East Timor: The Price of Liberty

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East Timor

East Timor The Price of Liberty

Damien Kingsbury

east timor Copyright © Damien Kingsbury, 2009. All rights reserved. First published in 2009 by PALGRAVE MACMILLAN® in the United States—a division of St. Martin’s Press LLC, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, NY 10010. Where this book is distributed in the UK, Europe and the rest of the world, this is by Palgrave Macmillan, a division of Macmillan Publishers Limited, registered in England, company number 785998, of Houndmills, Basingstoke, Hampshire RG21 6XS. Palgrave Macmillan is the global academic imprint of the above companies and has companies and representatives throughout the world. Palgrave® and Macmillan® are registered trademarks in the United States, the United Kingdom, Europe and other countries. ISBN: 978-0-230-60641-8 Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Kingsbury, Damien. East Timor : the price of liberty / Damien Kingsbury. p. cm. Includes bibliographical references and index. ISBN: 978-0-230-60641-8 1. East Timor—Politics and government—2002– I. Title. DS649.7.K56 2009 959.8704—dc22 2008047479 A catalogue record of the book is available from the British Library. Design by Scribe Inc. First edition: June 2009 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1 Printed in the United States of America.

This book is dedicated to Rae Perry and to the Australia-East Timor Friendship groups she was so instrumental in bringing into existence. Thank you, Rae, my dearest friend, supporter, confidant, comrade, and beautiful love. This book is written in the hope that the people of East Timor, east and west, Austronesian and Melanesian, Portuguese and Malay speakers, and of the political left and right, may find common cause around the legitimacy of difference. Many thanks to Judith Graley for her comments on a draft of this book, with the proviso that the author takes sole responsibility for any errors of fact of interpretation that might appear herein.

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Contents Author’s Note

ix

Notes on Nomenclature and Spelling

x

Introduction

1

1

Conceptual Considerations

7

2

Distant and Regional Colonialism

25

3

Critical Issues in the Independence Struggle

51

4

The UN’s Benign Colonialism

77

5

Transition to Independence

105

6

Capacity and Conflict

131

7

The 2007 Elections

161

8

Democratic Consolidation, or a Failed State?

189

Epilogue

213

Notes

219

References

227

Index

241


Author’s Note Anyone who is interested in East Timor cannot begin any understanding without first knowing something of the events of 1975 to 1999. This book, and many others, highlight aspects of those years. But the single best informed and most comprehensive study of this period was undertaken by the East Timor Commission for Reception, Truth, and Reconciliation of Timor-Leste. Its publication Chega! The Report of the Commission for Reception, Truth, and Reconciliation Timor-Leste is a publicly available document and may be freely downloaded from the Internet. It is a massive, detailed, and thoroughly researched report and is the single most important source to which we must all turn, again and again, to understand the extent of the horror and culpability of that quarter century. The “realism” of global politics has ensured that, as has been clear almost from the beginning, virtually no one will be held accountable for any of the events of that period even though, on a scale of human misery, it parallels the almost mythic horrors of Pol Pot’s Cambodia. It is Chega! (“Enough!”) that will help ensure when East Timor and Indonesia’s history is rewritten in an attempt to gloss over the enormous crimes against humanity committed by individuals and groups acting agents of the Indonesian state, an historically accurate record remains available to test that rewriting, and to ensure that the shame and culpability of its perpetrators is recorded in perpetuity.

Notes on Nomenclature and Spelling Reflecting what some observers (e.g., Federer 2005) have referred to as the elite capture of political power, the preferred common name of East Timor by its government is the Portuguese Timor-Leste. However, the country is globally better known as East Timor, which is its direct English translation. East Timor is generally referred to here as Portuguese Timor prior to 1975, as it was known throughout the world at that time. During the resistance, East Timor was known internally, and by some externally, by its Tetum name Timor Loro Sa’e (Timor where the Sun Rises). This is, descriptively, historically, culturally, and metaphorically, perhaps the most appropriate name for the country (despite since 2006 its misappropriation and misuse as a regional nomenclature within East Timor). However, “East Timor” is generally used here for purposes of simplicity and common recognition. Portuguese diacritics not employed in Portuguese originating names as, in English, they are redundant (e.g., Gusmao rather than Gusmão). Words originating in Timorese languages are either consistent with government usage (e.g., Tetum rather than Tetun) or as noted by Geoffrey Hull in his ambitious if sometimes contested series of Timorese dictionaries. Given local variation of even recognized languages and that Timor’s languages have been until very recently entirely oral, spelling may not accord with all possible versions of an agreed word or name (e.g., loro sa’e, loro sae, lorosae, lorosai; wehale, wehali, behale; kemak, qemac, ema). There are also a variety of differently spelled or identified names for things and especially places, between Dutch, Portuguese, Melayu (localized as Indonesian), and the host of local languages. To that end, apologies are offered if the spelling used here does not accord with alternative preferences.

Introduction

I

n 2008, Areia Branca (White Beach) was a popular weekend swimming and sunbathing spot for the expatriates still living in Dili, as well as the fewer East Timorese who were free enough to spend an afternoon playing in the shallows. In the early 1970s, the colonial Portuguese hoped that Ariea Branca would be one of East Timor’s tourist beaches, a few shelters built then remaining as a reminder of that lost dream. Ariea Branca is better known to East Timorese, still, as a killing ground, where in the early years of the Indonesian invasion, groups of people were taken to this beach and executed, their bodies dumped in the sea. Many of the bodies of the people shot on Dili wharf also washed up at Ariea Branca, lending its otherwise pleasant sandy shore an eerie horror. It was characteristic of East Timor that almost any place that had one meaning in 2008, as a weekend retreat, a hotel, a grove, a cliff, or a river, had another meaning, as the site of atrocities, places of the dead, where ghosts lived. The past was never very far away in East Timor, in almost every sense implied by such closeness. Just after dawn on Monday, February 11, 2008, as the sun was rising out of the Wetar Straight behind the Indonesian-built Christo Rei statue on Fatucama Hill at the eastern point of Dili’s broad harbor, East Timor’s President Jose Ramos-Horta was out in the morning coolness for his daily walk along the Areia Branca with two members of the F-FDTL, not far from his home at Meti-hau. A few minutes after 6:00 a.m., a foreign diplomat driving by stopped and told the exercising Ramos-Horta that he had heard gunshots. The diplomat asked if Ramos-Horta wanted a lift. Ramos-Horta declined. Ramos-Horta also received a telephone call from the Senior Legal Advisor to the President, Paulo Dos Remedios who lives in the area, advising him of shootings at his home. A group of ten armed men in two cars, led by fugitive Major Alfreido Reinado, had occupied the president’s home, and a few minutes later, the early arriving morning shift of the presidential guard confronted the invaders, shooting dead Reinado and another of his gang. Despite the shooting, Ramos-Horta pressed on but, approaching the gates of his home, was himself shot and critically wounded in the lower abdomen and chest. Ramos-Horta dragged himself

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East Timor

inside and telephoned for help. One of the F-FDTL guards with him was also shot and critically wounded. Eighteen minutes later, members of the Portuguese paramilitary Republican National Guard (GNR) special operations subgroup Bravo had arrived, calling an ambulance to take Ramos-Horta to the Australian army hospital. A further telephone call was made from Ramos-Horta’s home to the home of Prime Minister Xanana Gusmao, spurring him to leave his house at Balibar to go to Ramos-Horta’s aid. However, at about 7:45 a.m., shortly after leaving his house, it was surrounded by a group of armed men, under Reinado’s second in command, Lieutenant Gastao Salsinha. Gusmao’s wife, Kirsty Sword Guamao, telephoned Gusmao to let him know of the situation, just at the moment his two cars were also attacked. Gusmao’s guard in a second car returned fire, and Gusmao and his guards escaped unharmed into the bushes, making their way into Dili on foot (see Banz 2008). Ramos-Horta, meanwhile, was treated for serious gunshot wounds and then evacuated to Darwin for further life-saving surgery (Lusa 2008). He spent the next two months recuperating in Darwin. While on the run in the weeks prior to this event, Reinado had undertaken an interview on Metro TV, which is broadcast from Jakarta, raising speculation that Reinado had assistance from across the border. While Metro TV staff denied that Reinado had been to Jakarta, some of his men were later arrested there, and months after the event it was shown that Reinado had an Indonesian identity card on him at his time of death. However, possession of the card did not indicate high-level support—such “KTP” cards had long been available from local immigration offices for a price. These events and those that followed including the imposition of a “state of seige,”1 highlighted East Timor’s continuing political fragility. However, in what was widely regarded as an attempted coup,2 apart from the casualties involved, this event broke a critical stalemate in East Timor’s political life and, paradoxically, could be seen to have many more positive than negative consequences. It was, in many respects, the end of series of critical political events that had threatened to destroy East Timor’s young democracy and to turn this child of the United Nations and the international community into a failed state. This book is intended to consider the critical political issues that have affected East Timor, notably since independence in 2002, but also highlighting those historical issues that have come to shape so much of East Timorese political society. In particular, it considers these issues within the context of the wider postcolonial experience, in which independence from colonial powers has commonly not met the aspirations associated with liberation and in many cases led to internal repression and conflict. As one of the world’s newest states (Kosovo is now more recent) and the one that has proportionately received most

Introduction

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3

attention from the international community, East Timor stands as a strong case study of what often goes wrong in postcolonial environments and how the lessons of other experiences, especially those including the United Nations, are only slowly being learned. The key framework for the book is around domination and resistance, and the tension between the heightened expectations that come with independence and the reduced capacity to deliver on those expectations, and the subsequent tensions that creates. It also examines the necessity of plural and participatory politics—broadly understood as democratization—as a mechanism for peacefully expressing desires and frustrations, and as a good in its own right. The point at which these latter issues came to a head was not so much in the events leading up to independence, but in the violence of 2006. This was a critical marker in East Timor’s history and exemplifies the key themes. The issues leading up to that violence, and its aftermath, illustrate the ways in which these key themes played out and why. The continued, if more sporadic, violence of later 2007 further illustrates problems that beset regime change, embedding democratization, and with the more prosaic but critical consolidation of state institutions. Especially following the events of 2006, there was much discussion about whether East Timor was or was about to become a failed state. The “failed state” paradigm is important and there are identifiable criteria for such assessment. All states so identified do not enjoy effective functional state institutions, which are the key marker of state success or failure. The issues here are what these markers are, where East Timor sits in relation to them, and what its prospects are for future success or failure according to these critical criteria. Finally, ideology and the markers of such ideology have played an enormously important role in East Timor’s political development, both within the country, among its expatriate community, and among those very many non– East Timorese who have chosen to become involved in its struggles. Some ideologically inclined observers, for instance, in 2007 chose to focus on the name by which the state is known. The formal name of East Timor is Republica Democratica de Timor-Leste, which translates from the Portuguese to English as the Democratic Republic of East Timor. East Timor is its most commonly known and referred to name among English speakers, yet the issue of what to call East Timor was raised as an issue of ideological divide. It was interesting that the discussion that revolved around what was basically a nonessential issue continued. It might have been thought that greater attention would have been paid, at that time, to the continuing gang fighting, the then continuing houseburning, and the continuing killings, who was behind it all, why it continued, and what it meant. Or one might have expected greater focus on why the price

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of a bag of rice rose from $10 to $15 to $35 (US) at a time of drought and widespread hardship, despite there being significant rice supplies available in both Dili wharehouses and across the border in Indonesia. While the global increase in food prices was at this time beginning to hit home, it had not yet risen to a point that justified such price rises. It later became apparent that the then government was stockpiling rice to distribute as electoral booty to its supporters, in a twist on the old political term “pork barrelling.” These issues seemed to be of far more significance than quibbling about the generic use of a name. One long-term Australian-based observer of East Timor couched the issue of the name of East Timor within the context of the process of globalization and identity on the world stage, which became a major issue for small countries in danger of being ignored and hence having their issues marginalized. There was little doubt that gloablization did ride roughshod over vulnerable countries, but it is far less clear that the name by which a country was known was a factor in this phenomenon. Indeed, most countries refer to others by the names they are known by in their own language, rather than the language of the country being observed. Hence, in English the country is Japan, not Nihon; Finland, not Suomi; Germany, not Deutschland; Ivory Coast, not Cote D’Ivoire, and so on. To that end, East Timor is referred to as such here. Similarly, this book does not employ diacritics or other accent markers that are common in Portuguese, as they are not used in English; Xanana Gusmao remains the same identifiable person whether or not there is a diacritic in his surname. This has thus informed the issues around spelling in the “Notes on Nomenclature and Spelling.” There was little doubt that, pro rata, East Timor was among the developing countries most strongly supported by the international community. Interestingly, this reflected the positive side of globalization, which is not singular or lacking in complexity or nuance. There was similarly little doubt that much of this international effort was misguided, misplaced, and, in particular, withdrawn too early. There has consequently since been a requirement to reestablish at least some of that effort. This international focus was not in any respect predicated upon the name that East Timor goes under. To suggest as much is to confuse the label with the substance. The issue of naming reflected a link between ideological preference and political correctness (PC). PC tends to manifest as a moral requirement based on the singularity of political assumptions, in this case that there is and can be only one way to refer to East Timor. One might also see parallels to this in external support for particular political parties within East Timor, or within East Timor identifying particular parties as having established an historical legitimacy that cannot be questioned. This preclusion of the legitimacy of questioning and

Introduction

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5

alternatives not only implied political correctness, it was and remains exceptionally dangerous for East Timor’s political future. It was because of the international community’s continued or renewed commitment to East Timor that on a Sunday afternoon, Areia Branca hosted a cosmopolitan melange that reflected East Timor’s final incorporation into the wider, more open world. And to a considerable extent, it also reflected the Dilicentric focus of that commitment, and indeed of the East Timorese government itself. With four out of five East Timorese living elsewhere than in Dili, it was notable that similar clusters of expatriates were rarely seen on beaches elsewhere. More important, however, was that Areia Branca was like so much of East Timor in that there was nowhere one could go in East Timor and admire the scenery without there having been some terrible deed perpetrated at that place—at every place—in living memory. In East Timorese culture, the dead and the spirit world are never very far from the living; in their daily lives, the East Timorese are accompanied not just by the spirit world, but also by the lived memory, loss of, and grief for loved ones lost. This personal and social trauma saturates the reality of East Timor, and is always there just below the surface, waiting to be exposed in a myriad of often troubling ways. For some, Areia Branca offered brief respite from this constant reality. For others, it served as a reminder.


CHAPTER 1


O

n August 30, 1999, the overwhelming majority of eligible East Timor’s people, wearing their best freshly washed and pressed clothes, walked along dirt tracks from their remote villages and towns, out of the hills and valleys, to queue before sunrise to be sure to be able to cast a vote in a UN-supervised ballot to determine whether their land would remain what was claimed as a part of Indonesia. After twenty-four years of resistance to Indonesian occupation and rule, during which around a quarter of all East Timorese lost their lives, and in the midst of an orchestrated campaign of violence, destruction, and intimidation, more than three-quarters of the people of East Timor voted in favor of independence. The Indonesian government’s claim to sovereignty over the disputed territory was deemed by a majority of the local population to be illegitimate, and the principle alternative, a local basis for complete and legitimate representation, asserted itself in its place. East Timor was the worst manifestation of Indonesia’s authoritarian, brutal, and corrupt rule under the Suharto-led New Order government and, as such, represented the most extreme case of that state’s illegitimacy. Indonesia had illegally invaded the just-declared independent state, embarked on an orgy of violence, and comprehensively looted what little there was of the economy. As the key agent of the state in relation to East Timor, the Indonesian military was the principle actor and point of alienation for East Timor’s population, followed by the police and a corrupt and usually discriminatory state administration. In East Timor, the state (the Republic of Indonesia) was widely regarded as having little or no legitimacy, nor was it able to build such legitimacy with more than a small minority over the twenty-four years of its occupation. Those people then turned to the local independence organization1 as a rational alternative. This chapter considers the formation of East Timorese national identity and the types of circumstances that enhanced or undermined such a sense of national identity. The cause of independence has historically been a major

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galvanizing force in colonial political societies. But once independence was achieved, Indonesia frequently failed to sustain the sense of unity of purpose it helped engender. Moreover, the aspirations often associated with independence—that it will address all of the problems that beset the colonized territory—commonly exceed the capacity of the newly formed state to deliver and may actually be confronted by reduced state capacity. Expectations of improvement in the lives of the people concerned not only go beyond that which the colonial power was able to provide, but also are further out of touch with the postcolonial environment. The gap between postcolonial expectations and capacity invariably produces disappointment and, in some cases, anger. This, in turn, can manifest as violence, either the disorganized, sporadic violence of aimless, alienated youth, or in gang warfare or in more organized forms. In an open or plural political environment, such as postcolonial democracy, disappointment with unfulfilled expectations can manifest as political opposition and dissent, and in cases where governments feel they struggle to maintain organizational control, they have had a tendency to close political space and thus revert to forms of authoritarianism. Most sub-Saharan Africa countries have experienced this dissent and political closure, while Asia and Latin America have their own histories of authoritarian responses and military coups. In cases where such governments have come from a military or revolutionary background manifesting a high degree of nonconsultative hierarchical organization, such organization has often been reflected in the political style and orientation of the new government; highly centralized, hierarchical and military responses once directed against colonial powers become directed against the once colonized people. Noting these issues, this chapter considers the issues of competing claims to legitimacy, and the motivation for the East Timorese independence/secessionist movement, including legal and normative claims to separate political identity. This, in turn, reflects on assertions of vertical or national distinction, based on ethnicity (principally language and history) and geographic specificity, or the “nationalist” claim to “homeland,” that is, to self-determination. Though with some local variation, the people of the largely contiguous East Timor understood themselves as distinct from and overwhelmingly in opposition to their Portuguese and Indonesian colonizers, even though both colonial experiences have left their imprint upon East Timorese society. Related to this, the chapter considers the assertions of geographically defined “national” self-determination as a key principle of political legitimacy, and contrast this with the failure of preexisting states or other political status (such as a colony) to establish or maintain such legitimacy. Legitimacy can increase and decrease according to circumstances, but must retain a critical mass to operate


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functionally (Dahl 1971, 179). This chapter then considers the claims to legitimate authority of separatist organizations, in this case, the East Timorese resistance, by which it claimed to represent the wishes of its constituency (i.e., to be legitimate) in situ. Finally, the chapter addresses the practical capacity of the East Timorese resistance to assert its claim to independence, and where this relied on military force the common division between military and political approaches and their consequences. This, in turn, raises the question of sustaining legitimacy through the creation and embedding of civic institutions, which initially buttresses the claim to “nation” but eventually undermine such claims as based solely on separate ethnic identity. Legitimacy In political terms, legitimacy calls into dispute claims and counterclaims to the “rightness” of political authority. The idea of legitimacy implies that a form of rule or government has the consent of the majority of the people of the governed territory. Other than succumbing to a simple majoritrianism (absolute rule of the majority at the expense of the minority), this consent should be of a very significant majority, and allow for minority protection where that minority is based on specific factors, such as economic or ethnic identification. The idea of legitimacy finds its etymological and philosophical origins in rule of law (lex). This assumes acceptance of equal and consistent rule under law as the most equitable form of government, in this case as it applied to the republic. There is a claimed paradox between freedom and law: that law curtails freedom. This “sense of paradox is due to confusing the absence of domination with the absence of interference” (Larmore in Winestock and Nadeau 2004, 106; see also Ober 2000). This is to say, while law imposes some limitations upon freedom, normatively such restrictions are only on the freedom to restrict the freedom of others. In that law normatively guarantees protection from such arbitrary restrictions, it enhances real freedom. That is, rule of (or under) law was intended not as limiting the freedoms of citizens but rather guaranteeing their freedom from limitations imposed without rule of law (see Cicero 1998). According to Diamond, legitimacy is an outcome of causal factors, including the trajectory of historical legacy, the comparative values of regime systems within that historical legacy, the experience of positive social and economic results from the regime in question, efficacy of the regime, and the way in which the regime conforms to political aspirations (1999, 194–212). Diamond was referring to the legitimacy of democracy in this context, but claims for the legitimacy of democracy can be equally made to other regimes. It should be noted, however, that this assessment of (democratic) legitimacy is implicitly “rationallegal” in the Weberian sense of the term, and does not account for “traditional”

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political models, such as East Timor’s liurai2, or the compelling, if transient, legitimacy of charismatic leadership, such as former resistance leader and now Prime Minister Xanana Gusmao’s immediate postindependence presidency. However, numerous forms of acceptance of authority have not complied with rule of law, though they can be said to comply with the evolving value ascribed to legitimacy, which can be described as rule with consent. This might be said to conform to the minority of East Timorese who accepted Indonesian rule between 1975 and 1999. As outlined by Weber (1946), legitimacy may derive from a range of sources, depending on the political development of the social group in question, and may be normative or positive. In simple terms, Weber saw legitimacy as being derived either from charismatic leadership, traditional authority, or a rational-legal structure, noting that all of these categories tended to reflect varying degrees or elements of the other. Weber’s theory of legitimacy of rule canvassed different ideal models obtaining to different preconditions. But throughout asserted that legitimacy either arose through acceptance of a precondition, imitation, rational belief in its value, or its legality (Weber 1946, 130). In relation to an independent East Timor, the new state matched such traditional, charismatic, or rational-legal conditions to varying degrees among different groups of its citizens, being in part a precondition for resolving outstanding political claims; imitating other postcolonial states and, indeed, noncolonial states; being a rational aspiration, especially set against the behavior of the Indonesian period; and being a legal claim both under international law and natural law. Weber’s rational-legal legitimacy finds the closest parallel to the etymological and original meaning of legitimacy, implying an internally consistent application of rule of law or regularization of related procedures. This, then, is the aspect of the state that most citizens desire. Another set of criteria might construe legitimacy as being comprised of a normative natural order that translates as political order. For example, such criteria can be found in traditional forms of rule and elements of “organic” political corporatism, such as with political structures built upon patron-client relations, or in a liberal-minimalist model characterized by the “small state” approach of neoliberalism. They can also be located in a democratic-proceduralist model of agreement between free and equal citizens, based on individual selfdetermination (as the rational basis for morality) as outlined by Kant and as social contract by Rousseau, but which had little application in East Timor. It is also possible that claims to universalist legitimacy may be abandoned in favor of relativism, as exemplified by the “deconstruction” of the universal to the particular of Derrida (1980), the anti-“grand narrative” approach of Lyotard (1984), and the micropower structure focus of Foucault (1982). This translates as a preference for analysis of political outcomes based on claims to local


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traditional political methods in contrast to wider and more consistent political methods, and is favored by some political anthropologists and related social scientists (e.g., Grenfell 2007). In the case of the people of East Timor, until the early part of the twentyfirst century, they had not previously enjoyed equal and consistent application of rule of law; and even after that time, the law was applied in ways that left much to be desired. In particular, the Portuguese colonial administration by and large allowed East Timor’s indigenous rulers to apply customary law as they saw fit, which, while largely supported by the communities in question, was often harsh, inconsistent in application, and, without due process and rules of evidence, often incorrect in its assumptions. Portuguese law, meanwhile, was differentiated among the Portuguese, Chinese, mesticos, and indigenous people. And even in this, its application was often inconsistent, according to the temperament of the governor of the day. Indonesian law, applied from 1976, implied the various and sometimes conflicting codes that constituted its own canon, as well as incorporating some customary law. But overwhelmingly, East Timor was ruled not by law under Indonesia, but by force, with serious crimes such as murder, torture, and rape, being committed as acts of political control. Thus, when East Timor achieved independence in 2002, the fact that it had a small and poorly trained judiciary, inconsistent laws in a language that 90 percent of the population could not understand, and a relatively high degree of corruption and official impunity, left many East Timorese with serious misgivings about the nature of the state. That the state, as manifested in the government, responded inadequately to many grievances only exacerbated its declining legitimacy, which in significant part contributed to near state failure in 2006. Yet, with some exceptions in 2006, East Timor’s people overwhelmingly understood themselves as a bonded political group, that is as a nation, and as citizens of a distinct, participatory state, which was to become the defining characteristic of its national identity. In circumstances in which legitimacy implies consent to rule, it is normative in that it reflects a social value judgment about whether or not a ruler or government has the “right” to occupy that political position. This, in turn, opens up questions of moral authority and the extent of correspondence between such matters and between ruler and ruled. Positive legitimacy implies explicit agreement about the circumstances that confer legitimacy, such as compliance with equal and consistent rule of law, and the correspondence between the action of the ruler and such compliance. That is to say, legitimacy of rule derives from a sense of justice in social and political relations; where a sense of justice prevails, the social and political circumstances may be regarded as legitimate.

