".
But when the accident isn't between East Timorese, Maria says, there are problems, like with today's accident. As the offender is Javanese, the two parties involved cannot talk about the problem in the customary way. Therefore, the family whose baby has been injured will not be given any financial assistance and might not be able to afford treatment.
Maria is convinced that any approach to the police with a complaint about the Javanese driver would result in nothing but more suffering for the family concerned. I also get the impression that she regards the accident as no accident at all, but deliberate — another example of Indonesia's ongoing repression of the East Timorese people.
I eat my evening meal and return to my hotel, where I meet Marcos, who often comes to practise his English and to tell me what is happening in Dili. Marcos is still a high school student, only 15. Yet, like many others, is already involved in the Resistance.
He tells me the demonstration this weekend has been cancelled because a larger delegation of US senators is scheduled to visit Dili soon. "We could have demonstrated, but our 'chief' said not to", he explains, looking a little disappointed. "However, next time!", he adds and there is a dangerous glint in his eye.
Marcos is typical of the young East Timorese I have met: he has been educated by the Indonesian government, speaks fluent Bahasa Indonesia and has been taught all his life that East Timor is the 27th province of Indonesia. Yet he insists that he is East Timorese and never will be Indonesian. At 15, Marcos is prepared to die for his country.
Although Indonesia has tried to win the East Timorese by force, it seems to have failed. It has tried to eradicate the guerilla force, Falintil, and the clandestine front of the Resistance, but has failed. Marcos and his friends are fighting for their lives and the lives of their families; to do otherwise would be to betray their own people.
The courage I have seen in Marcos' eyes and in the eyes of so many boys and girls, men and women in East Timor leaves me convinced that the only way for the Indonesians to stop the East Timorese from fighting for their independence is to kill them all. However, it is more difficult nowadays to get away with massacres. With hundreds of NGOs and millions of eyes watching Indonesia, a shudder goes through the world each time new violations in East Timor are reported.
Public protests against western governments still reluctant to criticise Indonesia's human rights record are increasing, and those governments are beginning to speak out. With increasing international awareness of Indonesia's ongoing violations in East Timor, it is only a matter of time before Indonesia is forced to allow a referendum so that the East Timorese people can determine for themselves whether they wish to be part of Indonesia, or an independent East Timor.