Subject: Big Issues: Waiting to Wage Peace
Date: Sat, 17 Jul 1999 09:32:12 -0400
From: "East Timor Ireland Solidarity Campaign" <etisc@indigo.ie>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. Kown 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 waldie-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 mounta attacks. Their mere existence is enough to keep the fflal 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 Palow, 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 backof 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 mos 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 dwith 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 th
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 th numbers Fausino or most East #Timorese want. 280
unarmed police - inclueding 20 from Ireland - and 450 civilaianobservers 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 gangas who have killed huyndreds and driven 100,j000
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 tothe
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."
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