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Within the context of self-identifying groups, in this case the East Timorese people under Indonesian occupation, where legitimacy is not established in either normative or positive terms, or where legitimacy is held to have been lost or to not apply in relation to a specific people or a specific territory, such people will tend to seek remedial action. This not only applied to East Timor under Indonesia, but also to the sense of geographic distinction and separation that came to represent the internal conflict of 2006. Illegitimacy of rule is further challenged where there is perceived to be an alternative source of legitimacy for a given people or territory. This is particularly so where a self-identifying group within a reasonably geographically coherent area does not acknowledge the legitimacy of a ruler from a separate location or over the claimed area, or where that sense of legitimacy has never been adequately established or has since been lost, in this case, being either the East Timorese resistance for East Timor as a whole, or to specific areas such as East Timor’s western districts in relation to perceived or actual leaders. For many in the west of East Timor after 2006, the outlaw Alfredo Reinado was a hero, while the government was seen as illegitimate. Social Identity As East Timor has discovered, the question of identity can be vexed, calling into question claims and counter-claims about what constitutes a genuine or fully formed distinct identity and whether or not that identity constitutes a claim to a separate or a distinct national identity. In short, if sufficient (the majority of ) members of a group that reflects a number of key characteristics claim for themselves a national identity, the claim is ultimately their own to make. Outsiders may agree or disagree about the validity of the claim, and as governments they may choose to recognize or reject a claim. But external recognition or its lack does not determine the internal legitimacy of the claim as such; that is up to the constituent members making the claim, which is, to them, coherent. Most states are internally defined by how their social groups are organized as constituent parts, if with varying degrees of dynamism. Postcolonial states, in particular, tend to exhibit vertical or regionally based group tendencies, especially where they are constructed from multiple preexisting ethnicities. That is, ethnic groups that existed prior to the colonial experience and that may have not enjoyed close or comfortable relations with other groups have often found themselves joined in colonial entities that transformed, in the postcolonial era, as multiethnic states. Setting aside the method of East Timor’s incorporation into Indonesia, this vertical distinction applied to the relationship between the East Timorese and “other” Indonesians, and resurfaced in the postindependence period between East Timor’s constituent ethnicities.


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Few multiethnic colonies have made a fully successful transition to becoming voluntary states (states in which an overwhelming majority of members freely choose to be citizens); in most cases, there has been an element of compulsion in accordance with an overt “nation-building” project, usually around the standardization of language, state ideology, and the identification or creation of a “shared history.” Where this nation-building project has been predicated upon a higher degree of compulsion, it has tended to produce reaction, often by way of assertion of a separate identity equally but differently conceived of as a “nation.” East Timor began as an overwhelmingly voluntary state, but quickly descended into a type of compulsion, less in relation to citizenship and more in terms of following the state’s lead. This then raises two questions, the first being what it is that constitutes a nation, and how claims to nation can be assessed. The second question goes to issues of legitimacy, voluntarism, and compulsion. National identity as the basis for the assertion of nationalist claims can be characterized in two broad streams. The most common quality of national identity is as noted based on ethnicity (Smith 1986a, 22–46). As Anderson (1991) has noted, a common language is the principle mediator through which individuals may not know each other but actually or potentially communicate across distance and hence perceive themselves as having a common interest. In East Timor, such national identity was weak prior to the Indonesian invasion, but formed with the increasingly widespread use of Tetum Praca as a lingua franca in place of local languages, with perhaps 70 percent of the population having some capacity in the language. Importantly and more geographically universally, Bahasa Indonesia (Indonesian language) was perhaps equally if not more widespread, although after 2002, it was only endorsed as a “working” language and was otherwise associated with Indonesian compulsion. However, basing the national project solely on culture, as occurred in Indonesia and especially during the New Order period of 1966 to 1998, without extending that to include wider civic values, raises the prospect of reifying a mythical “glorious past” (see Smith 1986a, 174–208). In East Timor’s case, under Indonesia it was portrayed as having historically been a part of a previous “Indonesian” empire, the Majapahit, and Indonesia’s occupation illustrated as freeing the Timorese from the chains of Portuguese colonial subjugation. Yet in reifying itself, ethnicity becomes inwardly focused, exclusivist, and reactionary, as the somewhat artificial unifying “culture” of Indonesia so became. While some in East Timor have focused on what constitutes an authentic East Timorese identity, to date this has not become exclusivist, perhaps in part due to the extent of Portuguese, Malay, and other islander influence. Nations have traditionally tended to reflect a cultural or ethnic unity, particularly through a common language in relation to a specific and usually contiguous

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and relatively demarcated or delineated territory. The territorial reach of nations, or protonations, has historically shifted, especially prior to the advent of Westphalian sovereignty implying fixed borders. Populations were thus often fluid, not least in moving within and across the island of Timor and from surrounding islands. But unity of culture, notably around language, has been the most common identifying quality of a people identifying themselves as having a bonded unity or collective self-consciousness. If Bahasa Indonesia allowed for the first time the East Timorese to speak with each other from one end of the half island to the other, then Tetum Praca also increasingly allowed them to do so but in a language that was definitively theirs (despite Portuguese and Malay contributions) and, as importantly, not of the oppressive “other.” The second quality necessary for continuing success in sustaining national identity is based on concordance around normative shared values or the positive codification of plural civic values. This idea of nationalism comprises what has been termed “civic nationalism,” or “civic nationality” (Miller 1993, 1995; see also Smith 1998, 210–13). Such a concept corresponds to a more voluntary, inclusive, participatory, and open political society (for example, liberal democracy). In this, national identity and hence citizenship are ascribed on the basis of commitment to core civic values rather than ethnic origin. The first clear sign of this common civic identity was when the people of East Timor were allowed to vote in the 1999 ballot on self-determination or independence, and has since been confirmed in subsequent elections, each of which have produced remarkably high voter turnout figures.3 However, where national bonds are historically weak in relation to the state and civic bonds are not evident, states tend to compel “national” membership, following, rather than preceding, the creation of the state. Such compulsion tends to preclude civic values. That is, not being able to allow the full expression of social plurality, the state rules by (often oppressive) law, thus denying justice. This could be seen to be the case in Indonesia in relation to its more reluctant components, especially during the New Order period, and especially in relation to East Timor. This tendency toward compulsion and rule by law could also be seen developing in postindependence East Timor, as its government struggled to maintain control of the state. By contrast, voluntary nationalism, in which members freely embrace their agreed commonality, appears to provide a more stable basis for social equality of difference under rule of law (see Habermas 2001a, 2001b; Seymour 2000), thus reflecting justice. This, in turn, allows for and, having begun on that selffulfilling trajectory, encourages, and increases voluntary public identification with and cohesion around a national identity founded among civic values. In this, voluntarism and legitimacy are joined. Having begun as an exercise in voluntary


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nation formation and state creation, the civic basis of the East Timorese state was founded. However, before it had an adequate opportunity to establish deep roots, the voluntary aspects of inclusion diminished, thus reducing the state’s legitimacy generally and that of the government in particular. Territory According to Gellner (1983, 46), the association of a people with a territory is most likely to be successful in being able to assert a claim to that territory if it is relatively compact and largely contiguous. A dispersed territory is, relative to population, less easily able to be controlled and hence claimed. Common territory is not only claimed, but is a defining practical expression of the nation. In the case of Indonesia, it is perhaps the world’s most noncontiguous state, comprising some eighteen thousand registered islands, and its territorial claim rests solely on the Dutch colonial empire that preceded it. In this sense, it did not have a historical or, after independence, legal claim to including East Timor. However, it and its supporters did claim that, as something of a colonial anomaly, East Timor geographically belonged within the larger state that effectively surrounded it. Within East Timor itself, the state is largely contiguous and quite compact. The exceptions to this contiguity are the enclave of Oecussi located on the north coast of West Timor, and historically the mountains that tended to divide the territory (which in large part account for the proliferation of different indigenous language groups). Territory can in the first instance be the site of sources of livelihood and investment, and thus has the capacity to produce a relationship between the individual or community and the land, usually manifested as ownership or regular use. The relationship may also be manifested in animistic belief systems, such as those that still tie many East Timorese directly to the land. Connections to place are strong among most peoples and conceptions of patria are common to most nations asserting themselves territorially as states, and is explicit in the case of East Timor, the state motto being “Patria E Povo” (Homeland and People). A further connection between people and land is the communal bonding born of mutual defense of one’s fellows and one’s territory. The territory will most commonly be shared contiguous land around which a community has established common interests, and a mutual challenge or threat, then, will apply to a people who share a spatial and geo-specific relationship as well as a social relationship, and may be directed at either the quality of their territory (for example, loss of resources), the loss of the territory itself, or the loss of control over particular populations. A further quality of defense or security in nation formation parallels and overlaps with Hobsbawm (2004, chap. 4) and Gellner’s views on the role of industrialization in nation formation. Gellner cites

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industrialization and the protestant work ethic as a critical aspect of the nation formation process (1983, chap. 3; see also Smith 1998, 79–82). The centralized and externally focused nature of industrial organization and the standardization of language it requires can indeed be seen as contributing or strengthening the development of a national identity and providing a basis for subsequent statehood (Hobsbawm 1983; 1990). However, the formation of nations and national identities has occurred in numerous pre- or nonindustrial circumstances (Payne 1969, for example, refers extensively to the postrevolutionary but preindustrial nation of France), while Gellner’s reference to Protestanism seems to refer more to Weber’s idea of the work ethic in relation to industrialization (Weber 2006) rather than any quality of the religion as such. While protestantism clearly had nothing to do with East Timor’s formation of national identity, the adherence of a majority of the population to Roman Catholicism after the Indonesian invasion did become a point of common identity, as well as a legal means to conduct otherwise clandestine activities. Catholicism was the only significant formal religion prior to the invasion, accounting for perhaps a third of the population. But after the invasion, Indonesia required that all “citizens” adhere to one of five official religions, Catholicism being one. The church, especially at the community level, became deeply entwined with the resistance and its support for those affected by the occupation, as well as being a medium for the spread of Tetum Praca as a common language. Even at the more senior levels, the church acted on behalf of the East Timorese, even if limited by its incorporation into the Indonesian diocese. The awarding of a joint Nobel Peace Prize to Archbishop Carlos Belo (with Jose Ramos-Horta) in part reflected this official effort, and again served to cohere the East Timorese around a Catholic identity. It was only well after the withdrawal of Indonesian forces from East Timor that some began to question their Catholicism and meld it with or return to previous animist beliefs. The question of defense of the group, as discussed above, seems to overlap with industrialization, however, where industrialization implies coherent and formal group organization around a specific program. If “nation” implies some formalization of group identity around a particular program, then defense and security have acted strongly in that manner, and may serve to replace industrialization as a nation-formation process. In case of defense, the group is starkly delineated, while membership is often explicitly reconfirmed, and the group goes through a relatively high degree of social organization under a coherent executive leadership. In this, grievance by members of a particularly identified group that elicits a violent state response may itself be the catalyst for nation formation where previously a less formal group identity existed. The importance of this feature cannot be overstated. While outsiders may argue that a “nation” has


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not historically existed, it can come into being relatively quickly and with a high degree of both coherence and commitment in cases of mutual preservation. Mutual territorial defense also invests in the group’s territory not just a quality of providing, but also, potentially, a quality of sacrifice, which, in turn, places greater spiritual value on the territory. Defense of territory is strongly demonstrated in the case of East Timor, where the people retain a deep spiritual connection to their land. Many of its natural settings have been and often remain sites of animistic worship. A significant element of this animistic connection to the land is both generational, being the land of one’s forebears, and sacrificial, in both human and symbolic terms. This human and symbolic link to the land was notable from precolonial times, in particular through the wars between East Timor’s numerous historically distinct ethno-linguistic groups, but also through land ownership and land regulation, which was entwined with social regulation.4 The massive loss of life of the period following the Indonesian invasion of 1975, of approximately one quarter of the population (CAVR 2006), profoundly etched into the consciousness of most East Timorese the connection between “the blood of the people” and the land into which it was absorbed. As with a rare few other places in relatively recent memory (e.g., Cambodia), the East Timorese landscape is imbued with human suffering and death. Out of this complex association of links with the land arise notions of territory as having almost anthropomorphic qualities, which, even in less-contested environments, frequently develop into a sense of the parental (“motherland” or “fatherland”). With physical proximity, shared resources, and common threats, the bond of community is established, linguistically and culturally demarcated, socially established, and territorially defined. The relationship between and across the wider community is similarly defined along broader but still common lines, with that relationship ending at the point of differentiated language, culture, common interest, or geographic identification. Because of the physical limitations imposed by geography on other forms of association, this is most commonly the traditional point of national demarcation. In the postcolonial context, however, “national” demarcation can also occur at more arbitrary boundaries, such as the East-West Timor border, which has become acculturated over time. The sense of “right” to belong to the land or have ownership of it, then, is a strong one, and identifies political communities in common. This right of association or ownership reflects claims to natural law5 and thus confers legitimacy on association with place. This legitimacy is counterposed to external claims to ownership or control, which are conventionally resisted. Such resistance not only strengthens the bond to place, but also strengthens the bond of political community,

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manifested as natural and legitimate association as opposed to unnatural and illegitimate compulsion. In terms of contiguity, East Timor’s steep terrain has historically divided its people, and the East Timorese cannot be said to have existed as a nation prior to 1975. They did, however, increasingly form a strong national identity in direct response to the depredations of Indonesia’s invasion and occupation. This functioned at a number of levels, key among which was an increased sense of cohesion in the face of massive loss of life and the organization of social and political support for a resistance movement based on a small guerrilla army linked to a larger underground movement. Self-determination The claim of self-determination assumes that a bonded political community (i.e., a “nation”) has no prior capacity to determine its own affairs, but should, as an act of political legitimacy, be able to do so. This is at one level a normative claim, arising in the first instance out of the Wilsonian-Leninist reorganization of Europe following the First World War, before which many nations had been subsumed into greater empires. The logic of this process flowed into the post–World War II period, in which Europe’s overseas colonies sought independence. However, because many postcolonial states were based on colonies that did not necessary reflect the unity of preexisting ethnic identities, and because many such states at best had difficulty in establishing an overarching civic (i.e., nonethnic) form of national identity, there were numerous claims to separate national identity. Apart from the violent and, under international law, illegal occupation of East Timor by Indonesia, their relationship also reflected more conventional postcolonial problems over the incorporation and resolution of separate and preexisting political identities set against profound civic failure. This, then, leads to a potential for competition between the nation as a bonded political group, and the state (see Griffiths 2003). A “state” may be confluent with, but is analytically distinct from and may even exist in opposition to, “nation.” The state, as it is generally understood in the contemporary sense, refers to a specific and delineated area (Smith 1986a, 235) in which a government exercises (or claims to exercise) political and judicial authority, and claims a monopoly over the legitimate use of force (potential or actual violence) up to the extent of its borders. Within a given territory, the state can be identified by the presence and activities of its institutions, which define its functional capacity. That is, the area of the state defines the functional sovereign reach and integration of its embedded (Evans 1995) “explicit, complex, and formal” agencies (Krader 1976, 13). While a state claims authority within its borders, along with a monopoly on the use of force, it normatively does this on behalf of its


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citizens, as a manifestation of their political will. This implies a social contract between the state and its citizens, in which the state can expect and compel compliance, or a duty to comply, while citizens can expect that the state will reflect and represent their interests. Within East Timor, while the state has established formal rule up to the extent of its borders, it has struggled to ensure the integrity of those borders, in particular against smugglers. That border patrol police were involved in such smuggling undermined the sovereign integrity of the state as well as illustrating the fragility of its institutions. With little investment in the institutional capital of East Timor under Indonesia, when it finally withdrew in 1999, the remnant state had effectively no institutional capacity and no culture of such capacity. Despite the efforts of the UN, aid agencies and the East Timorese themselves, the state remained institutionally weak, that weakness becoming most explicit in the near state collapse of 2006. Finally, international recognition is a common criterion for achieving statehood. Not only must the state have a capacity to enter into international relations with other states, but also such other states must recognize its right to exist. Post World War II successful state creation has fallen into three categories: decolonized states, voluntary state separation, and forced state separation. The establishment of states through decolonization, in some cases based on the United Nations Declaration on Decolonization (UN 1960), is obvious enough, and includes Indonesia as an example. Voluntary state separation, such as the division of Czechoslovakia, the establishment of Eritrea and the fragmentation of the USSR, also tends, broadly, not to be problematic as such. However, where state creation is contested, it usually implies conflict and historically has rarely been successful. The separation of states from the former Yugoslavia is one example of successfully contested state separation, as is that of Bangladesh from Pakistan and, most recently, East Timor from Indonesia. However, in each case the separation came at a high price in terms of loss of life and destruction of infrastructure. No state, it seems, which is reluctant to let go of a territory it claims, will do so without conflict. Such conflict arrives because states regard themselves, prima facie, as legitimate, implying a monopoly on the use of violence. Hence, any claim against the state is in its view, ipso facto, illegitimate and represents the destruction of the state (in part or whole). In the case of Indonesia, its physical fragmentation and ethnic diversity has always challenged its sense of unity and has acted to promote a deep sense of insecurity among its prostate supporters (usually, if etymologically incorrectly, referred to as “nationalists”). The view from within Indonesia was that if East Timor were successful in separating from Indonesia, it would set a separatist example for other reluctant provinces, such as Aceh and

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West Papua, and perhaps others. Following East Timor’s separation, this was indeed the case, with Aceh’s separatist Free Aceh Movement (Gerakan Acheh Merdeka [GAM]) explicitly identifying East Timor as a role model, and with West Papuan separatists also looking to emulate the East Timor example, at least until 2005. Claims against the state from within thus deny the state’s implicit claim to representation on the basis of legitimacy. Defining and protecting territorial unity as integral to their being, states therefore logically reject separatist claims. However, state claims to exclusive legitimacy and absolute sovereignty may not be able to be sustained. As Packer notes, claims to territorial sovereignty are intended to apply to the status of a state in relation to other, external states and not in relation to claims by a state’s own citizens. Further, while assertions of national self-determination may be supported in principle in international law and appear to reflect the claims of civil and political rights (in relation to self-determination), they are not explicitly supported. There is no international legal mechanism for redress of separatist claims, and if there were, it would probably have little binding capacity given the relative weakness of international political institutions (for example, the United Nations) when compared with the specifically located power of states (see Packer 1998, 1999, 2000a, 2000b). That is, as a reflection of realpolitik, claims to separation from the state are only as strong as their capacity to assert themselves, most commonly through the use of violence. State (Ill)Legitimacy States seem to appear as conventional methods of geopolitical organization, yet are rarely critically questioned. Why, for example, do states exist? One answer to this question is that states exist because of the need for groups of people to have a formal and complex set of geographically defined institutions in order to represent their external interests. But, more importantly, states also exist, normatively, to embody the will of their citizens, and to reflect a capacity and intention to manifest that will. If that will is the expression of the nation for institutional control of its territory, then the state is legitimate as an expression of that will (the confluence being the “nation-state”). If the state is an expression of national will that is based principally on ethnic identity, then the state remains legitimate insofar as it can claim to represent all of the people identified with the nation. Where the state fails to represent all of the people of the nation, there may also be competing claims to territory occupied by the (sometimes “imagined”) national group not within the existing state boundaries. In the case of Indonesia, this was toward East Timor, briefly, toward Malaysia, and to a lesser extent the Philippines. Conversely, where the state claims to represent the


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national group but includes territory occupied by nonnational groups, its claim to legitimacy based on national (i.e., ethnic) representation cannot be sustained. The state may use force to occupy or control the territory and this force may be successful, as it was in relative terms in East Timor. But the use of force does not (and did not) confer legitimacy, but rather imposed capacity. An alternative to the nation based on ethnicity is where the nation is based on common civic values (but potentially varied ethnicity) and hence equal and consistent civic law, where the state can claim legitimate representation on this basis. This was assumed to be the case under Indonesia’s state philosophy of pancasila (five principles), in particular, point two: just and civilized humanity, through its motto of “unity in diversity.” However, within this there is no explicit reference to the rule of law as such. The qualification to a multiethnic state based on another unifying principle is that where the state abrogates its commitment to equal and consistent civic law to all citizens, as could be argued to have been the case especially under the New Order, or where it is unable to apply such law, as with Indonesia’s corrupt and otherwise malleable courts, the state proportionately loses legitimacy. Where the unequal, inconsistent, or failed application of law largely or disproportionately applies to a specific group, in this case the people of East Timor, that group will regard the state as illegitimate in relation to themselves. It will therefore seek remedial legitimacy and, failing that, alternative legitimacy. This is to say, where the preexisting state does not fulfill its normative function of applying equal and consistent justice on behalf of all citizens, and where it discriminates based on a particular ethnicity, that ethnic group may reconstitute itself as a nation, and so self-constituted, may seek to create an alternative state based on its territorial occupation. Similarly, such principles apply within East Timor, and while its ethnic groups were unlikely to seek further separation, the state’s failure to adequately implement legal and other institutional systems understood as applying equally and consistently, tended to reduce the sense of legitimacy of the state in the eyes of many of its citizens. One common outcome of claims to separatist legitimacy or legitimacy based on claims to self-determination is that the character of the organization that is developed to sustain such claims often carries over into the organization that assumes the devolved or reallocated legitimacy. That is to say, an organization that has been obliged to fight for self-determination generally organizes its political structure to sustain such conflict. This was the case of the East Timorese resistance generally and of Falintil in particular. Notably, separatist military organizations, which are almost by definition hierarchical, closed, and relatively authoritarian6 (see Huntington 1957), may come to define their postindependence organization along similar or the same lines. This is especially the case

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where the independence organization derives its ethos from revolutionary idealism, in which the securing of independence is usually only the first step on the road to a wider social transformation. Elements of these qualities can be seen in East Timor’s postindependence Fretilin. However, such factors can also apply where society is otherwise initially disorganized or where alternative legitimate sources of power have not yet become established, or where the postindependence development project either heads toward failure or actually fails, and military-type control is regarded by power-holders as necessary to maintain state organization or, in some cases, cohesion. This then has the capacity to devolve into a situation where the separatist or newly independent authority may lose legitimacy through its exclusive, nonparticipatory and nonrepresentative system of organization, or where it compels often geographically and ethnically specific reluctant citizens to remain within the state. Again, a significant element of this tendency toward political closure in the face of state incapacity set against growing frustration and disappointment came to characterize Fretilin’s response to various challenges in the period up to April-May 2006, when the tension between increasing political closure on one hand and growing frustration on the other spilled over into violence. The government moved to assert its authority, but a breakdown of state institutions led instead to a near collapse of the state, which was rescued only by external intervention. The political environment in 2007, however, returned to a sense of pluralism, notably through successful (if internationally assisted) presidential and parliamentary elections. East Timor resisted incorporation into Indonesia, in part as a continuation of anticolonialist sentiments felt by many of its inhabitants but more so in response to the attendant brutality, corruption, and disenfranchisement. That Indonesia’s occupation of East Timor was never recognized under international law further undermined its sense of illegitimacy, although this element was a relatively minor consideration for most East Timorese. The resistance to Indonesian occupation was extensive and well coordinated, consolidating a sense of national identity and producing a strong alternative source of legitimacy, in this case, culminating in the overarching Council for Timorese National Resistance (CNRT). The CNRT was posed as the official counterpoint to Indonesian hegemony in the ballot of self-determination in 1999, which, despite a high level of violence, intimidation, and vote stacking, it overwhelmingly won. After that time, however, the legitimacy of Fretilin as what had been the main party within the CNRT declined. Finally, the legitimacy of separatist organizations can in part derive from their success in sustaining or asserting their claims. A failing organization not only runs the risk of not lasting long, but also of losing public support ahead of its own demise. In this, success breeds support, and failure breeds abandonment. Beyond this, the practical capacity of separatist organizations to assert claims


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to independence generally relies on military (or revolutionary) force. This then begs the common division between military and political approaches to social organization and their consequences. By definition, military (and revolutionary) approaches to organization are hierarchical, allow for limited participation, and are sometimes brutal. This applies not only to the independence struggle, but also to the period after the struggle’s success. That is, independence struggles based on military resistance frequently produce authoritarian political environments, thus returning to the question of the criteria for legitimacy. This, in turn, revisits the question of sustaining legitimacy through the creation and embedding of civic institutions, which initially buttresses the claim to “nation,” but which, based on claims that extend beyond ethnicity, eventually undermine such nationalist claims. As will be discussed in coming chapters, these issues around nation formation, the legitimacy of the state and influences on government style played out in East Timor in the postindependence period. With numerous of these tensions and competing claims unresolved, East Timor was vulnerable to fracturing along a series of overlapping fault lines. East Timor’s postcolonial experiences were, in many respects, similar to those in numerous other postcolonial states. There were, however, two critical and competing factors that differentiated East Timor from many other postcolonial states. The first critical factor was that the lack of internal capacity and the tensions that tested East Timor’s political coherence were in many cases worse than those that affected many other postcolonial states and hence meant that the state was that much more vulnerable to collapse. The second critical factor was that, as a metaphorical child of the international community, the presence (and quick return) of the international “parents” ensured that the potential excesses of state collapse were mitigated. Similarly, East Timor’s overarching commitment to democratic processes was enhanced and in part guaranteed by this presence. As a mechanism for achieving change, East Timor’s people overwhelmingly embraced electoral politics, in turn embedding democratic principals among a population that could have otherwise been turned down a more authoritarian and potentially brutal path. The question was whether that commitment to democratic participation would be sustained if they began to believe that such a process was not able to produce material development within a recognizable and acceptable time frame. This more conventional view of political commitment was offset, to some extent, by other forms of political loyalty and reward, which in part informed the political allegiances that informed the outcomes of the 2002 and 2007 elections. The future, however, remained uncertain, with the paradox of history’s recurring themes having the capacity to undermine a still fragile and uncertain political development.


