Precedence: bulk
Source: The Big Issues.
Date: 16th July 1999
WAITING TO WAGE PEACE
Sean Steele reports on his visit to East Timor, where he met members
of the world's most isolated guerrilla army
He appeared at the edge of the forest, small, wiry, dressed in rags -
a mix of military jacket and jeans.
Ushering me into the forest, we were quickly and completely
enveloped by trees, low-lying bushes and scrub. The grassy meadow,
where I had stood moments before, disappeared, blocked out by the
banana trees whose giant palm-shaped leaves hung limply in the
scorching sun.
Arriving at a clearing we hunched down. Without warning another
half dozen appeared out of the undergrowth.
Standing around, fingering the triggers of their M-16 rifles, they
stared impassively. Then they smiled - big wide grins - and shook my
hand eagerly. They were small and slightly built. Two were
barefoot; the others wore light sandals. They were armed to the
teeth with pistols in their belts and had machetes dangling by their
sides.
Finally I was face-to-face with the fighters of Falintil, East
Timor's liberation army. Throughout this tiny island 300 miles north
of Australia, people speak about them as "our friends in the
mountains". Numbering only 600, their symbolism represents more
than their numbers suggest.
"For us Falintil means freedom," exclaimed Fernao, a lanky, reticent
youth in the capital Dili. "They are up in the mountains living free
while we are here in prison."
Since 1975 these guerrillas have fought a long, lonely battle
against the Indonesian army (ABRI). From their bases in the
mountains that are East Timor's spine, they still tie down 20,000
soldiers.
After exchanging pleasantries, their commander appeared: a thin
moustachioed man of 46, he squatted down flanded by two alert
bodyguards, who checked every sound and movement. Known by his nom
de guerre Faustino, he spoke in a barely audible whisper. They all
did - a necessity for survival. Soldiers often use scanners to
detect them and listen to their conversations.
Even from our forest clearing I could see the thin frame of an
Indonesian communications building, a mile away. Sensing my
nervousness Faustino said: "We are in constant touch with them by
walkie-talkie. Many of them have given up fighting."
I had heard that in some areas Indonesian commanders had negotiated
local ceasefires with the guerrllas. Now it was confirmed.
"They complain about bad food, bad conditions, of not being paid
for months," explained Jao Suquera, another guerrilla leaning his
rifle. "Many are just wanting to go home."
Sitting back on clumps of the bare earth of the clearing, Faustino
lit a cigarette - "one of my few pleasures" - and sat pensively as
he exhaled.
We met near Los Palos, a tiny town set in rolling hills on the
island's eastern tip. Heavily militarised with bases on every
street, it shows how difficult the guerrillas have made it, that
even now ABRI doesn't completely control the area.
Faustino has been with Falintil since 1976, one of a handful of
survivors from that era. Most of his family are dead. But his is
hardly the exeption in a country where 300,000 (half of the 1975
population) have died.
Along with wanting to fight for independence, all of them have
personal reasons for joining Falintil (Indonesian army savagery
ensures a steady supply of recruits).
"There is no-one who hasn't lost several members of their
families, declared Armando Nunhes. " In my family, 12 were
murdered. The Indonesians treated us like animals so I decided to
join."
There are few women guerrillas but I managed to meet one, an
emaciated, deeply traumatised 19-year-old, Rosa. Her
taut features spoke of a life of suffering. Unlike the others,
Rosa was born in the mountains, and into the movement. But like
the others, most of her family are dead.
"Myself and my mother were the only ones who survived," she
says, never raising her eyes as she recalls a catalogue of terror.
Her father and nine brothers and sisters died in the bombing.
She carries a pistol but doesn't fight, "the guerrillas are my
family and I help them by cooking; attending to the sick is the best
thing I can do."
Life for these fighters means moving between 'camps', usually
straw huts hidden in thedensely forested mountains, always hunted,
often hungry or sick with stomach problems, rotten teeth or
malaria.
Nowadays, most Falintil actions are defensive. Their numbers are
too few to mount attacks. Their mere existence is enough to keep
the flag flying for East Timor's independence.