CHAPTER 2


I

t is a truism that political circumstances are a product of the history that created them. East Timor is redolent with its history, the various strands of which weave together to create not just a single political fabric but, like a traditional tais,1 one that is imbued with the hues and meanings of its construction and that, if the ends fray, has a tendency to unravel. The causes of cohesion and conflict in East Timor are numerous and complex but underlying, if not causing, them reside traditional alliances and rivalries and, importantly, the impact of and resistance to colonial segmentation and manipulation of ethnic groups. Relationships comprising status and patronage, dignity and violence, language and region, loyalty and memory, and how these are recalled, reified, distorted, and manipulated all echo and recur in more contemporary events and responses. In East Timor, more traditional responses and belief systems and how they have been reshaped to make sense of external influences are never very far from visible outcomes. As with many of their regional neighbors, precolonial Timorese were known by outsiders as a warlike people. The cover of Duarte’s 1930 book Timor: Ante Camara Do Inferno (Timor: Gateway to Hell) displays a Timorese warrior holding a sword and a severed head, standing astride other heads. Similarly, the blood-dripping fingers of a zombie-like soldier being directed by a Timorese warrior on the cover of Brandao’s Funo: Guerra em Timor (1953) raises multiple specters of war and death. Traditions of ritualized and often intergenerational conflict and head-hunting informed other aspects of intergroup relations. Such warfare was often based on distinctions, including kinship, patronage, and language, that have in some ways continued. But social intergroup relations also existed under a broadly unifying politico-spiritual framework, which in turn regulated key aspects of social and political organization. The colonial manipulation and ultimate destruction of this system changed perceptions of loyalties, altered methods of social regulation, and highlighted preexisting fragmentation.

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That many Timorese often sought alliances with outside powers for personal or group gain often exacerbated internal tensions and tended to promote interestbased as well as ritualized conflict. The depredations of World War II are said to have introduced an atavistic (Gunn 1999, 237) and particularly decontextualized savagery to East Timor, one that overturned notions of ritual and purpose in warfare. This violent decontextualization and the social dislocation it implied were further embedded under the Indonesian occupation. The origins of East Timor’s political complexity and, to some extent, incoherence as a “nation,” derive from its location as the crossroad between Southeast Asia, the Pacific, and Australia (O’Connor, Spriggs, and Veth 2002). This juncture has contributed to two broad language groupings and more than a dozen distinct languages and further dialects that define East Timor’s ethnic makeup (De Matos 1974; Leitao 1952). Timor’s mountainous geography entrenched and maintained much of that separation. Timor is positioned on the edge of the Australian tectonic plate, at between 8 degrees 15 minutes and 10 degrees 30 minutes longitude and between 123 degrees and 20 minutes and 127 degrees and 10 minutes latitude, being the largest of the Lesser Sunda chain of islands, although not geologically a part of them. Its position at the edge of a tectonic zone has constructed it as a “crumple zone” as the Australian continent crashes, in slow motion, into South-East Asia. This “crumpling” means that the island is, in geological terms, rapidly rising (and creating a deep sea trench off its northern coast, which had later geostrategic implications) as well, on the surface, falling apart. This geological instability has been described as “tectonic chaos” (Hamilton in Fox 1996, 1), which Fox has wryly noted as “a metaphor for the subsequent development of Timor.” Yet despite its “bewildering complexity” there are, he notes with an anthropologist’s eye for recognizable patterns, repeating processes of order within this “chaos” (Fox 1996, 2). The first layering of Timor’s “chaos” came with the first influx of migrants from as long as thirty-five thousand years ago, with later arrivals from Papua and nearby islands to the east, and from various Malay groups migrating from nearby islands toward the south and east. It was these multiple people that were first visited by Chinese and Indian traders seeking sandalwood, later European explorers, missionaries, and colonizers, and finally Indonesian soldiers, administrators, and transmigrants.2 Each of these influences has come to help shape East Timor’s complex, divided, and layered linguistic, social, and political makeup, and help contextualize the events that have come to shape its more recent history.


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Early History Relatively little detail is known of East Timor’s precolonial history, although evidence of shell middens has been found, indicating human occupation at Lene Hara Cave in the eastern Lautem district dating from 32,600 BCE, as well as in similar cave sites elsewhere (Fox 2008, 1). The Lene Hara limestone cave has shown layered human occupation, with paintings similar to that of the western Pacific, and including shellfish hooks, indicating an Austronesian presence around ten thousand years old. There is also a series of wall paintings, dating two thousand to six thousand and perhaps as much as twenty-four thousand years old (Aubert et al. 2007; O’Connor and Veth 2005; Banha de Andrade 1968; Almeida and Zbyszewski 1967). Other evidence of human occupation has been found at Uai Bobo, near Venilale, dating from around 11,500 BCE. While Glover (1971) has suggested the beginning of a Neolithic presence from around 3000 BCE, Spriggs has suggested around 16 to 1800 BCE for the arrival of the first Austronesian speakers on Timor (Spriggs 2006) At around this time, Vedo-Australoide peoples who, among others, remain as Atoni in western East Timor, were also migrating across land bridges and narrow water crossings, corresponding to around the time of the fourth Ice Age. With the coming of other waves of migration, these peoples tended to retreat to inland valleys. Flaked stone tools have been found that date to around 9500 BCE, possibly deriving from Melanesian peoples who predominate in New Gunea and islands to Timor’s immediate east. It is likely that East Timor’s Melanesian population arrived in Timor first on their way east, rather than coming west after already having established themselves in the eastern islands. Given that agriculture was already practiced in New Guinea at that time, this meant that food shortage was unlikely to have necessitated travel. Melanesians introduced the Trans-New Guinea phylum of languages, including Atoni (also referred to as Dawan) and its related if commonly unintelligible languages (see Hull 2005, 1) such as Mambai, Fataluco, Makasai, the more western Kemak, and Bunak, and other languages and dialects to Timor, contributing to Timor’s complex linguistic organization. While distinct languages retained considerable specific identity, and there are some generalized physical differences across broad areas, the Timorese have tended to mix in ways that have precluded distinct “racial” types within common language groups. That is, as the bearer of culture, language rather than racial origin has been the key marker of group identity. In both cases, as Fox has noted, evidence of the introduction of peoples employing these language groups reflects what Fox calls “the considerable antiquity of human activity on Timor” (Fox 2002: 3). Agriculture, including the domestication of dogs and pigs and the cultivation of fruit and nut trees, was believed to have arrived with the first waves of

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Austronesian (Proto-Malay) peoples coming from southern China and northern Vietnam from around three thousand to five thousand years ago (Glover 1971, 1986), from which Timor’s Austronesian languages derive, including the varieties and derivatives of Tetum (Hull 1999, ix–xiii; 2002, 1–2). Second wave or Deutero-Malays began arriving, probably in more limited numbers, in Timor from around 500 CE. There is also linguistic evidence of not just trade but migration from nearby islands, including Flores, Alor, Pantar, and the Maluku (Moluccas) group over the last millennium (Hull 1999, ix; 2002, 1–2). From an outsider’s perspective, Timor begins to appear in recorded documents from the fourteenth century, including in a Javanaese poetic royal eulogy, the Nagarakertagama3, and was also recorded by Chinese traders, as noted in the Tao I chih lio. It was also known to trade for “silver, iron, cups, . . . cloth and coloured taffetas” at twelve ports with merchants from India. Futher, as noted, “there is a ruler” (Rockhill 1915). Such trade that Timor enjoyed was largely in the aromatic sandalwood that grew wild on the island (Dames [1812] 1918, vol. 2, 195–56 [on Barborsa]; Donkin 1999,14; McPherson 2006), although Timor also exported honey and wax in exchange for such ceramics, metal implements, cloth, and other goods, as well as slaves captured in battle. Europeans first arrived in Timor in the years after the Portuguese occupation of Malacca on the Malayan Peninsula in 1511. The Portuguese ship The Victoria, of Magellan’s fleet, landed on the north coast of Timor on January 26, 1522, and it is possible that earlier explorers visited Timor following the Portuguese capture of Malacca in 1511, with some accounts of missionaries visiting from 1515. The first Europeans found on Timor a people who practiced settled agriculture and used traded metal, including as weapons, and whose animistic religion tied their complex social relations to the land in ways that Fox has described as “political systems that could mobilize alliances and direct local allegiances” (Fox 2008, 5). Timor’s ideas of governance are expressed in a great variety of myths, legends, and genealogical narratives—ancestral parables for social actions. Nor was there ever one system of governance. Rather there were key principles whose expression and applications resulted in a variety of historical outcomes (Fox 2008, 5). In some respects, little has changed. Into the twenty-first century, the East Timorese continue to practice agriculture in what remains for most people a subsistence, barter-based, and very often cash-free economy. Echoes of reworking metal for decorative and martial purposes have survived as the “backyard mechanics” who keep East Timor’s fleet of vehicles on the road, if often at barely serviceable levels and, for example, the crude homemade pipe shotguns


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employed by Indonesia-backed militias in 1998 and 1999 before the distribution of more conventional weapons. More than 90 percent of East Timor’s population is avowedly Catholic, itself reflecting the former Indonesian requirement for all its (then) citizens to acknowledge one of five officially sanctioned religions, as well as the Catholic church being a site of resistance to the occupation. This resistance, in particular, flourished through the use of Tetum Praca in the liturgy and through local priests providing succor and often sanctuary to their parishioners, thus radicalizing the priesthood from below in ways that loosely corresponded to Latin America’s “liberation theology.” But the church had survived and to some extent flourished before and during Indonesia’s religious imposition through two further methods. In the first instance, as it had done elsewhere, the church incorporated or co-opted local belief systems. In others, there was a sense of some of the key stories of the church were actually rearticulations of existing belief systems. In particular, there is the Mambai story of Mau Terus (Suffering Mau)4 who was killed but will reappear, which corresponds to that of Jesus Christ, along with its tendency to reflect millenarian expectations. This conceptualization was enhanced by the spiritual center of Timor further being understood as “female” (also passive, accepting; Hicks 1976, esp. 108), which can be seen as corresponding to Christ’s mother, Mary. In the postindependence period, there was, however, a greater (if still minority) questioning of the church, its role and its methodology, and an increasing regard for, and blending of, pre-Catholic religious traditions.5 In particular, the church’s proscription of artificial birth control was imposed at a time when the maternal mortality rate was, at over seven percent, the highest in the world. It was also at at time when there was both a generally economic low capacity to care for children and an agricultural environment that implied increasingly constrained food security. This meant the relevance of the church was open to question. The church’s explicit involvement in political actions over education policy that turned into antigovernment protests in March and April 2005 further raised doubts for some East Timorese about its social role.6 Since time immemorial, the island was divided between petty chiefdoms, with perhaps more than two-thirds of the territory recognizing the spiritual centrality of the Wehale kingdom (also known as Waiwiku-Wehale). The Wehale kingdom was located on the southern central Belu plain largely in what is now West Timor, with its main focus along the southern coast and extending north to encompass the Bunak- and Kemak-speaking peoples along either side of the East Timor-West Timor border and dividing the Atoni and Mambai speakers who were dominant across the north of the island (Fox 1996, 4–5). It is from the Wehale district that Tetum Los derives, which later spread as Tetum Terik,

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later modified, simplified, and amalgamated with other languages, and used by the Catholic church, to become East Timor’s lingua franca Tetum Dili (also known as Tetum Praca, “(Town) Square” Tetum or Market Tetum). The first European-speaking outsiders to regularly visit Timor were based at Lamakera on nearby Solor island, where there was a continuing Portuguese Dominican (Catholic) settlement from 1561 to 1562, which traded sandalwood from Timor. The residents of this settlement intermarried with local inhabitants, becoming mestico (mixed), calling themselves Topasses (possibly after the hats, or topi in Malay, they wore, or their multilingualism)7 and referred to by the encroaching colonial Dutch as the “Black Portuguese.” Following a long but successful Dutch siege of the Portuguese fort on Solor, in 1613 its habitants moved to nearby Larantuka bay at the eastern tip of the island of Flores and continued their trade with Timor. Despite incursions from the Dutch and occasionally others, regional powers, notably from Makassar,8 the Topasses became dominant in the sandalwood trade. Operating independently, the Topasses did not formally recognized Portuguese sovereignty, and their interests did not always coincide with those of the Portuguese viceroy at Goa. Continuing to “mix,” the Topasses intermarried with locals, including into chiefly Timorese families, establishing stronger trading bases along Timor’s northern coast (Gunn 1999, 57–64). In 1642, following the conversion to Catholicism of the chief of Ambeno, the Topasses established Lifau as their main trading base, in what is now the East Timorese enclave of Oecussi on the north coast of West Timor. The following year, in response to local acceptance of Makassarese suzerainty, a Topasses captain, Francisco Fernandes, successfully led a team of ninety musketeers against the inland kingdom of Sonba’i (referred to by the Poruguese as Serviao), which dominated the western part of the island, and then against Wehali to the south. From this, the Topasses took control of the sandalwood trade in the process and established a stronghold at the former center of Sonba’i power on Mount Mutis to the southwest of Lifau (de Santa Catharina 1866, 300). The first formal Portuguese claim to Timor came in 1701, under the authority of the Portuguese center at Goa, when Antonio Coelho Guerreiro was sent as governor, making Lifau the official capital the following year. This move came at what was perhaps the height of Portuguese colonial expansion, when revenue from Portuguese colonies in Latin America, Africa, and Asia boosted Portuguese coffers, making it probably, if briefly, the richest state in the world. Yet Portugal’s subservient trading relations with other European powers, notably Britain, meant that its opportunities for developing a formal mercantile, much less a manufacturing, base hardly existed. Allied with the church, Portugal’s aristocratic landowning class more deeply entrenched themselves in the


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affairs of state, which was to have long-lasting consequences on both Portugal and in its colonies. Notably, where most European colonies developed their economic base on plantations and other forms of commodity exports, Portuguese colonies generally, and East Timor in particular, subsisted on the fortunes of readily exploitable, nonrenewable, and often narrowly focused resources. In East Timor’s case this was sandalwood. These issues were to play a defining role in East Timor’s future development. As the first formal governor, Guerreiro’s relationship with the Topasses was difficult, as with his successors, and he was expelled by them within two years. This was a pattern of behavior between Topasses and Portuguese governors that was to continue and eventually undermine Portuguese authority in the west of the island (Gunn 1999, 80–81). Although European documents from this time and after clearly identify the Wehali and Sonba’i “kingdoms” as inclusive and dominant, there is a further and more probable view that Wehali was the spiritual center (rather than temporal ruler) of Timor (see Fox 1996, 11–13; Therik 1995). According to this view, Sonba’i rulers were, at least nominally, subservient in spiritual matters to Wehali, if, in turn, dominant among the fewer languages groups of the west. Similarly, there is a competing view that Wehali’s acceptance in the east was limited, ending where Mambai speakers began, at that time, near what is now the capital of Dili southwards toward Maubisse and Same toward the east. Relations between the chiefdoms that comprised Timor, and especially the more linguistically diverse east, were based upon trade, marriage, and custom. Similarly, confrontation and conflict, including ritualized warfare, also characterized intergroup relations. Conflict arose over many matters, including territorial access and expansion, trading competition, disputes over marriage and marriage payment, and even personal insult.9 Conflict could be conventional premodern warfare, clan disputes (sometimes over generations), or ritualized warfare (funu10) including headhunting, which, as in much of the eastern archipelago, held significant symbolic value, and which came to be used by both the Timorese and the Portuguese working with Timorese as a symbol of military success (e.g., see Gunn 1999, 55). In engaging in conflict with each other, Timorese clans would seek and form alliances with others in order to strengthen their positions. While foreigners were (and are) referred to as malae (probably from the word “Malay” or “melayu” to connote their most common experience of people from outside), they were also commonly incorporated into a local understanding of communities (see Fox 1995; Traube 1986, 52–53), and hence could also become valuable allies in local conflicts. The name of Timor is generally thought to be a variation on the Malay term for “east” (timur), describing its geographic situation at the eastern end of the Lesser Sunda archipelago and as

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perhaps the easternmost point of regional trade (as Pulao Timur, or East Island). If this etymology is correct (and, while likely, remains just a guess), it implies that until the arrival of foreigners, if the inhabitants of Timor understood themselves as having an overarching unity, it was probably constructed in relation to a sacred center rather than as a unified whole.11 This would correspond to understanding outsiders not as foreign as such but as “lost brothers” who have returned to the sacred center, rather than the more common local-foreigner/ insider-outsider dichotomy. But for domestic purposes, the peoples of Timor identified themselves as internally distinct. Again, traditions of trade and alliance on one hand, and ritualized warfare on the other, find an echo in contemporary events. The gang fighting that came to dominate interethnic and geographic rivalry from early 2006 in some ways looked like precolonial and even colonial-era tribal warfare. The methods, geographic specificity and, most importantly, recognition of patrons, were little different to earlier forms. Perhaps patrons had changed from being local chiefs to political “chiefs,” but the idea of patron-client loyalty remained so strong that one gang, without a clear line of allegiance, actually approached a senior political figure in early 2007 and asked for his blessing and support in exchange for the gang’s specific loyalty.12 Similarly, previously bitter political enemies could meet and talk over nonpolitical issues, or form alliances around shared selfinterest or a common enemy. This was most notably the case with the formation of the alliance of political parties that formed to constitute an absolute majority in East Timor’s parliament, in opposition to the previous ruling Fretilin, following the July 2007 parliamentary elections. As the Topasses were consolidating their control in Timor, the Dutch were similarly consolidating control over nearby islands and, seeking to gain access to the sandalwood trade. In 1653 the Dutch took over the Portuguese fort on the bay at Kupang at the west of the island (Barnes 1996, 324), expanding to incorporate several local kingdoms in 1688 (Gunn 1999, 78). Because of its distance from the main sandalwood trade, in 1656, the Dutch East India Company based at Kupang sent an expedition inland against the Topasses and their allies. However, the Dutch were soundly defeated and withdrew to Kupang, to which area they remained confined for the next 150 years, occasionally besieged by the Topasses (1735, 1745, and 1749) but managing to resist (Fox and Soares 2003, 10). Meanwhile, the Portuguese faced similar problems with the Topasses, who generally rejected the governors sent to rule them. The Topasses were so unruly that, in 1761, the Dutch and Portuguese worked together to bring them under control. The result was that a Dutch envoy sent to reinstate a Portuguese governor was murdered by the Topasses. Under siege by the Topasses, on August


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11, 1769, the then Portuguese governor, Antonio Jose Telles de Menezes, abandoned Lifau and sailed east, establishing a new and distantly safe settlement at Dili. While the Portuguese13 had maintained a coastal presence on Timor from around 1700, the inland of Timor was not colonized in any meaningful sense of the term, by either the Portuguese or the Dutch, until the late nineteenth century, and only “pacified” by the Portuguese in 1912, and by the Dutch in 1913. While the Topasses became the dominant military power in Timor, it is notable from this time that the Topasses and other Portuguese did not extend their rule in conventional colonial fashion, and the more regional Portuguese “retreat” to Timor was at least as much a consequence of losses to increasing Dutch incursions into the region as it was to territorial expansion. Notably, too, that from around this time, Portuguese and Dutch conceptions of the Timorese began to be formed in ways that did not necessarily accord with local understandings of power and suzerainty, but which later helped carve the island into two, and define its peoples initially according to two broad political confluences (Hagerdal 2006). It was in part by initially defining the peoples of Timor broadly as a duality that divisions opened between those who the Portuguese initially understood as having sovereignty. The Serviao/Sonba’i of the west became Dutch (later West) Timor, while those “Belu” in the east who were thought to be under Wehali suzerain power but who, at minimum, retained quite an independent existence came under Portugal. The division between “east” and “west” was later transferred to Portuguese (East) Timor itself, broadly between Tetum, Bunak, and Kemak speakers of the western region and the Mambai and related language speakers of the east (although there are also Tetum speakers along the southeastern coast in the area of Viqueque). In recognizing Portuguese authority, the Belu-affiliated easterners became loosely known as firaku (active, assertive, excitable)14 while the Mambai and related language speaking westerners became known as kaladi (passive, accepting, taciturn).15 These relations were complicated when in the early twentieth century the colonial Portuguese co-opted firaku in their battle against the kaladi “king” of Same-Manufahi, Dom Boaventura, who rebelled against Portuguese rule on an off for twelve years from 1900. From the Indonesian period, Mubyarto and Soetrisno characterized easterners as “brave.” Touching on aspects of funu but perhaps characterizing easterners by way of cliché, they said, “They are not afraid to die, or, if necessary, to protect a friend until their last drop of blood. The unity of their group is very strong due to the existence of “a power,” which is mythologized by the “drinking of blood as a symbol of their unity” (Mubyarto and Soetrisno 1990, 42). The terms firaku and kaladi returned to prominence in 2006 following division and conflict along broadly geographic

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and somewhat reified lines between political leaders, parties, the army, police, and ethnic and politically linked gangs. While there had been broad historical trading patterns conducted by language groups, the Tetum-related language groups of the west and the Mambai-related languages of the center-east, these only occasionally spilled over into open competition or conflict. In that postindependence conflict can be traced to historical patterns and divisions within precolonial Timor, these did occasionally manifest as quite bitter conflict, although invariably over more contemporary or recent issues. Importantly, however, appear to be the ways in which colonial powers employed local groups, sometimes on a regional or languages basis, to use against others, and ways in which local chiefs formed alliances with the Portuguese in order to press their own claims. Elements of forming alliances with external powers to gain local political advantage continued in the postindependence period (notably with a broad perception that Fretilin seemed to identify more closely with Portugal and the AMP government with Australia), while the identification of language groups around political causes appears more as a product of elite manipulation of ethnic groups for personal or political advantage than a reflection of preexisting hostility. In the west of Timor, by 1756, the Dutch were moving to formalize their position, with the Dutch East Indies Company commissioner Paravicini obtaining treaties with forty-eight signatories representing local political leaders from western Timor, including Wehali, as well as nearby islands. It was on the basis of this document and the territory it was claimed to represent that the Dutch pressed their claims to formal territorial incorporation. Having made a number of earlier maps of Timor, in 1760, the Dutch East India Company (Vereenigde Oostindische Compagnie—VOC) produced the first large scale map of Timor, demarcating areas of claimed Portuguese and Dutch control (Gunn 1999, 72). Based on territory controlled by the Topasses, the Portuguese made similar and often overlapping claims, leading to protracted negotiations over where the border between the two increasingly formalized colonies lay. By the end of the eighteenth century, Portugal had largely given up its claim to the western part of Timor, which it otherwise acknowledged lay under Dutch influence, but retained its claim to the eastern half of the island, as well as the area of Oecussi, corresponding to the old chiefdom of Ambeno, around its original “capital” at Lifau. Portuguese authorities were also concerned about what they saw as the excessive authority of the Catholic church in the colony, and from 1834 placed a ban on missionaries which was to last forty years. The Catholic church had until Indonesian times limited depth of reach in Timor, but the small and susceptible population base with which it worked allowed it to retain and


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influential position, and tensions almost inevitably arose between the church and the administration of the day. Similar tensions were to again arise in the postindependence period, when the church challenged state authority over education, and later the style of government itself. Border demarcation problems plagued both the Dutch and, more so, the Poruguese, not least in terms of neither party having full territorial control over their own “sphere of influence,” retaining enclaves in each others’ spheres, and occasionally inciting the Topasses, local chiefs and Chinese settlers to engage in intrigues, disruption, and lawlessness against each other. Negotiations were conducted between Portugal and Holland to resolve the border issues opened in 1846. In 1851, a newly appointed Portuguese governor, Jose Joaquim Lopes de Lima, facing pressing economic need, unilaterally signed over to the Dutch control of nearby Portuguese claims on Flores and the Solor group, thus confining regional Portuguese possessions to Oecussi and the eastern half of Timor. While Lopes de Lima was later arrested over this arrangement (he died en route to Batavia), the deal stuck, being formally negotiated in 1854 and ratified five years later, although without surveying of the main border area. A further, clarifying treaty was signed in 1893, and again in 1904, with a final treaty on borders, closely resembling present lines, settled in 1916 (Hiorth 1985, 6–7). In reality, until well into the twentieth century, neither the Dutch nor the Portuguese meaningfully controlled the territory they claimed, and throughout the colonial period both launched numerous military expeditions into the interior to quell rebellions. Instability and disruption replaced the previous social, cultural, and political order in the lives of the Timorese; they may have previously had internal instability, but it had a purpose and was understood. Increasingly, the causes and meanings of instability were not understood, abstracting violence and removing it from its association with order. As the Portuguese more firmly established themselves in the eastern half of Timor toward the latter part of the nineteenth century, they began to institute various policies aimed at making the colony economically viable and, they hoped, profitable. Beyond Dili, Portuguese traders and administrators located themselves in a few easily defended villages and coastal and hilltop forts, some of which remain as reminders of the territory’s unsettled past. Portuguese domination beyond the coast was at this time limited. Tariffs on imports was insufficient income to fund even basic colonial activities and the sandalwood trade had declined into insignificance due to deforestation, cheaper competing sources, and a serious reduction in the main Chinese market due to political turmoil and economic decline there. In response, coffee16 and to a lesser extent copra were formally developed as cash crops (coffee initially by the Dutch, around Maubara, in the middle of the eighteenth century). A boom in coffee exports,

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based on both improved production and increasing prices, led to a small economic boom from the 1860s well into the second half of the nineteenth century (Gunn 1999, 133–38), punctuating an otherwise unrelieved picture of poverty and dependence (Gunn 1999, chap. 6, also pp. 58, 65–66). However, at a time when other colonial powers were consolidating their rule over colonies that had previously operated primarily as trading posts, by investing in more developed industries such as cash-cropping and mining, Portugal’s poverty and lack of a mercantile class means that its colonies generally and East Timor in particular continued to function as remnants of sixteenth-century trading posts, bartering with the hinterland and with little meaningful authority beyond the main centers. Without meaningful control of their territory, the Portuguese adopted the common colonial method of rule via local chiefs, reflecting and entrenching preexisting local alliances and rivalries. Although relatively late in its own colonial venture, from the mid- to late-nineteenth century, the local Portuguese administration restructured local power structures to better suit its own interests, appointing new liurai, and introducing “tribute” (enforced) labor in lieu of tax to support cash cropping. Not only did this use of enforced labor breed deep resentment, it also ensured alienation between the indigenous population and the incentive of reward. Cash cropping had relatively little social impact, other than the forced labor it employed being a major source of resentment against the Portuguese and hence fed into rebellion, reflected in dozens of revolts occurring between 1847 and 1913 (see Pelissier 1996). As one Portuguese governor in Timor noted in 1867, “revolt is a normal state and that peace is exceptional” (Gunn 2000, 7–8). The earlier tributary system of “taxation” was replaced in 1908 with an imposto de capitacao (head tax) on all East Timorese males between the ages of 18 and 60. This implied either the provision of produce in excess of family needs or free government labor (Taylor 1994, 11), such as on the fledgling road-building projects begun around the turn of the twentieth century. At the same time, in the face of almost constant rebellion in one part or another of the colony, the governor formally abolished local “kingdoms” along with the position of liurai. A new administrative structure was imposed, based on concelho (“councels” or districts) divided into postos (posts) which were in turn comprised of suco (villages comprising small groups of households), to which the head was elected, pending approval of the governor. The purpose of this new administrative model was to end kingships and the traditional alliances they were able to form, often against the Portuguese administration. To encourage some degree of economic activity, Chinese, mostly Hakka, settlers were encouraged to explore business opportunities. Initial forays by the Chinese


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into coffee were not successful, but they soon established themselves as the middlemen of trade, buying and exporting local goods and produce while selling imported items locally. The impact of Portuguese colonialism cannot be overstated on how East Timor was to develop, or how it did not develop. Portugal’s imperial rise predated industrialization and even much of the mercantile trade that came to build Dutch and later British colonial power. The Portuguese economic interest in East Timor was around simple and poorly planned resource extraction, principally the sandalwood trade, which functionally ended in the late nineteenth century, and later semisystematic coffee growing.17 Through its system of largely ruling the territory via local chiefs, the Portuguese had little and belated interest in developing the interior, which almost entirely remained at precolonial levels of development, while the colony itself only ever existed at, or often under under, the margins of self-sufficiency. Almost no skills were imparted to the East Timorese, apart from occasional priestly training, a small handful of junior administrative posts and military service, while commerce was largely dominated by ethnic Chinese. The values, organization, and other forms of conceptualization that informed East Timorese life, even in towns, overwhelmingly derived from the villages with little or no meaningful contact with even colonial, much less modern, influences. With the border issue generally settled and the Manufahi rebellion as the largest challenge to Portuguese authority comprehensively quelled, as the twentieth century progressed, the Portuguese began to open up limited positions to East Timorese. Portugal, however, went through a series of its own economic and political shocks in the first three decades of the twentieth century. Facing economic decline and misrule, a revolution in 1910 deposed the Portuguese monarchy. Interestingly, those Timorese who had subscribed to Portuguese authority, and who regarded the Portuguese flag as a lulik (sacred object), were angered by this change, which also fed into discontent and acts of rebellion. The new Portuguese republic, however, was short-lived. Carrying heavy debts from its involvement in the Great War and suffering a subsequent major investment collapse, in 1926, this continuing economic chaos led to a military coup against the republican government. The new government appointed Antonio de Oliveira Salazar as finance minister, but having his request for full authority over the economy refused, he resigned and economic mismanagement continued. In 1928, he was recalled with full economic authority and within two years had outlined his principles for the Estado Novo (New State), an organicist republic based on “patriotic unity” and “free from the disorders of individualism, socialism, parliamentarianism, and partisan spirit” (Payne 1969,

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663–64). This was, for all practical measures, a fascist dictatorship, constitutionally formalized in 1932, which lasted in barely modified form until 1974. It was during the early years of this dictatorship, in 1930, that Portugal brought its colonies under the direct control of Lisbon, and in 1933 under the Carta Organica do Imperio Colonial Portugues (Organic Charter for the Portuguese Colonial Empire) that colonial councils were established to reflect the political order of Portugal, representing local elite interests, notably the administration, the army, the church, and local business leaders. It was at this time that East Timorese were also officially classified as either indigenous or nonindigenous, the latter including mesticos (mixed race) and assimilados (assimilated) Timorese who had the right to vote for the Portuguese national assembly and local legislative councils. Given the Catholic church’s close relationship with the Poruguese dictatorship, in 1941, it was given responsibility for education in East Timor, which introduced an element of application after previous educational neglect, but which led the church to believe that education was its continuing function, even after independence, which led to political conflict. World War II By the time war broke out in the Pacific at the end of 1941, East Timor had settled into being a backwater that was notable only for its receipt of political prisoners and other Portuguese cast-offs. Reflecting in part its economic penury and in part its unstable geology, there were no sealed roads beyond the capital of Dili, while any “roads” beyond Dili were little more than pony trails through the mountains. Coastal communication was by barge, but by and large the distinct language groups remained relatively separated from each other, with perhaps even less unification than that little that might have existed under the spiritual unity of Wehale prior to the first waves of outside intervention. This backward isolation changed, however, following the arrival of four hundred Australian and Dutch troops on December 17, 1941. Timor was considered of vital strategic importance for Australia, and with the Dutch East Indies quickly falling under Japanese control, on December 17, 1941, Australia sought assurances from Portugal that it would send sufficient troops to block Japanese expansion into this “neutral” territory. Although Portugal promised the troops, they were not forthcoming (Shute in Callinan 1984; Callinan 1984,ch.1) so, in its first “act of realism” in the war (Callinan 1984, 15), Australia broke the Portuguese colony’s neutrality and invaded the half island with a force comprising, at various times, the 2/2 Independent Company, the 2/4 Independent Company and detachments of the Royal Netherlands East Indies Army, finally comprising a maximum of seven hundred men (see Callinan 1984). Viewing East Timor as a base from which could be


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launched Allied attacks, the Japanese army in West Timor reciprocated by also invading the neutral territory, setting in motion a series of events that led to the deaths of some sixty thousand Timorese, largely although far from exclusively through Japanese retribution. The Australian troops were supported by many local Timorese, being guided, fed and housed, and hidden, as well as a handful of predominantly leftist Portuguese who also opposed the Japanese presence (Callinan 1984, 131). But similarly, and especially due to the reprisals such assistance brought from the Japanese, many Timorese also opposed the Australian presence, and in some cases fought each other out of traditional rivalries. The Allied forces largely departed on January 10,1943, with small special operations parties remaining until the end of the war. A subsequent allied bombing campaign saw much of Dili destroyed and further Timorese deaths (Jardine 1995, 21–22; Hastings 1999). Forced labor and the systematic use of rape further traumatized the people of East Timor, leaving a deep scar in the memories of those who survived. At the conclusion of World War II, Australia considered seeking a mandate over East Timor for strategic reasons, but this passing aspiration was not fulfilled and the territory was formally handed back to Portuguese authority. Meanwhile, the effects of World War II had unleashed widespread anticolonial sentiment in Southeast Asia, including in the Dutch East Indies. Ahead of Indonesia’s independence, a “preparatory committee” established by the Japanese considered the future shape of the country they would claim based around the Dutch East Indies. Based on a claim by one of the key architects of Indonesia’s constitution, Mohammad Yamin and later endorsed by the future president, Sukarno, the “preparatory committee” voted two to one that the colonial “enclaves” of Malaya, North Borneo, and Portuguese Timor should be incorporated into the new state (Leifer 1978, 12). This general policy remained active into the early 1960s, although with the principle focus on “reclaiming” West Papua and, following that success, with the Konfrontasi over the formation of Malaysia. By 1949, while East Timor had slipped back into the prewar colonial model of forced labor, underdevelopment, and neglect, West Timor became part of an independent Indonesia. The forced labor model, in which each jefe de suco (village chief ) had responsibility for providing corvee (compelled) labor, both transformed traditional power structures and bred resentment, leading to a further revolt based on Uato Lari in Viqueque district in 1959. This revolt was put down with great brutality by the Portuguese, with between five hundred and one thousand people being killed (Duarte 1984, 17–18), including by public execution (see Chamberlain 2007, 19–54, for a detailed account of the revolt). The external sponsorship of that revolt has been claimed to have come from Indonesian West Timor18 (see Chamberlain 2007, 40–71; Gonggong and Zuhdi

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1992, 42–45; Joliffe 2001). Other accounts have Indonesian refugees from Indonesia’s failed 1958 Overall Struggle-Provisional Revolutionary Republic of Indonesia (Perjungan Semesta—Provisi Revolusoner Republik Indonesia— Permesta-PRRI) rebellion (Juddery 1975; see also Kingsbury 2005) fomenting the revolt, although still with some connivance from the Indonesian consulate in Dili. It is quite possible that Indonesian agents, probably from military intelligence or the forerunner of its Special Forces Command (Komando Pasukan Khussus—Kopassus), had entered East Timor under the guise of being refugees from the Permesta-PRRI rebellion, but with plans for revolt within East Timor. The rationale for this could have been ending the potential for this neighboring territory to be used as a base for promoting disaffection within Indonesia (which had not existed), or to use the supremacy of the Indonesian military in the wake of its crushing of the Permesta-PRRI rebellion to extend its influence and control. Regardless of the rationale for the uprising, the reallocation of spoils from the outcome of its suppression divided the local community between those against and for Portuguese rule, and later, conversely, for and against Indonesian rule. These divisions were to play out in local rivalries and bitterness that was to plague this area through the Indonesian occupation (Chamberlain 2007, 71–81) and in the period after independence, in particular, during the elections of 2007. The Viqueque revolt was the first notable report of Indonesia taking an interest in East Timor. In 1960, the UN passed resolution 1514 on Granting Independence to Colonial Countries and Peoples, as a result of which, Portugal found itself isolated in its struggle to retain its colonial possessions. In that year, there was a small expression of interest in East Timor in Jakarta by a group calling itself the “Uni Republique Dili Timor” (United Republic of Dili Timor), and while it urged revolt against the Portuguese (Maoklao 1960), it did not appear to have official Indonesian backing. This “movement” released a series of statements (Maoklao 1961, 1965, 1967, 1968, 1972, 1974, 1975), but despite claiming to be based at Batu Gade near the West Timor border, these were signed from Jakarta, and the “movement” did not have any local substance. As the rest of the colonized world either freed itself from colonial dominion or, in fewer cases, was incorporated into existing states (e.g., Goa into India), East Timor looked from some perspectives increasingly like a colonial anachronism. East Timor slipped further into the somnambulence of a colonial backwater, in which traditional models of social interaction and subsistence agriculture were only lightly touched by European influences. Education, dominated by the Catholic church, remained limited, largely to the sons of liurai and a few others, while a tiny handful had the opportunity to attend university in far away Lisbon. Of these were to come many of East Timor’s future leaders. Meanwhile,


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in Lisbon, Salazar resigned from office due to ill health, handing authority to his close colleague Marcello Caetano, who initiated minor reform in the colonies, notably their greater economic incorporation, through the common use of the escudo as the unit of currency and exploitation. When the colonies produced a surplus, this benefited Portugal; when they imported more than they exported, the Portuguese economy declined. At a time of widespread moves toward decolonization, Portugal believed it could subvert this by incorporating its colonies into the metropolitan center, although in 1971, a further policy allowed colonies greater practical autonomy. Other Portuguese colonies were granted a twenty-member legislative assembly; Timor continued to be ruled directly by its governor. For the election of 1973, just over 2 percent of the population of East Timor was eligible to vote. Closer to East Timor than the machinations of Lisbon, the generals who had taken power in a coup in Indonesia just three years previously had, by 1969, begun to view the small territory as a potential security threat. By the early 1970s, these views were increasingly shared by the government of the United States and Australia (Taylor 1994, 23). Across the globe, Portugal’s collapsing colonial empire, particularly in Africa, was costing the already impoverished country dearly in subsidies and in suppressing revolts. Goa had been absorbed into India in 1961 with objections from Portugal but the blessing of the international community. Portugal’s sclerotic dictatorship increasingly struggled with discontent caused by unequal distribution of an average income around half that of the rest of Europe, it also borrowed externally to help fund the 40 percent of its budget allocated to trying to resolve what was becoming a mounting colonial military crisis. Against this backdrop, left-wing opposition mounted. Meanwhile, Portuguese soldiers sent to East Timor had brought with them their increasingly leftist and revolutionary ideas, including those around decolonization. Such ideas began to take root among the indigenous troops recruited to serve the Portuguese cause, and amongst the local educated elite. Members of this group held secret meetings to discuss ideas of education, equality, and nationalism, leading to talk of ending East Timor’s colonial status. Approaches for support were even made by some to Indonesia, which was to have dangerous consequences. As with other revolutions, what was to become Portugal’s 1974 “Carnation Revolution” had significant support within the military and was led by the Armed Forces Movement. A military coup on April 25, 1974, toppled the dictatorship, moved to restore democracy and to end Portuguese colonialism. Independence for East Timor became a possibility. Portuguese Timor’s rudimentary education system formed the foundation of what was to become its new ruling elite. The Portuguese army, too, offered

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some minor opportunities for advancement, with both national service and volunteerism bringing to young East Timorese men a sense of their own capacity. Among them was the single most dominant figure in post independence East Timor was Jose Alexandra Gusmao (later known under the nom de guerre Kay Rala Xanana, or Xanana Gusmao). Born in 1946, he initially studied at the primary school at the Catholic mission of St Theresa’s in Ossu in Viqueque district, where his father taught, then went to the Jesuit seminary Nossa Senhora de Fatima in Dare, in the hills just south of Dili, later studying at night school at the Liceu Dr. Francisco Machado in Dili, which had only been opened in 1952 and, apart from private Chinese schools, was at this time still the colony’s only secondary school. In 1968, however, he was called up to undertake three years of national service, where his instructors were Joao Carrascalao, who would later become leader of the pro-Indonesia Timorese Democratic Union (UDT), and Nicolau dos Reis Lobato, who would later become East Timor’s first prime minister and president of East Timor from December 7, 1975, until December 31, 1978. While the Portuguese army was under the control of the fascist Portuguese dictatorship, it had been a breeding ground for leftist political thinking, and these ideas infiltrated the army in Portuguese Timor, two-thirds of who were Timorese. Added to deportados (prisoners deported, usually for political “crimes”) very often sent to Timor as punishment for their own antifascist or leftist sympathies, there was a late groundswell of leftist and radical political thinking, at least among the soldiers and the few young intellectuals. After leaving the army, Gusmao started a family and began work as a clerk in the local Department of Finance. However, bridling at corruption and discrimination then rife in the colonial service, Gusmao resigned, moving on to work on Portuguese Timor’s only newspaper A Voz de Timor, where Jose Ramos-Horta worked as a journalist. Ramos-Horta was born in 1949, the son (and grandson) of a deportado (who had been deported from Portugal for political “crimes,” in this case opposing the Salazar dictatorship) and educated at the Catholic mission at the village of Soibada, in Manatuto district on the southern side of East Timor’s east-west mountain range. Ramos-Horta himself was also exiled, in 1970, for two years from Portuguese Timor to Mozambique, for “anticolonial activities,” in this case ridiculing Portugal’s “civilizing mission.” A founding member of Fretilin, Ramos-Horta later became East Timor’s foreign minister in exile, its leading international campaigner, a Nobel Peace Prize winner, its first formally recognized foreign minister, second postindependence prime minister, and second postindependence president. Perhaps above all, Ramos-Horta was to become the closest of Xanana’s political allies. Although Gusmao was well aware of the beginnings of an emergent anticolonial group in the early 1970s, of which Ramos-Horta was a leading member,


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he remained only a critical observer (Gusmao 2000a, 15). The anticolonial group was made up mostly of high-school students and office workers, and included, apart from Ramos-Horta, Mari Alkatiri, Nicolau Lobato, Borja da Costa, and Abilio Araújo. At this time, Gusmao was closest to his army colleague da Costa, who was a more considered anticolonialist than some others and who also worked on A Voz de Timor. Like Gusmao, Nicolau Lobato was born in 1946 and also attended the Dare Seminary. Unable to afford studying law in Portugal, he enlisted in the army’s sergeant’s course (Cardoso 2000, 68). Joao Carrascalao, meanwhile, came from a mestiço family (Cardoso 2000, 77–78, 98–99), with his father, Manuel Viegas Carrascalão, like Ramos-Horta’s father also being a Portuguese deportado. The father married a Timorese woman and established a prosperous coffee plantation, later becoming mayor of Dili. Joao and his elder brothers Manuel and Mario also studied at the Liceu in Dili. Joao then went on to study with the first prime minister of a recognized independent East Timor, Mari Alkatiri, in Angola. Mario Carrascalao became chairman of the Popular National Association (Associacao Nacional Popular—ANP), the only political party permitted under Portuguese rule at that time (RamosHorta 1987, 29). Joao Carascalao’s fellow student in Angola, Alkatiri, also born in 1949, was regarded as “an articulate radical of Arab descent” (Ramos-Horta 1987, 34). Alkatiri’s “Arab descent” was courtesy of his forebears who had arrived from southern Yemen in the late nineteenth century. Alkatiri left Dili in the early 1970s to study surveying in Angola. It was here that he made contact with anticolonial Angolan rebels (Hill 1978, 2003). Forming Political Parties What was to become Portugal’s almost bloodless 1974 “Carnation Revolution” was led by the Movimento das Forcas Armadas (Armed Forces Movement— MFA). A military coup on April 25, 1974, toppled the Caetano dictatorship, moved to restore democracy and to end Portuguese colonialism. As much of the support for the revolution was based on ending Portugal’s costly and failing colonial wars and, following the revolution, independence for its colonies was encouraged. Portuguese decolonization came relatively late, compared with most other colonial empires that had accepted or been forced to grant independence between the late 1940s and the 1960s. Similarly, the movement for Portuguese decolonization paralleled a rise in the popularity of social-democratic and leftist politics around the world, which also informed the Carnation revolution. For the first time, independence for East Timor became a possibility, and local leaders were told to prepare themselves for this outcome. Responding to a call to prepare for independence, local political activists formed three political parties around the three main choices then facing East