In the late 1970's Falintil had 6,000 men, whose determined
resistance slowed a for larger, lavishly equipped Indonesian army,
inflicting huge casualties on the invaders (over 25,000 soldiers
have died since 1975). By 1975, when Los Palos was taken,
constant war and starvation had decimated guerrilla ranks. What
really turned the tide was the arrival of fighter aircraft, Hawks
from Britain and Broncos from America.
"We remember those aircraft bombing, the terror they caused,"
recalled Armand Nunhes. "Every day they attacked villages,
dropping napalm that burned people's skins. Thousands were
killed, including my parents."
By the early 1980's the guerrillas were nearly finished as a
fighting force. Under Xanana Gusmao's leadership, they were
reorganised into four regions and rebuilt. Faustino is secretary
of "Region One", that covers the Eastern island, and has 380
fighters and supporters drawn from a civilian support network -
"the clandestine front" - that operates in every town and village.
It was this clandestine front that organised my visit right under
the noses of the Indonesian army.
Meeting Falintil isn't easy. Letters are exchanged, work sent
ahead, permission sought. Once given I had to go to Los Palos,
a bone-breaking six hour bus jouney from Dili along narrow
crumbling roads. At dawn at a pre-arrandged spot, I was bundled
onto the back of a lorry, asked to lie on the floor along with my
Timooerese translator and covered with a tarpaulin.
As we sped along he whispered, "There are Indonesian bases
along there. If they find us we are in big trouble."
After half an hour, we came to a bumpy halt. Jumping off I
found myself at the edge of the forest from where they emerged.
There small groups are the world's most isolated guerrilla force
who have no borders to seek sanctuary or smuggle weapons across. All their
weaponry comes from captured or dead Indonesian soldiers. Some can be
bought on the black market from corrupt Indonesian officers. The going rate
for an M-16 they informed me is �300, a bullet costs 20p.
Falintil depends on the ordinary people for food. In the
thickets beyond I could just make out several women, local
villagers who come with rice, bread and dried meat. "Falintil
is not just fighters," says Jao, turning to look at them. "It
is the Timorese people. Without them we could not survive."
The banter between them and the guerrillas indicates a close
relationship. And the relaxed postures and laughing showed a
different side of the East Timorese. With soldiers they were
submissive, unsmiling, with their eyes normally fixed downwards.
Talk turns to the future as Faustino outlines his conditions for
Falintil laying down its arms.
"All Indonesian forces would have to withdraw and several thousand
UN peace keepers would have to come to snsure security and seal the
border [with Indonesian West Timor]."
"Then we would hand over our guns but only when the conditions are
right," he stresses.
UN monitors are coming, but not the numbers Fausino or most East
Timorese want.
280 unarmed police - including 20 from Ireland - and 450
civilaian observers will nonitor the voting on 28 August, when the
East Timorese will vote to stay with Indonesia or become independent.
Originally scheduled for 8 August, it was postponed because of violence
from army controlled paramilitary gangs who have killed hundreds and driven
100,000 villagers from their homes.
Despite this Falintil have held their fire.
"We believe they [ABRI] are provoking us by terrorising our
people," explains Jao. "but Xanan has ordered us not to fore. We
want this process to work and not give Inodnesia an excuse to
restart the war."
Faustino admits to looking forward to an end to the 23-year-old war,
although he is unsure what he will do afterwards: "I don't know what
I will do when we get independence. But the most important thing is
that we get freedom.
"A lot of damage has been done," he adds. "People have suffered so
much. We will need a long, long time to heal."
Until then the struggle continues: "We want the war to stop but we
will hold onto our weapons and keep fighting as long as necessary."
East Timor Ireland Solidarity Campaign
Suite 16, Dame House
24-26 Dame Street
Dublin 2
Telephone 00 353 1 671 9207/ 677 0253 /623 3148
Mobile 087 286 0122
Fax 00 353 1 671 9207
Timorese Community in Ireland 00 353 1 453 1462
web http://indigo.ie/~etisc/
Offices in:
Dublin
Belfast
Laois
Galway
Claremorris
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SiaR WEBSITE: http://apchr.murdoch.edu.au/minihub/siarlist/maillist.html