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Timor. In trying to chart a future course, the options appeared to be integration with Indonesia, a continuing relationship with Portugal, or complete independence. Notably, it was not until July 27, 1974, however, that the MFA clarified Portugal’s desired relationship with its colonies, meaning that political parties were being formed at a time of considerable expectation but little clarity. One option, favored by few in Portuguese Timor but with backing from Indonesia (and later Portugal and Australia), was integration with Indonesia. At one level, such a proposal reflected a conventional anticolonial perspective, and the idea that unity with a greater, multicultural state would protect and develop East Timorese interests. On May 25, thirty individuals met to form the Associacao Popular Democratica Timorense (Timor Popular Democratic Association—Apodeti). The party had initially been named the Associacao Integraciacao de Timor Indonesia (Association for the Integration of Timor into Indonesia) but, fearing a negative public reaction, its name was quickly changed (Budiardjo and Leong 1984). Within Apodeti were two broad streams of thinking, perhaps the lesser of which was that as a postcolonial state, Indonesia represented aspirations for independence similar to those being expressed by many East Timorese. Without much understanding of the character of the Indonesian state, particularly under the New Order, it was possible for some to believe that an association with Indonesia would allow greater freedom, rather than restrict it. The Viqueque uprising had an Indonesian element to it, and the idea of opposition to “enclaves” was not just a mindless grab for territory but the rational finalization of outstanding colonial anomalies. Others, though, advocated integration with Indonesia for more transparently self-serving reasons, having already established business and other lucrative links across the border and increasingly with Jakarta. Thus, based on the rationale that East Timor could not survive as an independent state (Dunn 1996, 63–64), Apodeti initially called for “autonomous integration” into Indonesia and for the teaching of Indonesian in East Timor’s schools, as well as claiming to support human rights and freedom of expression. The party’s first president was Arnaldo dos Reia Araujo, a sixty-year-old cattle farmer who had collaborated with the Japanese occupation during World War II. During 1974, Araujo spent several months in Jakarta where he met government officials to organise support for the party. Araujo was to become the first governor of East Timor under Indonesian occupation. Apodeti’s first vice president was Hermenegildo Martins, while another senior Apodeti member was a former administrator and schoolteacher, Jose Osorio Soares. However, perhaps Apodeti’s most influential supporter was the liurai of Atsabe, in Ermera district, Guilherme Goncalves. Goncalves was the leader of the Atsabe Kemak linguistic group and had extensive traditional alliances with


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groups allied with the former kingdom, reaching as far as the northern Tetun and Bunak ethnic groups on both sides of the Portuguese-Indonesian Timor border. Descendent of a long line of liurai who had rebelled against the Portuguese, Goncalves wanted to free Timor from all colonial rule and to return its focus to the traditional center at Wehale (Molnar 2005, 2b). A different, though in some sense parallel, set of values informed another major political grouping. Within this tendency was a long-standing sense of association with Portugal, through the incorporation of Portuguese official symbolism into the meaning of local power structures, and through the adoption of elements of Portuguese culture and in particular its contribution, if limited, to literacy and intellectual development. But as with some of those who advocated integration with Indonesia, there was an even greater self-serving element that owed its power and wealth to Portuguese patronage and was thus concerned to maintain as much of the status quo as possible. As a result, also based on the idea that East Timor required a continuing foreign engagement, but oriented in this case toward Portugal, in federation, the Carascalao brothers, Joao, Manuel, and Mario, along with Domingos de Oliveira, Fancisco Xavier Lopes da Cruz, and Cesar Augusto Mousinho, founded the Uniao Democratica Timorense (Timorese Democratic Union— UDT). The UDT drew direct support from two groups, the first being from among the colony’s traditional elite, including the liurai of numerous regions, including Liquica, Maubara, Maubisse, Ainaro, Manatuto, and Laclubar, and from among small businessmen and plantation holders who owed their status and prosperity to Portuguese rule. De Oliveira and Lopez da Cruz were customs officials, while Mousinho was the mayor of Dili. Many of the liurai had been appointed by the Portuguese administrators or were the descendants of such appointees, so they continued their loyalty to the Portuguese state. The UDT was initially the most popular party, based on the patronage networks of these liurai. The extent of UDT’s desire to retain links with Portugal was probably tempered by the generally anticolonial tendency prevalent in Lisbon at that time. The third main party and that which quickly built its support base to overtake that of UDT was the Associacao Social-Democrata Timorense (Timorese Social Democratic Association—ASDT), founded by Francisco Xavier do Amaral, as the party’s first chairman, and others including Lobato, Justino Mota, Alkatiri, and, soon after, Ramos-Hora. In 1974, not only was Portugal undergoing a leftist revolution, but also progressive and leftist thinking was globally pervasive, having risen on the back of the anticolonial movement in developing countries and among, predominantly, the youth of western countries. A leftist, proindependence political platform not only reflected the perceived needs of the people it purported to represent, it was also an ideologically popular, indeed

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fashionable, position to take at that time. It was unsurprising, then, that that in a time of revolutionary ferment, one of the new parties in Portuguese Timor adopted such a position, especially in light of the changes in Portugal and the extent to which they influenced thinking in the colonies. Founded just before UDT, on May 20, the ASDT’s principle platform was that of gradual if eventually complete independence from all external powers, coupled with reformist political, economic, administrative, and social policies within a democratic framework. The party’s focus on education and health reform, along with agricultural development, local control of local government and the preservation of indigenous culture, quickly earned it support from many among the territory’s rural communities. Within ASDT, however, was a factional divide, between the “softer” social democracy of do Amaral and Ramos-Horta, and a more assertive revolutionary faction led by Lobato. Soon after its formation, ASDT sent Ramos-Horta abroad, to Jakarta and Canberra, to gauge support for independence. His reception in Jakarta was warm, if falsely so; his reception in Canberra was more genuine, but cool and distant. While Ramos-Horta was abroad, the ASDT began to move toward a more radical position. Suspicion between the ASDT and Jakarta grew as the Indonesian media claimed, in August 1974, that the ASDT was seeking communist backing, which only served to further radicalize the ASDT’s independence claims. Reflecting this radicalization, and paralleling the increasing radicalism of the MFA in Portugal, on September 12, 1974, ASDT renamed itself the Frente Revolucionária de Timor-Leste Independente (Revolutionary Front for an Independent East Timor—Fretilin), declaring that, as a “front” organization, it was “the only legitimate representative of the people” (CAVR 2005, 3.27). This revolutionary exclusivity was to plague the party in the dark years to come, and its shadow hung over it following independence in 2002. Three other parties were also launched at around this time, but had little impact and were primarily concerned to enter into coalition with one of the three main parties. These parties included Klibur Oan Timor Aswa’in (Sons of the Mountain Warriors—Kota) who wanted to return to a traditional form of political organization that focused on liurai, but only to those liurai who traced their descent from the Topasses, the Partido Trabalhista (Labor Party), and, based on the small Chinese community fearing uncontrolled change, Democratica Integracao Timor-Leste Australia (Democratic Association for the Integration of East Timor with Australia—Aditla), which had very little support and even less hope of political success (see Nicol 1991, ch. 6). The change of government in Portugal meant not only a change of policy toward its colonies, but also a change of senior administrators. In November 1974, the new Portuguese government sent Colonel Lemos Pires, supported


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by a small group of MFA officers, to Dili as the new governor. Pires indicated that Portugal could leave East Timor within four years and legally recognized the new political parties, which spurred local political activity. While there was Portuguese concern to ensure East Timor’s economic viability before decolonization, the pace of political activity was quickened as the Portuguese position in its other colonies worsened, increasing the push for quick and total decolonization. There was at this time some thought that Australia, as East Timor’s nearest neighbor other than Indonesia, could take some role in its decolonization process. However, the combination of not wanting to be saddled with this problem by the then Whitlam-led Labor government, and Whitlam’s own deference to Indonesia meant that Australia studiously ignored any overtures in its direction. While events were relatively calm within East Timor at this time, a sense of hostility was being generated from across the border, with Indonesian radio broadcasts from Kupang seeking to discredit the two main political parties, Fretilin as communist and UDT as neofascist, and falsely claiming Chinese communist infiltration into the colony (Dunn 1996, 69). The rhetorical style of the Indonesian New Order government at this time, in particular to communist and Chinese communist influence, should have been cause for grave concern, given Indonesia’s own anticommunist massacres from late 1965, which saw the New Order come to power, and its continuing strident domestic anticommunist policies. Notably, at this time, regional communism was appearing increasingly successful, with revolutions nearing their conclusion in nearby Vietnam, Laos, and Cambodia, and communist insurgencies in the Philippines, Thailand, and (by this time largely concluded) Malaysia. China’s support for these regional conflicts varied, but given the New Order’s opposition to China at this time, its inclusion worsened the alleged offense. While neofascist allegations against UDT were less serious, especially given the “organicist” (i.e., fascist) origins of the New Order’s own ideology (Bourchier 1998), this was clearly intended to leave only Apodeti as a legitimate political party, thus implying that East Timor should incorporate with Indonesia. There were also fabricated media reports of the murder of the liurai of Ainaro and refugees fleeing to the border to escape persecution (Dunn 1996, 69–70). The tone from Indonesia was clearly malignant. Given that Governor Pires tended to favor a quick Portuguese exit and East Timor’s incorporation into Indonesia, and Ramos-Horta’s seemingly wellreceived visit to Jakarta, its hostile propaganda seemed misplaced. However, Apodeti’s popularity remained at a low ebb, while Fretilin’s quick growth to become more popular, by membership, than UDT, corresponded with its increasing radicalization throughout the last months of 1974. In early 1975,

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as a pilot project toward decolonization, nonparty local administrative elections were held in the easternmost Lautem district. Despite being a nonparty exercise, the candidates were identified with the three main parties, with Fretilin candidates winning (Taylor 1994). In response to this increased political competition, Colonel Pires encouraged the three main parties to form a coalition. Apodeti refused to participate unless the other parties accepted incorporation into Indonesia as a precondition. But Fretilin and UDT considered a coalition as a viable option, despite an earlier UDT refusal to a similar Fretilin offer. The coalition came about in mid-January 1975, and within two months there was an agreement between the coalition and the Portuguese government for a threeyear transitional government ahead of full independence (Taylor 1994, 39). This seemingly amicable relationship was, however, not to last. By this stage, Indonesia had already decided to annex East Timor, and found acquiescence from Australia, the United Kingdom, and the United States. As well as Indonesia’s role in Cold War considerations, in particular in the face of impending communist victories in Vietnam, Laos, and Cambodia, Australia’s prime minister, Gough Whitlam, was opposed to small states on the grounds that he did not believe they were viable. By mid-1974, based on plans drawn up at the then nominally civilian think tank, the Center for Strategic and International Studies in Jakarta, a small group of key Indonesian military leaders finalized their plans for Operation Komodo, to undertake this integration with Indonesia (Nicol 1991, 266–68). This group was led by Major-Generals Ali Murtopo, Benny Moerdani, and Lieutenant-General Yoga Sugama, who respectively controlled the intelligence/ dirty operations Special Operations (Operasi Khussus—Opsus), which took over the coordination function, the State Intelligence Coordination Agency (Badan Koordinasi Intelijen Negara—Bakin), and the Command for the Restoration of Security and Order (Komando Operasi Pemulihan dan Ketertiban— Kopkamtib). Operation Komodo operatives had been behind the propaganda newspaper reports and broadcasts from West Timor, and had been working with Apodeti, with some suggestion that Apodeti only existed because of support from across the border. By early 1975, Bakin agents were planting hostile information of Fretilin with UDT members, in particular in relation to Fretilin’s alleged “communist elements.” This “information” strengthened the position of UDT members unhappy about being in coalition with Fretilin. With increasing disharmony between Fretilin and UDT, on May 27, 1975, UDT withdrew from the coalition. Meanwhile, Xanana Gusmao had decided that he could no longer remain aloof from the political fray, and joined Fretilin during its first-year anniversary celebrations on May 20,1975 (Gusmao 2000a, 21).


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Fed with disinformation from Indonesia that Fretilin intended to stage a coup, on August 10, UDT staged what it considered to be a preemptive coup, through a “show of force,” supported by the police. Fretilin responded rapidly, and under the influence of junior army officers and Fretilin members Roque Rodrigues and Rogerio Lobato, supported by most of the colony’s indigenous troops, a brief but bloody civil war ensued. At the end of the fighting, by August 27, Fretilin had control of Dili, the Portuguese administration had fled to the nearby island of Atauro. UDT and Apodeti members fled across to West Timor, calling on Indonesia for help, presented as a call from the people of East Timor (see Dunn, chap. 8; Taylor 1994, 51). The Timorese troops who had supported Fretilin comprised most of the colony’s 2,500 indigenous frontline troops and many of its 7,500 militia. Moreover, not only was Fretilin’s military support base relatively strong in numbers, it also had access to recently supplied NATOstandard weapons and was thus relatively well armed, not only compared to the UDT and its supporters but also, as was later discovered, compared to Indonesia’s invasion forces. Reorganized as the East Timor Defence Force (Forcas de Defesa de Timor Leste—Falintil) on August 20, it had established order throughout most of the territory by mid-September. Under the guise of being returning UDT forces, on October 8, the Indonesian military attacked and occupied the northern border town of Batu Gade, establishing a UDT headquarters. Over the following weeks, Indonesian attacks spread into the western districts, with intense fighting near Maliana (Dunn 1995,14) and toward the south in Cova Lima district (Dunn 1996, 222–26). On October 16, Indonesian and UDT forces crossed the border at the village of Cova and attacked the town of Balibo, murdering five Australian-based television journalists who had been filming there (see Ball and McDonald 2000; Dunn 1995). In response to what were by now open Indonesian attacks, Fretilin appealed to the UN Security Council for the withdrawal of Indonesian troops (Taylor 1994, 63). On the basis that an independent state might have a better chance of a positive response, on November 28, 1975, Fretilin declared the territory independent as the Democratic Republic of East Timor, and the following day Xavier do Amaral was sworn in as its first President. Nicolo Lobato was appointed Prime Minister, followed by Mari Alkatiri as Minister of State for Political Affairs, while Jose Ramos-Horta became Minister for Foreign Affairs and External Information. Gusmao photographed the event. East Timor received recognition as an independent state from twelve countries, although Portugal or the other states that supported Indonesia’s plans for annexation refused recognition (McCloskey 2000, 3), as did the UN. On November 30, in West Timor, UDT and Apodeti leaders signed the so-called Balibo Declaration, which claimed East Timor’s integration with Indonesia.

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This declaration gave Indonesia the excuse it required for a full-scale invasion. In a desperate bid to garner international support for the newly declared independent state, on December 4, Alkatiri, Ramos-Horta, Abilio Araujo, Rogerio Lobato, and Roque Rodrigues left Dili, not to return for twenty-four years. In exile in Mozambique, they formed the external delegation of Fretilin (Hill 2002, 172; Ramos-Horta 1987, 101). With the blessing of the United States just days before, and the acquiescence of Australia (see Scott 2005, 110–16, chap. 6), Indonesia’s response to East Timor’s declaration of independence was a full-scale military invasion on December 7, with a parachute invasion of Dili and, in the space of a few days, the landing of up to seventy thousand troops, precipitating a wave of wanton killing. Falintil troops and Fretilin members fought a rear-guard action, retreating into the hills where they began what was to become a twenty-four-year war of attrition and survival. The Indonesian invasion and occupation was remarkably brutal in its first few years, leading to the deaths of around a quarter of the population, declining into routinized repression and sporadic killings, thereafter spiking into more organized violence around specific military campaigns. East Timor was initially run as a military fiefdom, economically separate from Indonesia and trading primarily through Singapore, until the late-1980s, when the Suharto clan began to claim military-controlled businesses. Indonesia’s attempts at developing East Timor, though claimed as significant, were largely confined to infrastructure (especially roads and bridges) and supporting its own transmigrants and those East Timorese who complied with Indonesian rule. For the majority who did not, or who did so only grudgingly, the next twenty-four years were to be a type of living hell.

CHAPTER 3


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hroughout East Timor’s struggle for independence, the resistance changed shape on a number of occasions. In part, this was in response to changing external influences, and in part, in response to changing internal conditions and requirements. In large part, however, the struggle increasingly came to take on the character of a particularly Timorese approach to organization, solidarity, and shared commitment. But the path it took to achieve this outcome was sometimes varied, and there were often divergences within it that led to much bitterness. East Timor’s struggle for independence was difficult, and on a number of occasions it appeared as though it might fail. In short, the capacity of Fretilin’s military wing, Falintil, to defeat overwhelming Indonesian forces was, despite some early victories, for most of the struggle nonexistent. Despite having a relatively large and well-armed force in Falintil at the beginning of the struggle, it did not have the luxury of being resupplied and so equipment and, in particular, ammunition quickly began to run short. Starvation, sickness, and capture cut into its numbers, as did air attacks in the later 1970s. By the end of the 1970s, Falintil was a significantly reduced force, and a good part of its strategy thereafter was as much to survive as to inflict casualties on the occupying Indonesians. International support had been divided from the beginning, although between 1976 and 1982, the UN General Assembly passed annual resolutions affirming the right of the East Timorese to self-determination and independence. Australia, however, gave de facto recognition to Indonesia’s incorporation of the territory, increasing that recognition to de jure status in January 1979. However, the military struggle served some very useful purposes, the loss of which would have fatally weakened the continued claim for independence. As with many other liberation movements, its simple existence was proof enough that its claim existed and was able to continue to exist; its mere survival was

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itself a form of victory. That Falintil also existed meant that, when the situation became too dangerous, members of the urban underground could escape to its arms, although this did not necessarily provide meaningful personal security, but rather a different and more open form of combating the Indonesian occupation. So too, particularly in the later 1980s and 1990s, Falintil acted as a brake on some of the Indonesian military’s excesses, providing if not a strategic balance of power, then at least some small sense of a balance of terror. Falintil’s attacks against the Indonesian military and its agents were quick and usually brutal, and often carried the message that to harm an East Timorese was to expect revenge. Even toward the end of the occupation and during a period of “cantonment,” the murder of two young East Timorese men by two Indonesian soldiers near Bobonaro was met a few days later with the ambush and mutilation of two Indonesian soldiers. The mutilation, in particular, put a sense of fear into the Indonesian soldiers stationed there, although it failed to have any dampening effect on the horrors that were to be perpetrated in that district just a few weeks later. Falintil acted as a beacon and the focal point for all facets of the independence movement, both within East Timor and abroad, and within the East Timorese community and for the solidarity groups that were to play an increasingly vital role. Falintil also acted as the central coordinating body for the struggle, so that whoever commanded Falintil commanded the overall struggle. Contrary to some other liberation movements, the military and political wings of the organization largely existed independently, but at the head of both was the same person and senior command structure. It was this aspect of the struggle that was to cause divisions, as competition opened up between insiders and outsiders, and within insider and outsider groups, over strategy, ideology, and allegiances. Marxism Debate has gone back and forth among observers as to whether Fretilin was or became a Marxist organization, with some critics using its Marxist orientation to justify Indonesia’s invasion or to criticize its policies and actions. Others, meanwhile, see Fretilin as representing some sort of idealized regional Marxist liberation movement in the Che Guevara mold. Others have claimed that Fretilin was never Marxist and that it was overwhelmingly occupied by socialdemocrats and anticolonial national liberationists. Elements of each of these perspectives, usually held depending on the ideological perspectives of the onlooker, have degrees of accuracy about them, and each came to complicate East Timor’s struggle for independence and influences its postindependence politics. As has been noted, elements of the liberation struggles of Portugal’s


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other colonies crept into Fretilin’s world view, along with the politics of Portugal’s Carnation Revolution, while the shift from ASDT to Fretilin indicated an ideological shift to the left, as well as to sole representative status. But even then, Fretilin’s ideological position was inconsistent among its members, and largely rooted in indigenous culture and basic critiques of the developmentalist paradigm popular in that period. In particular, the view that colonization had impoverished colonies and that neocolonialism kept newly independent states poor were widely popular at this time. The last significant wave of decolonization was falling into place (if under the guise of communist revolution) in Indochina, while the liberationist pedagogy of Paulo Friere, who argued that literacy was the key to social and political liberation (Friere 1973), had taken root as the basis for Fretilin’s social development program. Beyond the liberationist and revolutionary appeals of Marxism, in particular in its Leninist guise, it provided a thoroughgoing critique of colonialism and imperialism, which explained both Portuguese and Indonesian occupations, as well as providing a coherent and clearly ordered political structure within which to pursue the liberation struggle. Yet from the beginning there was a tension between those in the party who advocated a more radical approach to liberation and those who counseled a more moderated approach. Reflecting these internal divisions, from 1976, Fretilin began executing members who adopted a strategic position different from that of the party’s central committee (CAVR 2005, 8.77). At perhaps the height of Indonesian attacks against Fretilin, and the deep suffering of the East Timorese people, in May 1977, the party moved closer to formally adopting MarxismLeninism (“Maoism”) as its ideology, while at the same time accepting that it could no longer conduct a conventional war against the Indonesian forces and was thus compelled to adopt guerrilla tactics. In September, Fretilin’s increasingly hard-line central committee arrested and imprisoned President Xavier do Amaral for treason for attempting to seek a compromise solution with the occupying Indonesians. That compromise essentially revolved around whether or not the resistance fighters should allow civilians to surrender and thus free them from the burden of looking after the civilian base, as well as to establish a resistance in the villages and towns. The alternative position was whether, as the radicals argued, they should be kept as a part of the popular struggle (CAVR 2005, 8.77). The following month, Fretilin formally adopted Marxism as its guiding ideology, intensifying its intolerance of dissent, leading to a political purge, more arrests, torture, and the public executions of otherwise loyal Fretilin members (CAVR 2005, 7.6). That month, in the Mozambiquan capital of Maputo, Ramos-Horta said, “I am not a ‘Maoist, just a bourgeois socialdemocrat” (Scott 2005, 204). Although still a committed member of Fretilin,

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that time was the beginning of his own split with more doctrinaire members of the party. In October, Ramos-Horta was placed under “virtual house arrest” by the Fretilin Central Committee in Maputo. “I have been charged with treason but no evidence has been presented. Just because I am a social democrat and the liberal conservative faction tried to get my support I was accused of betraying the Republic” (Scott 2005, 259). Nicolau Lobato, then as vice president of Fretilin, replaced do Amaral. Do Amaral was not alone in seeking an accommodation, with many East Timorese at around this time concluding that it was better to try to live under Indonesian rule than continue suffering, including by starvation as well as more direct depredations. Within such a context, however, at a time in which absolute unity is essential to survival, any deviation from the party line was viewed in harsh terms. Set against this increasingly desperate backdrop, the internal political fighting grew. Between 1977 and 1979, the Indonesian military launched a campaign to completely destroy all resistance. Not only did they attack Fretilin/ Falintil bases, but also they burned homes and crops, forcing the people into surrender or starvation. As pressure mounted, the civilian support base of the resistance was forced to choose between staying with the resistance and probably starving to death or being killed, or surrendering to Indonesian forces and being “resettled” in concentration camps, in which there was also widespread famine and at which time it has been estimated that tens of thousands of East Timorese died (CAVR 2005, 3.68–88). It was at this time that Fretilin’s radical ideology rationalized its arrest and execution of so-called counter-revolutionaries (Gusmao 2000, 45–50). As in most revolutionary cases, such arrests and executions were as much about asserting or retaining political power as ideological purity or acts of treason. One example of asserting authority was the arrest and execution of Aquiles Freitas Soares, a former Portuguese military officer who led a very effective antiIndonesian military unit but was not a Fretilin member (Gusmao 2000, 45, nb78). He was but one of many who were arrested for supposed ideological impurity and executed by Fretilin. Even Gusmao, an avowed moderate, at this time began reading and trying to understand The Thoughts of Chairman Mao (Gusmao 2000, 47, 49), in the hope that it might allow him ideological and strategic insights. It did not. By 1978, Fretilin’s forces were increasingly isolated from each other and very much on the defensive in the face of a massive “encirclement and annihilation” campaign. In the face of this onslaught, the resistance was beginning to devour itself. In his autobiography, Gusmao stated that it was from around this time that he decided that internal violence and torture were unacceptable and that negotiation, persuasion, and reconciliation were more viable and preferable options (Gusmao 2000,


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51). Only weeks after being proclaimed president, on December 31, 1978, Nicolau Lobato was hunted down by an Indonesian special-forces (Kopassus) patrol near Maubisse and killed (Taylor 1991, 97). Within a short period of time, the resistance forces’ last stronghold on Mount Matabean was also wiped out. The fall of the resistance’s Matabean base spelled the end of the first phase of the resistance. By this stage, Indonesia’s “resettlement” program had led to mass starvation, along with regularized torture and executions (see Nicol 1991, chap. 8). Since the Indonesian invasion, East Timor’s population had fallen from 653,000 in 1974, to just 522,000 in October 1979 (Taylor 1991, 98). In this five-year period, more than 130,000 East Timorese had already died (see also Kiernan 2003). As a result of the encirclement and annihilation campaign, the links in Fretilin’s organizational structure had been broken. The population that had lived in its areas had been either forced to surrender or captured, and Fretilin’s remaining fighters were being pursued. The resistance had lost its support bases and, due to one of the many betrayals in the face of desperation, its communications with the outside world. At one level, it seemed as though the resistance was finished. Yet at another level, sporadic clashes continued, near Ermera, Venilale, Baucau, and most of all, near Los Palos in the far east, indicating a more localized resistance was continuing. Retreating to more traditional lines of kinship, loyalty, and support based on much more localized allegiances, small groups still continued to move about (Taylor 1991, 115). One of those few who had escaped the Matabean encirclement was Xanana Gusmao who, as then the only surviving central committee member, was elected president in 1981. Slowly, the resistance regrouped. It was from this time, too, that the myth began that the firaku resisted the invasion most and fought hardest. Very few who later identified themselves as such were even born at this time, and even fewer of those who had resisted were still alive. Moving out from the east, resistance members in the eastern zone began traveling across the country on “the long walk,” relying on kinship groups for support, seeking out other remaining pockets of the resistance (Gusmao 2000, 58–65). Joining up with the remnants in other zones, in March 1981 the resistance organized a national conference, deciding on a new strategy of small mobile units conducting a guerrilla war (Gusmao 2000, 7–8). The resistance was to be led by the Marxist-Leninst Conselho Revolucionaria de Resistencia Nacional (National Council for Revolutionary Resistance—CRRN), with Gusmao as National Political Commissar, President of the CRRN, and Commander in Chief of Falintil. Abilio Araujo was appointed as President of Fretilin and the country, and reconfirmed as members abroad were Mari Alkatiri, Rogerio Lobato, Jose Ramos Horta, and Roque Rodrigues. However, it was

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from this time that the military struggle superseded politics as the focus of the resistance, laying the groundwork for rivalry and conflict between what would become two factions within the organization. As more and more East Timorese were relocated into controlled areas, the resistance began to rely on what was to become the clandestine network, still relying on kinship networks but now in “relocated” villages. It was at this time, too, that the resistance created three zones of operation, Zone I in the east, Zone II in the center, and Zone III in the west. By the end of 1981, the resistance was again viable. In response, the Indonesian military reorganized its forces and responded with its “fence of legs” campaign, in which Timorese were forced in a line to help flush out Falintil fighters. Falintil supporters who were found were murdered (Taylor 1991, 115–18). It also responded with continued sadistic brutality against the civilian population; gang rape, mutilation, and torture were common currency for the Indonesian military. The resistance again survived and rebuilt, the depredations of the Indonesian military seeming to strengthen the resolve of their support base. In 1983, Gusmao began to consider alternatives to just the guerilla struggle, and in response to locally negotiated ceasefires opened a dialogue with the Indonesian military in East Timor in January, resulting in a brief overall ceasefire from late March (Taylor 1991,136–37). During this time, Gusmao could travel fairly freely and took time to reconsider the strategy of the resistance movement. As a part of the ceasefire, it was agreed that there would be an external delegation to visit the territory. The Australian delegation was intercepted by Falintil fighters near Los Palos, although the delegation leader, Bill Morrison, was unresponsive to their attempts at communication with him (there were also serious questions raised about the accuracy of translations for Morrison). Morrison did not follow up offers of further meetings. Those Falintil members who had offered to meet Morrison were later surrounded and killed (Taylor 1991, 140–41). Despite the more conciliatory approach of some officers, by June the Indonesian military commander-in-chief, General Benny Murdani, had decided to end the ceasefire, formally abandoned the following month and culminating in two major offensives. The buildup to the first of these offensives, Operation Unity (Operasi Persatuan), started two days after the Australian delegation had left. The Indonesian military began to manufacture excuses, such as alleged Falintil violations of the terms of the ceasefire, to bring about its end. One case that helped end the ceasefire was when Indonesian soldiers raped women at a village festival, in response to which villagers turned on the soldiers and killed them. In retaliation, Indonesian troops killed at least eighty people at a nearby village. Gusmao called on Timorese soldiers and auxilliaries in the Indonesian army to desert, which led to defections, killings, and massive retaliations, with up to three hundred murdered in Kraras, near Viqueque alone


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(CAVR 2005, 18–19). As Taylor noted, “And so began a further onslaught . . . perhaps the most systematic, certainly the longest, campaign” (1991, 142). It was from this time that the ground that Falintil had continued to successfully occupy began to be lost to the Indonesian forces, and the tide turned against a possible military victory. The ceasefire was opposed by some in the resistance who did not want to see an accommodation with Indonesia, and questioned Gusmao’s reaching out to the Catholic church and youth groups for support. As the Indonesian military recommenced its onslaught, these internal differences festered and became marked out along ideological lines that had developed and hardened since 1975. This was the beginning of the divisions that would plague East Timor after independence. For the external resistance, the fight had to continue along ideologically “pure” lines; for many of those inside, their own survival and that of the people was a much more uncertain proposition. It was from around this time that Gusmao began to consider the idea of a broad front for national unity, and so far unthinkable the option of democratic pluralism (Gusmao 2006; Niner 2007, 120). But not everyone in the resistance agreed with Gusmao, and the differences that were generated reached their height when Falintil Chiefof-Staff, Commander Kilik, Deputy and Chief of Falintil’s Red Brigade, Mauk Moruk (Paulino Gama) and Commander Olo Gari Aswain began reporting the outcome of military operations directly to Fretilin’s external delegation in Lisbon, bypassing Gusmao’s command. They then attempted a coup against Gusmao. It failed (ICG 2006). There were serious repercussions from the failed coup attempt. Mauk Moruk surrendered to Indonesian forces, while his brother, Cornelio Gama (L-7), was purged from Falintil. L-7 was later taken back into Falintil, but developed a separate power base in the Baucau area through his quasi-mystical organisation, Sagrada Familia (Sacred Family), which continued to exist as a quasi-criminalpolitical organization after independence.1 Oligari was sacked from Falintil, but returned to prominence after independence as a leader of the antistate organization Committee for the Popular Defence of the Democratic republic of East Timor (CPD-RDTL). The CPD-RDTL was identified as incorporating former Indonesian militia members and prointegrationist activists2 along with former Falintil fighters and others and was involved in serious security disturbances and rioting in the first two years after independence. Kilik died under what has been referred to as “disputed circumstances,” but it is widely believed that he was executed under Gusmao’s orders. Kilik’s wife became a Fretilin central committee member and later deputy minister for state administration in the first postindependence government under the prime ministership of Mari Alkatiri. Also a minister in that government, Rogerio Lobato channelled a continuing

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sense of grievance from that time to build a private “security” force. As the ICG noted, the split within Fretilin from this time was “so bitter that in September 2006, it came up in almost every conversation about the current crisis” (ICG 2006) As a part of his plan to build national unity around the struggle, and reflecting the deep split that had occurred within the resistance, on December 7, 1987, Gusmao withdrew Falintil from Fretilin. He instead constructed Falintil as the armed wing of the national resistance. Gusmao also resigned from Fretilin, and transformed the CRRN into the broader umbrella organization, the Conselho Nacional da Resistencia Maubere (National Council of Maubere3 Resistance— CNRM). This was intended to incorporate all East Timorese political parties and civil organizations, including those who had opposed Fretilin. The purpose of this bid for national unity was to be able to present the international community with a broadly based demand for independence, rather than what could have been portrayed as the factional demand of a single political party. Ramos-Horta had continued his own campaigning on behalf of East Timor, in particular in the UN, and at this time became a close ally of Gusmao’s, also resigning from Fretilin in order to be able to present a broad front to the international community. As with Gusmao’s earlier attempts to find broad consensus, Fretilin’s international leadership largely rejected Falintil’s independence and the establishment of the CNRM, with Abilio de Araujo leading the attack against Gusmao. Gusmao responded by having de Araujo replaced as president of Fretilin, claiming the party could not be led from abroad (Gusmao 2006), and installing the triumvirate of veteran resistance fighters, Lu-Olo, Mau Hudo, and Ma’Huno. It was from this time that Gusmao also began building his own more directly accountable international solidarity network, beginning with the Portuguese Commission for the Rights of the Maubere People. In 1990, Horta officially became the CNRM’s international representative, being the international face of the resistance, and having “full authority and competence to deal with all matters affecting the national resistance of the East Timorese people abroad” (CNRM 1989). The CNRM’s international political wing was mirrored within East Timor by the establishment and growth of the clandestine Internal Political Front, the resistance’s internal urban underground. It was at this time that Gusmao put forward the CNRM’s three-phase proposal for a mediated resolution to the East Timor conflict. The proposal was not dissimilar to, if more detailed than, that put forward by Australia in late 1998. In the first phase of the proposal, Indonesia and Portugal would conduct talks to end armed activities and reduce military personnel in East Timor; release political prisoners; expand international humanitarian aid; provide UN


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access to restore and protect the environment, resettlement, district development, care of women and children, and public health; restore all basic human rights; remove restrictions on Portuguese and Tetum languages; establish an independent Human Rights Commission; and see the appointment of a UN Secretary-General Resident Representative in East Timor. The second phase of the peace proposal was to include a five-year period of “autonomy,” with the option of extension by mutual agreement, as a transitional stage in which East Timorese would govern themselves democratically through their own local institutions, under UN supervision and assistance. Phase three of the proposal included preparation for a referendum on self-determination, “to be held within one year of the commencement of this phase, whereby the population may choose between free association or integration into Indonesia, or independence” (CNRM 1989). Notably at this time, “CNRM envisages an independent Republic of East Timor without a standing army. External security will rely on a Treaty of Neutrality, guaranteed by the Permanent Members of the UN Security Council” (CNRM undated). This element of the proposal coincided with a number of postindependence external assessments of East Timor’s security needs, but by this time, elements among Falintil and, in particular, Fretilin had insisted on the retention of East Timor’s own standing army. It was the refusal by these parties to accept CNRM’s original proposal on external security that significantly contributed to the breakdown of law and order, and almost state failure, in early 2006. By 1989, the Indonesian military felt sufficiently secure in their control of East Timor, and marked a visit by Pope John-Paul on October 3, by opening the territory to foreign visitors. Kammen has argued that the intensity of Indonesia military operations in East Timor was linked to that country’s election cycle and the need to rotate troops back to major population centers in order to ensure predictable election outcomes. This cycle of elections, he proposed, in turn, determined the level of military activity or propensity to engage in negotiations (Kammen 2008). There may have been some connection between Indonesia’s electoral cycle (the People’s Consultative Assembly being “elected” prior to appointing the president in 1978, 1983, 1988, 1993, 1998, and 1999) and levels of violence in East Timor. However, there was also evidence that announced troop withdrawals were in some cases backfilled by unannounced deployments, and that official statistics on military strength in East Timor were often misleading. It also appears likely that troop deployments were based primarily on strategic considerations in East Timor. Xavier do Amaral’s interest in a negotiated settlement in 1977 was in response to the very high level of suffering of East Timorese people under the onslaught of an intensive military campaign rather than Jakarta’s political cycle. Beyond this, the two notable

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moves toward negotiations in 1983 and 1998 to 1999, were a consequence of, in the first instance, local tactical conditions, and, in the second instance, economically induced political instability and consequent vulnerability to external pressure. By 1989, while Falintil continued as a military force, it was reduced to existing at the strategic margins, and simply presenting much less of a threat to Indonesian occupation than it once had. By this stage, however, the resistance had changed to become much more of an active underground on one the hand, and a growing international solidarity network on the other. From the Indonesian perspective, the visit by the Pope was a reflection of what the Indonesian military saw as East Timor’s increasing “normalization.” On October 12, 1989, Pope John Paul consecrated Dili’s cathedral and held an open air mass before around ten thousand people at Tasi Tolu on the western outskirts of Dili. Proindependence activists used the occasion to protest against Indonesia’s continuing occupation, drawing a typically brutal response from Indonesian police. In part, the decision to open East Timor to outsiders reflected a bid by Indonesia’s President Suharto to wind back the influence and some of the policies of his former military commander-in-chief, then Defence Minister,4 General Benny Murdani, who had been instrumental in pushing ahead with the invasion of East Timor (see Ricklefs 2002, 387). Murdani had become too powerful, according to Suharto, questioning the excessive wealth of Suharto’s children, and the president refused to tolerate that questioning. So, in a small way, the opening of East Timor reflected an element of Indonesia’s personality-driven politics, as so many of its decisions did. In a related sense, however, Suharto was also aware that the winds of change were blowing across the globe, that the Cold War was ending and, likely with it support for and tolerance of Indonesia’s repressive style. Seeing the Soviet Union beginning to collapse, Suharto wished to avoid a like fate befalling the similarly diverse state of Indonesia. Even though there was a small trickle of foreigners from this time, the territory was not “open” in the full sense of the term, with visa checks at East Timor’s own “immigration office” at the airport, and with travel often restricted and always watched. Santa Cruz Massacre On November 12, 1991, the Indonesian military made perhaps its biggest tactical mistake when troops opened fire on 2,000 unarmed protesters at the Santa Cruz cemetery in Dili, killing at least 270 and many more in the days after. The Internal Political Front had become increasingly active, staging public protests while engaging in support for Falintil. One such demonstration, focused on the funeral of an underground member who had been killed by Indonesian security forces, turned into a massacre. In concert with the resistance, in October 1991,


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a Portuguese delegation was to visit Dili, which the Internal Political Front intended to use to help highlight the continuing struggle. The visit was, however, cancelled by Indonesia, sparking a planned protest on October 28. One of the organizers of the protest, Sebastiao Gomes, who was helping organize the protest at Dili’s Motael Church, was identified and killed by Indonesian intelligence agents. In response, the Internal Political Front planned a demonstration for his funeral, to be held at the Santa Cruz Cemetery on November 12. It was hoped that, with the UN’s special rapporteur on torture in town, the Indonesian military would not unleash the sort of violence they had otherwise come to expect. About two thousand protesters joined the funeral procession to the cemetery, chanting slogans. As they passed a uniformed Indonesian army officer, some in the crowd beat him. The protest continued on, and when they arrived began unfurling banners and shouting protests, such as “Viva TimorLeste!” The crowd, which had been at the cemetery for just a few minutes, was otherwise just milling about and talking, when, without warning, soldiers who had just arrived surrounded the cemetery, blocked the entrance and opened fire. The protesters fled, with many being shot in the back as they ran. Over the following days, wounded protesters in a military hospital were murdered, and on November 15, about eighty more protesters who had been arrested were believed to have been murdered, shot as they stood by freshly dug, unmarked graves (Amnesty International 1994, 50–52). The names of 271 people killed at the cemetery were recorded by the Internal Political Front, along with two hundred who “disappeared” soon after, their bodies destroyed. An activist journalist, Max Stahl, was with the protesters at Santa Cruz when the Indonesian troops opened fire. Stahl’s chaotic, desperate film of this incident captured the wanton violence in all its fearful desperation. The film was hurriedly buried at the cemetery, to be retrieved a couple of days later and smuggled out of East Timor by a foreign aid worker who had been wounded in the attack. As soon as the film hit television newsrooms, it leapt to prominence around the world, replayed over and over. This footage of the carnage at Santa Cruz became the signature image of East Timor for the world’s television audiences, at least until the mayhem of 1999, and then in 2006. But for Indonesia, at a time when it was claiming that all was settled in the restive territory, that the people of East Timor had become reconciled to Indonesian rule, the footage could not have portrayed its occupation of East Timor in a worse light. Indonesia’s woeful human rights record was back in the international spotlight and, after appearing to retreat from public attention, so too was East Timor. If the international solidarity campaign for East Timor had begun to ebb, this event not only gave it a new lease of life but put the question of East Timor firmly back on the international agenda.5

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The Santa Cruz massacre was not the worst such massacre conducted by the Indonesian military against the people of East Timor. But, since 1975, it had been exceptionally difficult to get out of East Timor verifiable reports of the killings that had taken place. Following Santa Cruz, the Indonesian government and its military went into public relations damage control mode, with the chief of the armed forces, General Tri Sutrisno, claiming, according to some numerological fantasy, that nineteen people had been killed and ninety-one injured. The regional commander was sacked from his job, and an inquiry was held. But none of this was able to counter the massive publicity that Max Stahl’s footage of the massacre generated, and indeed only served as an excuse for it to be broadcast again and again. The publicity was not helped when Sutrisno claimed that the protesters had “spread chaos” by unfurling banners critical of the government and by shouting “many unacceptable things . . . they persisted with their misdeeds . . . In the end, they had to be shot. These ill-bred people have to be shot . . . and we will shoot them” (Amnesty International 1994, 53–54). As with many events concerning Indonesia, there is a view that the Santa Cruz Massacre was a consequence of Jakarta’s internal politics. In 1991, Murdani was half way through his term as defense minister, and was no doubt aware that he had few remaining opportunities to push his case against Suharto from within the government. According to one version of events, Murdani encouraged army units in East Timor to step up pressure on antigovernment activists at a time when he knew there would be representatives of the international media visiting the disputed territory. Suharto was about to go on a world tour, and his son-in-law, then Indonesian Army Strategic Reserve Command (Kostrad) chief of staff Lieutenant-Colonel Prabowo Subianto, was in East Timor at that time. The army knew, through its informers, that proindependence supporters would demonstrate before the foreign journalists accompanying a Portuguese parliamentary delegation to Dili, and so it was decided to achieve two, possibly three, results with one action. A strong military response to the protesters would reassert the military’s authority in East Timor, and it would also show up Suharto as the supreme commander of an army over which he had decreasing control as a result of Murdani’s machinations. Finally, it would also put Prabowo in a difficult position with Suharto, hampering Suharto’s options for what were assumed to be his plans for political succession. Not to be outdone, Suharto used international public outrage to round on the pro-Murdani group within the armed forces, removing from active duty East Timor commander Brigadier-General Rudolph Warouw and Warouw’s regional superior in Bali, Major-General Sintong Panjaitan. Both men were considered to be proteges of Murdani. Prabowo was not held accountable for any aspect of the incident. Nor was any responsibility attributed to Suharto’s


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brother-in-law Wismoyo, who was commander of the Kostrad troops involved in the killings, or Try Sutrisno, who was the armed forces commander at that time (Wismoyo and Try were still then regarded as Suharto loyalists, a position that later changed). Panjaitan had been considered one of Wismoyo’s main rivals for the position of army chief of staff. “There can be little doubt about the central role played by Prabowo and Sjafrie in the Dili massacre . . . after a recent lecture, Gen. Theo Sjafei (retired), who served as Kolakops Commander in 1992 to 1993, identified the masterminds of the Santa Cruz massacre, “The commander of Korem 164 Rudy Warouw didn’t know about the scheme because it was carried out by a commander below Warouw. That man was Sjafrie” (GSP 2008). Thus, the lives of hundreds of civilians in East Timor were written off as dispensable in the power play between Murdani and Suharto (also see Schwartz 1994, 215–16, 345, nb 56). The Santa Cruz massacre was probably the turning point in Indonesia’s occupation of East Timor. From this time on, the Portuguese government, pushed by the Portuguese people wracked with guilt over its abysmal failure in East Timor and the terrible consequences of that failure, increasingly championed the East Timorese cause in international fora, including the United Nations. There was still a long and difficult way to go but, allied with inevitable changes within Indonesian politics itself, what had seemed to many in the international community like the necessity of East Timor’s incorporation into Indonesia began to be more openly questioned. Meanwhile, illegal imprisonment, torture, rape, mutilation, and death in custody continued (Amnesty International 1994, 50–53, 69–70, 83–85) amid a climate of fear and repression, in which the Indonesian state was, in effect, at war with the East Timorese people. And the war was not over yet. A year later, the leader of East Timor’s resistance, Xanana Gusmao, was captured by Indonesian intelligence in a secret location in Dili on November 20, 1992. His capture was at first considered to have been a decisive blow against Falintil and its limited campaign against the Indonesian military. But, perhaps believing that a deal might be struck whereby Falintil and the resistance ended its struggle and accepted Indonesian hegemony, rather than killing Xanana on the spot or soon after, he was kept alive. Charges were brought against him, yet with the glare of international attention again focused on Indonesia and East Timor, the Indonesian government dared not press charges that would be likely to result in the death penalty, in the end sentencing him to life imprisonment for rebellion, separatism, and possession of firearms, later commuted to twenty years. In prison, Xanana became not only a political leader but also a symbol of the resistance and of opposition to Indonesian rule. While perhaps stretching the analogy (which he rejected), he was likened by some to South Africa’s

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Nelson Mandela, who in July 1997, visited Xanana in jail and thus conferred upon Gusmao some of Mandela’s own enhanced legitimacy. Even after the Santa Cruz Massacre, the meaning of Indonesia’s occupation of East Timor was entirely lost on the vast majority of Indonesians, and on most of those who believed they understood something of the place. Mubyarto and Loekman Soetrisno conducted a socioanthropological survey of East Timor in 1979 and 1989 to 1990 on behalf of one of Indonesia’s leading universities, Gadjah Mada (Mubyarto and Soetrisno 1990). Yet even these two “experts,” and their team, while noting some social and economic characteristics of East Timorese society, tended to employ an analysis based on a mixture of racist cliché on one hand and either a complete denial of facts or a serious misreading of the situation on the other. The following brief paragraph encapsulates the level of misunderstanding on the part of Indonesians who, explicitly, opposed the military status of East Timor and promoted its development. “The process of decolonization came about through a civil war in which many lives were lost. The Indonesian government intervened in this process and then succeeded in freeing the East Timorese people from Portuguese colonialism and integrating East Timor as a legal part of the Republic of Indonesia” (Mubyarto and Soetrisno 1990, 5). Similarly, “Politically, of course, the Timorese obtained their independence as soon as they integrated with Indonesia” (Mubyarto and Soetrisno 1990, 47). “In the early period of integration the military played a vital role in expediting the process of political independence—they physically drove out the colonizers and their supporters” (Mubyarto and Soetrisno 1990, 61).6 Mubyarto and Soetrisno were correct to note that there had been a civil war in East Timor, albeit briefly and concluded with the victory of Fretilin. It was at this time that Portuguese colonialism was ended, with the Portuguese administration fleeing Dili to Atauro Island and then to Darwin before returning to Lisbon. But the Indonesian government did not formally intervene until some four months later, by which time Portuguese colonialism had long since ended in the territory and the East Timorese people were already freed of that particular burden. Moreover, East Timor was never “legally” a part of Indonesia, always noted by the UN as an occupied territory and, more correctly, their brief spell of independence was ended, not obtained, by “integration.” Finally, it was entirely a fantasy for Mubyarto and Soetrisno to claim that the Indonesian militarily engaged with the Portuguese military, or that Fretilin could somehow be understood as supporting colonialism. This was not so much a distortion as a complete fabrication that blithely intended to pass itself off as an historical fact. If this was the published view of two independent Indonesian “experts,” then it was little wonder than ordinary Indonesians, in that they thought of East Timor


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at all, saw it very differently from how the East Timorese understood their relationship with Indonesia. Yet even Mubyarto and Soetrisno, either completely blind to fact or acting as propaganda agents for the Indonesian government, concluded that running East Timor as a military fiefdom was inappropriate, and that “the protracted ‘war conditions’ in the province must be ended quickly” (Mubyarto and Soetrisno 1990, 65). Even these authors, however, noted that many East Timorese were doubtful of the benefits of the influx of Indonesians into their land, quoting the term “Battalion 702” (Mubyarto and Soetrisno 1990, 54), meaning they arrive in the morning (“7”), bring no benefit (“0”), and leave early (“2” in the afternoon). The reference to “battalion,” too, reflects the militarized aspects of local society in this period. Interestingly, though, Mubyarto and Soetrisno did note that government service actually declined under Indonesia, with East Timorese reluctant to participate in projects they saw as primarily benefiting corrupt officials (1990, 59). Toward Independence From around August 1997, the Indonesian economy began to collapse, following a floating of the rupiah on the international money market. There were various causes for the collapse in the value of the rupiah, but chief among them were the high level of nonproductive investment, especially in the overinflated value of Jakarta real estate, recognition that Suharto’s tenure as president was beginning to draw to a close and that the protection he had offered investors would similarly disappear, and, most importantly, that there were serious signs of capital flight emerging, particularly from mid-1996, and which had gathered pace throughout 1997. Over the new year period between 1997 and 1998, the rupiah went into free fall, the savings of Indonesia’s small but emerging middle class was wiped out within days, basic foodstuffs became expensive to the point of often being out of reach for ordinary people, and the economic gains that had been seen under Suharto’s rule—a modest average of around seven percent a year—were all but cancelled out within months. It was claimed by some apologists for the New Order regime that its record of economic growth justified its existence. This did not take into account the poor distribution of that wealth, the excessive accumulation of wealth to a small number of elites, and the fact that a more competent and honest economic administrator could have produced far greater and widely distributed returns. It did also not take into account that the methods by which Suharto sustained the New Order were brutal and repressive by any measure, and that East Timor represented the worst manifestation of the New Order’s excesses.

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So, when the Indonesian economy collapsed, the New Order regime quickly lost what little genuine support it might have had (see Haggard and Kaufman 1995 on the political economy of authoritarian regime failure). Increasingly, large blocks of Indonesian society deserted Suharto; first the students who emboldened ordinary Indonesians to take to the streets, then the business community and growing sections of the military. Having just announced a new cabinet, Suharto scrapped it and offered to assemble a transitional cabinet, and to retire soon. But most of those approached to join the cabinet refused to do so. On May 21, 1998, Indonesia’s long-serving president and former army general President Suharto resigned from office, appointing his unpopular and idiosyncratic vice president Bacharuddin Jusuf Habibie to succeed him. This was not the end of the New Order as such, but it was the beginning of a momentous change in Indonesian politics, which would play out throughout the archipelago, not least in its furthest reaches such as East Timor. Despite a semblance of order at the top of Indonesian politics, the country was at this time undergoing a groundswell of public protest and widespread demands for far-reaching reform. Habibie was in part compelled to initiate a reform process in order to survive in office and in part recognized that by doing so he was legitimizing his own otherwise deeply unpopular and only technically legitimate presidency. Along with freeing the news media, allowing nongovernment trade unions, and a plethora of political parties and civil society groups, under growing international pressure, Habibie also turned his thoughts to resolving the East Timor question once and for all. His intention was to have East Timor be accepted by the international community as a legitimate part of Indonesia, and to end Indonesia’s heavy financial commitment to the territory, especially at a time of deepening domestic economic crisis. By July 1998, Indonesia’s gross domestic product had fallen by a sixth from the same time in 1997, while the Indonesian rupiah had plunged from two thousand to eleven thousand to the U.S. dollar, spiking inflation, crippling the ability of most ordinary Indonesians to just get by, and plunging its recently emergent “middle class” into poverty. When Indonesian officials held discussions with the World Bank and other institutions about methods of resolving the crisis, including extensive loans, they ran into difficult questions about the financial cost of maintaining Indonesia’s role in East Timor. On top of this, not only had Habibie considered alternatives for East Timor’s future within Indonesia, members of his new government were unhappy with being responsible for an international public relations disaster that they had little or no part in creating and that they often did not support. The people of East Timor had been overwhelmingly alienated by Indonesian rule and, following the resignation of Suharto, from late 1998, talks began


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about reconsidering East Timor’s future. As Indonesia’s Technology Minister, Habibie, had earlier raised the idea of allowing East Timor to have an act of self-determination by way of resolving concerns held by the international community. This idea was firmly rejected by the TNI and by Habibie’s mentor, Suharto. However, when Suharto resigned from office amid the economic collapse of 1997 to 1998, Habibie, now vice president, succeeded him, and raised the possibility of East Timor’s gaining “special” or nominally autonomous status (Habibie 1998) and had initiated discussions on this possibility with Portugal, still East Timor’s legally recognized authority, under the auspices of the UN. Habibie’s close ally and minister for cooperatives, Adi Sasono, and economics coordinating minister, Ginandjar Kartasasnita, supported a referendum for East Timor while Habibie’s advisor, the Australian-edcuated academic Dewi Fortuna Anwar, had long been critical of Indonesia’s occupation of East Timor (Fernandes 2004, 40–41). Habibie’s intention was for East Timor to accept “special autonomy” status, similar to that granted to (or imposed upon) the restive province of Aceh, which despite this nominal status had been in a state of war with the Indonesian government since 1976. This would, he hoped, resolve the East Timor issue once and for all. To this end, Habibie authorized discussions to be held with Portugal, still East Timor’s legal authority, mediated by the UN.7 On March 11, there were tripartite talks between the UN, Indonesia and Portugal over the method and conduct of the forthcoming ballot. There was agreement at this time that the people of east Timor would participate in a direct ballot on whether or not to accept autonomy within Indonesia or independence from it. On May 5, the three parties reached an agreement under which the UN Secretary-General was requested to determine, through what was referred to as a “Popular Consultation,” whether the people of east Timor would accept or reject Indonesia’s proposed “special autonomy” package. Options of autonomy and independence for East Timor were negotiated throughout 1998, with Habibie being under mounting diplomatic pressures to resolve the situation. By early 1999, in a move that shocked the region, Habibie announced that if the majority of East Timorese rejected autonomy in favor of independence in a “process of consultation,” Indonesia would grant that independence. In February 1999, Xanana Gusmao was moved from jail to house arrest, facilitating his participation in negotiations and, through formal inclusion, heightening his international status. These events followed those within East Timor, where the resistance had reinvented itself again, taking the nonpartisan strategy adopted by the CNRM and transforming itself into the Conselho Nacional da Resistencia Timorense (National Council for Timorese Resistance—CNRT), replacing the controversial word “maubere” with that of “Timor.” UDT joined the CNRT, allowing

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in many who had previously worked with Indonesia, completing the status of the resistance as a genuinely national front organization. Gusmao was unanimously elected as president of the CNRT and Ramos-Horta was elected as vice president. As Indonesia and Portugal moved closer to an agreement on the future of East Timor, neighboring Australia’s prime minister, John Howard, signed a letter to Habibie saying that, after decades of endorsing Indonesia’s occupation of East Timor and following the lead of Xanana Gusmao a decade before, Australia now advocated “a means of addressing the East Timorese desire for an act of self-determination in a manner which avoids an early and final decision on the future status of the province” (Howard 1998). The letter continued to advocate a preference for East Timor’s continued incorporation into Indonesia, and was sent primarily because Australia did not want to be seen to be supporting the preexisting status when it appeared that Indonesia was itself moving toward allowing some sort of act of self-determination (White 2008, 71–74). Habibie responded negatively to the letter’s proposal of a protracted path to independence, as per the Matignon Accord for New Caledonia, saying that it might be better to offer East Timor independence. Habibie then went silent, until January 27, 1999, when he stunned all concerned by announcing that East Timor would be allowed a vote on accepting “autonomy” within Indonesia (CNN 1999). The rationale for this decision has been debated, but it appeared to stem from a number of factors, including Habibie’s desire to be seen as a political reformer, to reduce financial pressure on Indonesia over the cost of maintaining East Timor at a time of economic crisis, and in part as a consequence of Habibie’s own idiosyncratic personal style. The proposition was that if the people of East Timor did not accept special autonomy, Habibie said, East Timor would be set free. The vote was therefore to be about whether the people of East Timor wished to be independent or not. Most of East Timor’s leaders, including the jailed Gusmao, asked for a five- to ten-year transitional period, recognizing that a quick all or nothing ballot would prove disastrous. There was, not surprisingly, a deep reluctance on the part of the TNI to accept Habibie’s decision, including by then commander-in-chief General Wiranto. There was also a deteriorating relationship between Habibie and Wiranto over what amounted to competing visions for Indonesia’s future. Thus the stage was set for the establishment of the TNI-associated militias in East Timor, the violence of the preballot period and the arrival of the United Nations Assistance Mission to East Timor (UNAMET). The last bloody phase of East Timor’s bid for self-determination was about to unfold. Although the tempo of violence had been steadily building, on April 6, 1999, TNI-backed and police-assisted-Besi Merah-Putih (Red and White Iron)


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militiamen surrounded a church in the northern coastal town of Liquica, about forty kilometers west of Dili, where proindependence activists had taken shelter following the burning of their homes over the previous two days. Up to two thousand people had taken refuge in the church and its compound. The TNI at the scene were based in Liquica and nearby Maubara, along with members of the TNI’s Kopasssus and Battalion 143. The TNI’s commanding officers there that day included Colonel Mudjiono, Lieutenant Colonel Yayat Sudrajat, Lieutenant Colonel Asep Kuswadi, the local district head Leoneto Martins, and the district Chief of Police, Lt. Colonel Adios Salova. Just after midday the attack began, when Brimob riot police fired tear gas into the church, forcing the people inside to come out. It was then that militiamen backed up by the TNI entered the church, its compound, and attached house and began randomly shooting people and hacking at them with machetes. The official death toll was sixty-one, although it was widely believed that around two hundred were killed in this brutal, unprovoked and since unpunished attack. Just four weeks after the Liquica massacre, the May 5 agreement for a vote on what amounted to self-determination or “autonomy” for East Timor stipulated that it be conducted by the UN, with Indonesia to provide “security” for the poll. As White later noted, “The TNI clearly had the best capacity to maintain order in East Timor, if they could be induced to use their capability responsibly and impartially. But it was also recognized (by Australian intelligence) the TNI was most unlikely to do this” (White 2008, 77). Responsibility for security was handed over to the Indonesian police, who either overwhelmingly refused to stop the violence and destruction or who participated in it.8 The head of UNAMET, Ian Martin, later said that “no one was happy with the security aspects of the 5 May Agreement; the issue then and later was whether arrangements that would have done more to avert later violence were achievable” (Martin 2001, 32). Even before the May 5 agreement, prointegrationist TNI-funded, trained, armed, and led militias, often including TNI members in leading roles, had begun a rampage of violence and destruction, prompting Australia and the UN to propose an international peacekeeping force (PKF), which was quickly refused by Habibie (White 2008, 78–79). The militias had been based on earlier groups and reorganized in late 1998 and early 1999 to have a separate presence in each of East Timor’s thirteen districts. The militias came from a variety of institutional sources, such as “Peoples’ Security,” “Civil Defence,” “Operational Support Forces,” and “Peoples’ Resistance,” but all ended up within the “Guard Upholding Integration” (Garda Penegak Integrasi–Gardapaksi), reorganized in late 1998 to early 1999 as the distinct militia groups (Aitarak in Dili, Besi Mera Putih in Liquica, Halilintar in Bobonaro, and so on). These militias were officially

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recognized as “Community Volunteer Security” (Pengamanan Swakarsa— Pam Swakarsa) as the institutional channel for military funding and training. Finally, they were brought together under the banner of Pasukan Pejuang Integrasi (Fighting Force for Integration—PPI), under the overall command of Joao Tavarres (Bartu 2000, 81–98, Crouch 2000,160–75; Kingsbury 2003a, 111–15; 2000, 69–80;). From late 1998, the militias, as a front for and often in combination with or led by the TNI, began to cause chaos, intimidating and killing proindependence activists, burning houses and displacing increasingly large numbers of villagers (Human Rights Watch 2000). On June 1, the newly appointed Special Representative of the UN SecretaryGeneral, Ian Martin, arrived in Dili. Ten days later, the UN Security Council established the UN Mission in East Timor (UNAMET), which was charged with organizing and conducting the “Popular Consultation.” UNAMET established an electoral commission, comprising three independent commissioners, and by its end registered just over 450,000 voters in the territory and among East Timorese abroad. A significant although indeterminate number of the external voters were from West Timor and to a lesser extent other parts of Nusa Tenggara (the southeast archipelago) who had “evidence” falsified by the TNI of their East Timorese status. So too, while a significant proportion of militia members were East Timorese, many were also recruited from West Timor and other nearby islands. Due to logistical problems and consistent violence by militias, UN Secretary-general Kofi Annan decided to delay the vote to allow the deployment of further UN staff through the territory, allowing until July 13, to complete the interrupted voter registration process, and to give Indonesia further time to address the deteriorating security situation. The gap between official Indonesian rhetoric and what was happening on the ground at this time was wide and growing by the day. More time did not ensure that Indonesia addressed the security situation, despite sending in another detachment of special police, Detasemen Lorosai, primarily from Bali. While on deployment, these police would often wear a sweatshirt that had printed on it, in English, “Timor Lorosai—the last mission.” Either they knew that the East Timorese would vote for them to leave permanently, or they would help ensure that another mission was never again necessary. If Habibie had accepted an act of self-determination for the people of East Timor, the TNI as a state institution did not. Senior military personnel who were opposed to offering East Timor an act of self-determination included Major-General Sintong Panjaitan, who had been relieved of his command following the 1991 Santa Cruz massacre, and former commander in chief and at this time coordinating minister for politics and security, Lieutenant-General Feisal Tanjung. Close factional allies of Wiranto, Panjaitan, and Tanjung had


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been part of the military team that had rigged West Papua’s “Act of Free Choice” in 1969. Tanjung believed that the East Timor ballot could be similarly rigged. According to leaked intelligence reports, and in-country observations, the militias were the direct invention of the TNI, were trained and led by the TNI, and overlapped in their functions (see Fernandes 2004, chap. 3; McDonald et al. 2002, ch. 1, 2, 3, 6, 8). Militias usually operated out of TNI barracks and were supplied with TNI-issue weapons.9 Just before the ballot, in July 1999, Indonesia held its general elections, with East Timor strongly returning the local candidates of the governing party, Golkar. The clear intention of this vote, organized by CNRT, was to allay any fears in Jakarta that the people of the territory might vote other than in favor of the status quo. For some in Jakarta, the ploy worked. Indonesia’s foreign minister, Ali Alatas, said, “Up to the balloting, the report we got from our own people, of the prointegration people, including Lopes da Cruz,10 and so on, is that we were going to win” (Alatas 1999). That Francisco Lopes da Cruz believed that victory was likely showed just how well the CNRT had disguised its intentions. The Vote for Independence The mood in East Timor in the weeks before the ballot was profoundly mixed. There was great fear and worry about the activities of the TNI and its militias, and there were informal talks at this time between CNRT leaders and senior members of UNAMET about whether the ballot should be called off or postponed. The CNRT representatives agreed that the violence would get worse before it got better, but believed that if the ballot did not go ahead on August 30, it might be called off and not go ahead at all. They were concerned that this was their only chance at independence, and that there would be retribution no matter the result of the ballot.11 Conversely, there was a real sense that liberation was at hand, and that nothing could stop the people of East Timor from achieving their independence at last. Voter registration closed on August 5, and UN voter education got underway throughout the territory. Still the violence continued, escalating into the last weeks of campaigning. Thousands were displaced after their homes were burned, being held in “internal displacement” camps, almost as hostages to the outcome of the ballot. In response, on August 26, the UN Security Council voted to extend UNAMET’s mandate until November 30. Three days later, on the eve of the vote, Kofi Annan issued an appeal to the people of East Timor, asking all sides to “live up to their responsibilities before history.” For the TNI and their proxy militias, this appeal fell on deaf ears; the only “responsibility” they felt was to the maintenance of East Timor as a part of the Negara Kesatuan Republik Indonesia (Unitary State of the Republic of Indonesia—NKRI), a

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term coined by the TNI at around this time to connote both the state’s essential unity as well as its unitary organization, which was to resonate throughout the archipelago over the next six years. Set against this backdrop of violence, destruction, and intimidation, organization for the vote proceeded, with administrative problems delaying the vote by three weeks until August 30. Smoldering ruins of houses littered the countryside, those houses that remained showing the merah-putih (red and white) Indonesian flag, which was somehow meant to indicate their allegiance, but which was, if nothing else, a faint talisman against their own homes being burned. Activists were hunted down and murdered in cold blood and in broad daylight, there were sometimes brief displays of retribution by local people, and all over the Polri and TNI patrolled with automatic weapons, allowing the militias and in most cases assisting them to attempt to smash the local population into submission. But a people who had lost perhaps a quarter or so of their number, who had survived a quarter century of absolute repression and intimidation, and who hailed from a fearless warrior tradition were not to be so easily directed. The violence and terror that had beset East Timor in the lead up to the ballot reached a crescendo in the few days just prior to the actual vote, with militias rioting, destroying, and killing in Dili, and then the following day their cavalcade arriving in Bobonaro district. There they killed, tortured, and burned, but in rare cases were also confronted, in Tapo-Memo near Maliana on the EastWest Timor border where local people fought back with primitive weapons, lost a few of their own but staged a rout at a creek gulley, and left the road lined with the burned-out vehicles of retreating militiamen. Hundreds of militiamen then regrouped and stood opposite a small line, perhaps two dozen, of UNAMET personnel outside the main gate of “Fort Maliana,” the UNAMET compound just a hundred meters from the local TNI headquarters. The UNAMET officers, unarmed, faced the armed TNI-backed militiamen standing meters apart on either side of the street. The UNAMET staff, with derisive insults at the weakness of intent of the militias, eventually tired of this farcical showdown and retired behind the high steel gates, which were duly assaulted once closed.12 The day of the vote was, surprisingly, relatively quiet, and while there were numerous reported breaches of the ballot rules, by Indonesian intelligence officers, soldiers, police, and militias, and the trucking in from across the West Timor border hundreds of ring-in voters, there were few, though some notable, outbreaks of violence over most of the day. Local people had assembled prior to the opening of the ballot stations, just before dawn, in many cases having walked overnight across rough terrain to be able to cast their votes. They came, wearing their best freshly cleaned and pressed clothes, holding their registration


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papers with dignity and determination. Then they voted on their future, in most cases, the bulk of polling having been completed by mid-morning. Media reports from East Timor on the ballot process said that the day had been peaceful. Some media representatives had camped out overnight in the districts and then, after the first votes were cast, made their way toward Dili to get “color” for filing their late afternoon reports. But in Maliana subdistrict, at the village of Ritabou, where polling had largely been completed by midday, the local Halilintar (Lightning) militia had begun to attack. UNAMET staff closed the polling station at 2:00 p.m. and as they were withdrawing the polling station was torched. The staff arrived back at “Fort Maliana,” with their vehicles, the ballot boxes, and just one sign indicating that a ballot station had existed, a cardboard plaque reading, in English, Indonesian, Tetum, and Portuguese, “Polling Station 1.”13 The following day, the ballot boxes were retrieved by helicopter from the football field opposite “Fort Maliana” and an hour later, most UNAMET staff withdrew. With UNAMET gone and the security environment deteriorating by the hour, accredited ballot observers left the following day, remaining UN police left two days later, their houses burning behind them.14 Then the massacre began. It was a pattern to be repeated across the territory. The result of the vote was that in what the UN called “a show of courage,” with a voter turnout of 98.6 percent of registered voters, 78.5 percent of East Timorese voted in favor of independence by puncturing a picture of the CNRT flag planted on a small depiction of East Timor, with just 21.5 percent choosing to puncture a picture of the Indonesian flag on a slightly expanded territory (primarily a corridor between East Timor proper and the enclave of Oecusse). When the result was announced on September 4, in a bid to quell the still escalating violence, the militias and TNI went on a rampage, murdered at least 1,400 people,15 and over the next two weeks razed more than 70 percent of the territory’s built environment. Even accepting TNI denials of its own direct involvement in the killing and destruction, General Wiranto said that the TNI would not stop the militia rampage, “It is not possible that our close relationship with the fighters for integration could be cut off just like that. We could not avoid this and we honestly admit it” (Republika, quote in Crouch 2000, 175). Around a third of East Timor’s population, some 250,000 people, was forced or fled to West Timor, with a similar number fleeing their homes in the main towns for the sanctuary of the hills. UN staff, who had promised that they would not leave East Timor following the ballot (Wimhurst 2002, 298),16 were withdrawn to Darwin under Operation Spitfire, conducted by the Australian Defence Force (White 2008, 82). A UN investigation found of the orchestrated violence that, “the violence and the systematic and large-scale nature of the crimes warranted the establishment of an international criminal tribunal”

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(Human Rights Watch 2000; see also Deveraux 2000). Such a tribunal was blocked by the UN Security Council and was thus never formed. However, in September 1999, there was widespread international outrage at events in East Timor, in particular on the part of the public, if not the government, in Australia and Portugal, where large protests compelled the Australian government to enact plans to intervene in East Timor. The United States, already involved elsewhere, had indicated that it wanted Australia to take the leading role in the East Timor intervention (White 2008, 83). It also began to pressure Indonesia to accept an international peacekeeping force in East Timor. The commander-in-chief of the U.S. forces in the Pacific, Admiral Dennis Blair, met with General Wiranto in Jakarta on September 8, 1999, and told him that military ties between the United States and Indonesia were to be suspended. Among other pressure from U.S. officials, President Clinton said in public that “if Indonesia does not end the violence, it must invite—it must invite—the international community to assist in restoring security . . . it would be a pity if the Indonesian recovery were crashed by this” (Shenon 1999, emphasis in the original). Privately, the United States had told Indonesian officials that the World Bank, which the United States effectively controlled, would withhold funding intended to help Indonesia out of its financial crisis, while the IMF suspended a visit to Jakarta to discuss Indonesia’s financial crisis. Indonesia had little choice but to accept an international peacekeeping force, which it did on September 12. In response, on September 20, 1999, the international community, led by the Australian-led International Force in East Timor (Interfet), compelled Indonesia to relinquish authority over East Timor. Interfet comprised a majority of Australian troops, supported by forces from Argentina, Bangladesh, Brazil, Canada, China, Denmark, Fiji, Ireland, Italy, Japan, Jordan, Malaysia, New Zealand, Pakistan, Philippines, Portugal, Russia, Singapore, South Korea, Sweden, Thailand, the United Kingdom, and the United States. The view in Canberra, as early as February 1999, was that “if a major PKF [Peace Keeping Force] was required, it would be in Australia’s interests to play a major role. We knew that Australia would have much at stake directly in the stability and viability of an independent East Timor. Moreover, international opinion would expect Australia to take a lead: there was a sense that if Australia didn’t lead, no one else would” (White 2008, 75). However, another view of Australia’s intentions was that its intervention was much less considered, not formally getting underway until September 7 (Fernandes 2004, 95). There were numerous moments when it appeared that full-scale conflict could erupt between Interfet and the TNI, but the two most threatening standoffs, landing troops at Dili harbor and on the road to east in the Dili suburb


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or Becora, were resolved after confrontation but without violence. After landing on September 20, under its UN mandate as a peace enforcement mission (Stephens 2005, 62), Interfet began rounding up suspected militia members, while pursuing others heading toward the West Timor border. To September 2000, there were sixteen military engagements with militias and the TNI, most of which resulted in injury or death (Stephens 2005, 67–68), including crossborder incursions, with one further significant engagement that was not officially confirmed (see Kingsbury 2003b). As Stephens noted, “ . . . firefights with armed militia groups escalated from the middle of 2000 onwards and reached particularly high levels of frequency and intensity during the middle to latter part of the year” (Stephens 2005, 69), to which the UN Security Council said that the UNTAET PKF should “respond robustly to the militia threat in East Timor” (UNSC 2000). However, under U.S. pressure, the cross-border incursions effectively ceased, with the militias and the TNI focusing more on the economic opportunities available through cross-border trade and smuggling (see Kingsbury 2003b). When the Australian-led International Force in East Timor (Interfet) arrived in East Timor, most of the territory’s buildings had been burned by the TNI and its proxy militias. Australian troops landed in Dili and within days had spread out to both the mountains to the south to where more than 200,000 East Timorese had fled the orgy of destruction and violence, and toward the west, across the border from which were another 250,000 or so, either ensnaring or pushing the TNI and militia units ahead of them. The border areas had always been among the worst affected by the TNI and militia violence, and militia leaders had claimed after East Timor’s ballot on independence that the two westernmost districts of Bobonaro in the north and Cova Lima to the south should be ceded to Indonesia. This was regardless of these two districts having overwhelmingly voted in favor of independence, and that much of the anti-independence vote there having been cast by residents of West Timor who had been trucked in to register and who had been paid to vote by Indonesian officials.17 Although anti-independence violence and destruction had been on the rise for several months previously, and had become very serious in the weeks leading up to the independence ballot, the wholesale destruction and violence that arrived immediately after the ballot appeared to take the UN by surprise. It should not have, however, given the steady escalation of violence up until that time. It has been widely claimed that the day of the ballot was an island of peace in a sea of violence, and that the wholesale destruction and killing did not take place until after the ballot result was announced. In fact, the killing and

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destruction began at the village of Ritabou, near Maliana, on the afternoon of the ballot, and quickly spread from there. The UN mission in Maliana was closed down in the face of escalating violence the morning after the ballot (despite having told local people that it would not desert them and would stay on), with the UN civilian police (CivPol) leaving two days later. Maliana began to burn as the UN left, a job that was completed as the CivPols left, their own building in flames as they drove away. Dozens of civilians who had taken shelter at the local police headquarters, on the promise that they would be protected there, were butchered by members of the Halilintar militia, backed by the local police who were supposed to guarantee their safety. Dozens, perhaps hundreds more civilians were murdered in the Bobonaro area, while its buildings were all burned. This crime against humanity, in which hundreds were brutally murdered, while under the “protection” of the state, has to date gone entirely unpunished. On October 29, 1999, the withdrawal of Indonesian soldiers that had been taking place since late September was concluded, and the Indonesian flag in East Timor was hauled down. The TNI shuffled back across the border to West Timor, mostly to return to the rest of the archipelago, to make trouble in places such as Aceh, West Papua, Kalimantan, and other of its provinces. They were a humiliated force, angry in their defeat by the will of a people, embarrassed in the eyes of many of their fellow countrymen for both their defeat and the shameful way in which they had acted. In the eyes of the international community, at least briefly, the TNI had become a pariah force that had brought opprobrium upon the state they were supposed to serve and protect. The TNI had reached perhaps their lowest moral point, no longer an instrument of official state policy but an institution profoundly in need to reform, if not tearing up and discarding to be replaced with something that might with some small degree of integrity call itself “the guardian of the people.”

CHAPTER 4


I

n the initial period after Indonesia left East Timor, the place and its people were characterized by desperation at much of their country having been destroyed, but enthusiastic about the future. There was much hope as Interfet forces, UN, and aid agency staff began to land in increasing numbers, and there was a real sense of purpose in the air. In the following months, much of East Timor was a hive of activity as agencies spread out across the half island, reconstruction work began in earnest and UN staff drove about self-importantly in their large, white, four wheel-drives. Most East Timorese still lived under the ubiquitous blue tarpaulins and drank water from large plastic tanks, while the ever-increasing number of malae (foreigners, lit. Malay) snapped up available housing, domestic staff, and anyone who could speak the barest of English. This chapter will consider East Timor not as a site just for UN intervention but, in effect, as a colony of a benign, transitional international power. That is, the UN assumed most of the functions of a colonial power and voluntarily withdrew, if precipitously, according to its own decolonization timelines. An assessment of the UN period of direct administration as a third phase of East Timor’s colonization is reflected in the sometimes ambiguous relationships between East Timorese and the malae, in particular, resentment about the externally imposed control over East Timor’s key decision-making processes. When the UN began to return to East Timor from October 22, 1999, the organization found a territory that had been all but completely razed and a population that was largely missing or, where it remained, terrified. The UN had promised not to leave East Timor following the August 30, 1999 ballot, but had done so in genuine fear of the lives of its members. In many cases, however, it left behind its East Timorese employees, many of whom were murdered by the TNI and its proxy militias in the days after the UN’s withdrawal. The scene of devastation the UN returned to mean that even that rudimentary levels of service that had been available throughout the ballot period has disappeared. And

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not only had the physical infrastructure of the territory been almost completely destroyed, but also the entire administrative apparatus of East Timor had left, so that there were no services of any kind and almost no capacity to locally provide them even if the physical infrastructure had been in place. Prior to the destruction of 1999, the people of East Timor already suffered under an abysmally low physical quality of life. Average life expectancy was just 52 years, around 10 years less than that for the rest of Indonesia, while infant mortality at 149 per 1,000 was among the worst in the world. Its per-capita GDP was $431, or much less than half of Indonesia’s $1,153, and even this was unequally distributed between indigenous Timorese and Indonesians. Even by Indonesia’s already low benchmark for poverty, more than 30 percent of East Timorese lived below the absolute poverty level. Following the destruction of September 1999, an estimated 80 percent of schools and clinics were destroyed, along with three-quarters of administrative buildings (da Costa and Soestasro 2002). Less than a third of the population remained in or near their homes, with the rest scattered into the hills or compelled across the border into West Timor. Markets had been destroyed and transportation either stolen and taken across the border or burned, while telephone communications were nonexistent. Almost all of the trained personnel in East Timor were either Indonesian or sympathetic to Indonesia and had fled across the border, meaning there were almost no trained personnel left in East Timor and no institutions for them to work in. Government records were all but completely stolen or destroyed, while virtually all medical facilities and staff were removed, along with almost all secondary teachers and a large proportion of primary teachers. Having assumed responsibility for East Timor’s referendum on independence and promising that it would not leave in the postindependence period, it was clear to all, in the UN and the rest of the international community, that following the destruction of East Timor and the mass deportation of its people, the UN had primary responsibility for the situation that East Timor now found itself in. There was little question, notably within the UN itself, that it would have to embark on a wholesale state-building exercise, despite carrying other similar exercises in places such as Cambodia and Kosovo, for the first time in its history as a total exercise, and that until a local state apparatus was established, the UN would run East Timor, in effect, as a colony of the world community. The method of the UN’s “benign colonialism” would have a significant impact on how the fledgling state was to develop. Under UN Security Council Resolution 12772 of 1999, the United Nations Transitional Administration in East Timor (UNTAET) was established. UNTAET was intended to provide peacekeeping to maintain security and order; to facilitate and coordinate relief assistance to East Timorese people; to


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facilitate the emergency rehabilitation of East Timor’s physical infrastructure; to administer East Timor and create functional state structures for sustainable governance and the rule of law; and to assist in the drafting of a new constitution and conducting elections. UNTAET was led by the UN Secretary-General’s Special Representative (SRSG), Brazil’s Sergio Vieira de Mello and, after the handover the peacekeeping authority from Interfet, the United Nations’ Peacekeeping Force (PKF) was led by the Philippines’s Lieutenant-General Jaime de los Santos as its Supreme Commander. The handover to the PKF, however, only came after Interfet has secured East Timor, arrested remaining militia members or those it was able to capture before they made good their flight to West Timor, and oversaw the neutralization and withdrawal to barracks of the TNI ahead of the TNI’s ignominious withdrawal. Interfet was a multilateral peaceenforcement operation, led by Australia, which provided the largest contingent and which was responsible for securing the western part of East Timor including Bobonaro and Oecusse districts, and the out of theatre base for operations in Darwin. The Australian battalion was strongly supported by New Zealand, which sent the second largest contingent and took responsibility for the volatile southern half of the border with West Timor in Cova Lima district. France sent a contingent of special forces which joined the combined Australian and New Zealand (ANZAC)1 contingents from the first day of operations, and there were further contingents of varying sizes and durations from Argentina, Bangladesh, Brazil, Canada, China, Denmark, Fiji, Ireland, Italy, Japan, Jordan, Malaysia, New Zealand, Pakistan, Philippines, Portugal, Russia, Singapore, South Korea, Sweden, Thailand, the United Kingdom, and the United States. While the United States supported the transition authority, it did so mainly by underwriting contracts to replace destroyed infrastructure and thus, with one exception,2 avoided a direct military involvement, allowing (indeed, encouraging) the ANZAC-led force to take the lead. The United States did, however, deploy a contingent of American police officers to serve with the International Police (Interpol). As a “colonial” power reluctant to accept its administrative status, and thus preparing to depart from its inception, a key role of the UN was to establish the basic infrastructure of state, along with the requisite capacities for state functionality. That is, the UN saw its primary function as the organization of a state in order to allow it to leave once that state was deemed to be capable independent survival. In this, the preference by UN member states to keep the mission as short as possible, the UN’s own reluctance to be drawn into a longerterm program of colonial authority and from the outset moves by factions of East Timorese elites to capture state power all conspired to ensure that the UN interregnum would be brief to the point of irresponsibility.

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In terms of working toward establishing a viable indigenous state administration, UNTAET was relatively unsuccessful, in that UN administrators overwhelmingly took full control of state functions in the name of efficiency, and imparted few skills. Taking control of most administrative processes, rather than building local capacity in the earlier phases of UNTAET and in the later phases withdrawing before such capacity was established, helped ensure that the administrative structure left behind was weak, inexperienced and inefficient. The record and the capacity of the UN in East Timor was, therefore, mixed. On one hand, the UN was the only organization with the institutional capacity and legitimacy that could engage in a state-building project, and it was able to bring to bear its similar experience in places such as Cambodia, even if many of the lessons learned in Cambodia were not implemented in East Timor. The UN was also the only body functionally capable of taking on a virtual “trusteeship” role in East Timor, under which it did establish the basics of state institutions and a functioning administration. On the other hand, UNTAET suffered from problems of bureaucracy, the sometimes limited capacity of its own staff, who had been selected based on as wide as possible an incorporation of UN national representatives rather than skills, and some of the methods of implementation UNTAET employed in establishing its program. All of this simply compounded the biggest problem that UNTAET faced in its state-building role, which was attempting to complete what by any objective criteria was a long-term project over a short-term time scale. The UN and hence its manifestation in particular missions such as UNTAET was and remains a large, cumbersome, and administratively rigid organization that in many ways replicated the forms of administration found in more bureaucratic states prior to the administrative rationalizations of the 1970s and 1980s. There was also a considerable sense in which the UN and its senior staff were a law unto themselves, being more or less impervious to external calls and complaints, and proceeding with plans regardless of the practicalities, much less the desirability, of their implementation. The UN did not adequately appreciate, and in many respects nor was it properly equipped, to undertake the task of state-building that faced it (Breen 2003). As UNTAET head, de Mello, said, “There was no instruction manual attached to the mandate” (Robinson 2000, 70). The UN had some experience with peacekeeping operations on a short-term basis and did have some degree of transitional function in Cambodia, which was its closest parallel exercise to that time (see Downie 2004). But the UN made a number of errors in its approach to East Timor. Its first error, as noted, was that, like other UN missions, this was to be kept as short as possible (Federer 2005, 75). This meant that the UN set a short timeframe for the implementation of the various aspects of its mission;


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in total it was to last just thirty months. UNTAET began the mission with what in hindsight was an inappropriately security-oriented approach to administration (admittedly allowing for the initially difficult security environment it had only recently left). It also did not understand the long-term requirements of state-building from a start-up position. And, as also noted, UNTAET was inappropriately staffed for the exercise—staff selection based on skills rather than nationality would have produced much better results. And, due to time constraints, UNTAET enacted many and perhaps most of the processes needed to be undertaken rather than imparting such skills over a longer period to be undertaken by the East Timorese themselves. Thus the outline of a state administration was established, but without its substantive content. As Downie (2004) noted, the UN probably should have entered East Timor with a “development” paradigm as its framework for the mission, and worked from this basis from the beginning. Downie has suggested that even the Interfet forces that landed in East Timor should have been briefed on the development as well as security needs of the people they were seeking to assist, a lesson that has become obvious as militaries have increasingly been used for humanitarian as well as security purposes. Downie even went so far as to suggest that the first and most widespread foreign force in East Timor, Interfet should have taken with it not just a military function but, reflecting the changing roles of militaries in peace keeping operations, a development role (Downie 2004). Such a proposition, which appears to have been supported in the shifting orientation of militaries since 1999, meant that the UN have operated more like a large NGO that a large security-focused bureaucracy. It also meant that it should have been able to take advantage of the critical research that had been undertaken on development thinking up to that time. This then relatively recently developed approach included the necessity of grassroots and experiential development and, in particular, sustainable development of the type that could establish structures that would have a positive local impact well after the development agency, in this case the UN, had departed. In this, the UN should have also coordinated more closely with the flood of NGOs that entered East Timor, as something of a cause celebre, in the weeks and months after October 1999. In this respect, the UNTAET mission was not internally integrated nor adequately engaged with the circumstances in which it found itself, had no contingency plans in place for when its central plan was found not to work, had arguably insufficient resources (sufficient annualized funds but insufficient capacity), and inadequate working relationships with the Timorese and other organizations working there at that time. Further, in that UNTAET was based on previous experience, it used the Kosovo mission as its approximate template where, despite the high level of destruction, there were very different levels of

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local capacity and access to resources. Even the UN’s Cambodia mission was based on a pre-existing functioning state. UNTAET was, therefore, at best, an ad hoc operation unsuited to the conditions it confronted (Breen 2003, 209). In large part, the approach of UNTAET to state building in East Timor was determined not only by the UN’s previous experiences and its general mode of operation, but also by the underlying focus of the mission. The UN Department of Peace Keeping Operation (DPKO) had competed with the UN Department of Political Affairs (DPA) as to which would take responsibility for the mission, with the DPKO winning out as a consequence of the TNI and militias’ activities that had forced UNAMET’s departure. The restoration of security was, at the time of these discussions, seen as paramount, particularly after the devastation of September 1999, and the continuing security threat that came from just across the West Timor border. Hence the emphasis of the UNTAET mission was on peacekeeping and reconstruction, and not on state building as such. There was consequently little focus on political development, including institutional capacity building, governance, representation, transparency and accountability that are implied in such a term (see Kingsbury 2007). One outcome of the internal competition between two branches of the UN in New York was that once the DPKO asserted its authority, it thereafter failed—or chose not to—consult with the DPA, which would have been able to offer advice on planning and governance issues. Much less accept it, the DPKO did not even respond to a DPA proposal for a joint planning mission (Suhrke 2001). Apart from some relatively minor albeit challenging incidences, after the deployment of Interfet and its securing East Timor, the security forces had relatively little to do. Certainly along the border, the Australian and New Zealand battalions maintained regular patrols and otherwise engaged in construction projects for local communities. But apart from the replacement of Australian troops in the enclave of Oecussi by seven hundred Jordanian troops in February 2000, most of the other contributing forces had little to do to occupy their time, and thus the security focus of the mission quickly lapsed. In February 2000, the UN recognized the changing security environment and brought Interfet under UNTAET administration as its Peace Keeping Force (PKF). This element of UNTAET’s administration was perhaps its most successful, as a consequence of its prior existence as Interfet, that the principle job the PKF was tasked with was already largely completed, and that the lead forces of Australia and New Zealand already had some experience in studying both East Timor and Indonesia, and had a preexisting small but serviceable local language capacity, which, outside of a few Portuguese speakers and a handful of more junior Indonesian speakers, UNTAET did not.


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But perhaps more importantly, the DPKO orientation of the mission meant that, in keeping with other DPKO missions, financial contributions were based on compulsory member-assessed contributions. This meant that in order to reduce the financial burden on UN-member states that might otherwise be less enthusiastic in their support of the mission, there was, as there almost always is, an emphasis in DPKO missions to keep them to as short a timeframe as possible. At its peak, the DPKO-organised UNTAET mission absorbed around a quarter of the DPKO global budget, with the overall cost of UNTAET being US$3 billion. This aspect alone was to have serious negative consequences, combing a large influx of what was initially a foreign currency over a short timeframe. The UN staff, too, was very largely unsuited to the task at hand, varying from being career UN administrators and hence among the most bureaucratic of the bureaucrats, and technical specialists with little or no understanding of the reconstruction and development context within which they were working. And virtually no-one from the UN had appropriate communications skills, meaning that their engagement with the local community and understanding of their needs was extremely limited. Beyond these more technically competent if culturally underequipped and developmentally unaware staff, a very large number of UN staff employed by UNTAET were brought in on the basis of fulfilling nationality quota requirements. In many cases, however, they were very little better trained than many of the East Timorese they were intended to work on behalf of. That is, the capacity of the UN in East Timor was inconsistent and the bureaucratic nature of the organization meant that where it failed to adequately function, this failure was frequently either not acknowledged, not acted upon, or was buried in a mountain of paperwork. Yet, for its failures of learning lessons from its own experiences, its hidebound bureaucracy, the somewhat imperious attitudes of its senior staff, and the frequent incompetence of its junior staff, the UN was there to build a new state and, with varying degrees of success, build a new state it did. Beyond the UN, international aid agencies also repeated many of the mistakes they had made in aid projects elsewhere. The main mistake made by such agencies was primarily in terms of a lack of sustainability of the projects they had established once the aid providers had left. This, in turn, was compounded by a lack of grassroots engagement by a number of agencies, which came into East Timor with more or less set plans and without adequately engaging with the local population in what they saw as their own needs or how efforts toward meeting those needs could be sustained in the longer term. Especially once the immediate emergency phase was over, there was time enough to consult with local East Timorese. But, like UNTAET, many of the aid agencies lacked adequate communications skills and, in common with many UN workers, undertook their

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role in East Timor in what could only be described as a patronizing manner. This was exacerbated by the sometimes “holier/more knowledgeable-thanthou” attitudes of aid agency staff towards others, itself perhaps reflecting an insecurity that comes from making a living from what are supposed to be “good works.” Meanwhile, East Timor’s local business community was dominated by ethnic Chinese and foreign entrepeneurs out to make quick money from the foreign capital flowing through the aid-driven system. In the first few months of UNTAET’s existence, East Timor was scoured by mostly low-level entrepreneurs and get-rich-quick carpetbaggers, who had a level of cultural and communicative disengagement similar to that of UNTAET but none of the intended benign purpose of the aid agencies. East Timorese labor was cheap, desperate for employment, and easily fired, and conditions were ripe for a new round of local exploitation. Under UNTAET’s mandate, the SRSG had total legislative, judicial, and administrative authority, meaning the office was equivalent to that of a colonial viceroy or traditional king (Chopra 2000). While an advisory council had been established, the SRSG had the final say and ultimate authority over administrative and other decisions. Further, the local population was not consulted about wider decision-making and was excluded from the processes that specifically determined how they were to live. The UN transitional administration may have been essentially benign and well-intended, and working under a range of operation necessities and limitations, but it did engage little with other than a small handful of the East Timorese elite and, with the local population other than recipients, not at all. Having said that, the establishment of a National Consultative Council (NCC) in December 1999 was a genuine, if largely failed, attempt to engage the local population. This organization included seven members from the CNRT, three from non-CNRT political groups, one from the church, and four international staff. There was an attempt to also include local society representatives, but this foundered on a lack of suitable candidates. The NCC consented to a series of regulations required to establish a state administration. Included among these was establishing a legal and judicial system, determining the official currency, creating formal, organized border controls, introducing taxation, and establishing the first consolidated budget for East Timor. However, some CNRT members refused to participate in the NCC, on the grounds that they were not sufficiently included in the final decision-making processes on the allocation of resources, for example, spending on development and infrastructure projects, from which they or people close to them potentially could have benefited. Already, the push for UNTAET to leave East Timor was coming from within, as well as without.


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Finally, a major impact of the UN interregnum was the establishment of the U.S. dollar as East Timor’s official currency on January 24, 2000. The intention of this move was to provide East Timor with currency stability, given that the Indonesian rupiah that had previously been in use remained weak and unstable. While the U.S. dollar has moved compared to other currencies, it has tended to retain its relative strength and, in some respects, is the benchmark currency because of the size and global dominance of the U.S. economy. It was also seen as unwise to expect East Timor to establish and run its own monetary policy, along with the need for currency production, and adopting the U.S. dollar resolved that problem (De Brouwer 2001). Because of this, currency transaction costs were reduced, and loans were available (if desired) at U.S. interest rates. More fully, though, that as a formally decolonizing territory in the throes of becoming a sovereign state, East Timor required a currency that did not automatically become devalued in response to its economic and political problems. Had East Timor, for instance, developed its own currency, there could easily and quickly have been a run on it, crippling the already fragile local economy and, moreover, not being accepted as a negotiable currency by other states. Beyond this, while the Indonesian rupiah would have remained a suitable currency, given the extent of trade with Indonesia and the low level of development of the East Timorese economy, its continued use could have been manipulated by Indonesia should its government become hostile toward East Timor. In this respect, a freeze on access to banknotes or similar measures could have paralyzed the East Timor economy almost immediately. However, while the use of the U.S. dollar was largely for logical reasons, it could also have been seen to benefit the UN, which used the U.S. dollar as its currency of payment and procurement. That is, because of convenience to the UN, which was, in effect, running the territory, in part East Timor adopted the currency of the UN’s convenience. As well as being convenient for the UN, and providing some exchange rate stability, the decision to adopt the U dollar as its official currency also had a number of negative impacts, chief among them was that it increased inflation, which in a directly functional sense further impoverished an already very poor people. That moving to the U.S. dollar would cause inflation was acknowledged by the UNTAET’s Central Payment Office (CPO) prior to its implementation. CPO general manager Fernando De Peralto admitted that, “Shifting from one currency to another with different denominations will create inflation” (La’o Hamutuk 2001; see also Schuler and Stein 2000). This was deemed economic pain that the people of East Timor, already living in dire economic conditions, could endure. The use of the U.S. dollar, along with the significant salary differential between UN and to a lesser extent other expatriate staff and East Timorese also

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had the effect of creating a dual-track economy. The $3 billion that UNTAET cost, at approximately US$1,000 million per month of its operation, had a major impact on the daily lives of ordinary East Timorese attempting to restore some semblance of normality to their severely disrupted lives. Initially after the post-Indonesian period, the currency situation was fluid, with U.S. and Australian dollars being regarded as viable and mutually exchangeable currency along with Indonesian rupiah and being used as such. Shops and market stall-holders all knew the standard rate of conversion between the currencies, and it was conventional to buy an item with dollars and receive change in the smaller-denominated rupiah. However, despite such a system working quite well in, for example, Cambodia and Laos, this somewhat chaotic currency situation was not allowed to last, with UNTAET insisting on the legitimacy of just one currency, the U.S. dollar, and making illegal the use of others. There were a number of consequences of the influx of so much hard currency, the first being that the cost of many basic items rapidly increased. In particular, the cost of rental accommodation dramatically increased in line with UNTAET staff ’s capacity and willingness to pay, meaning that, in an environment in which housing was already in desperately short supply, those with the most money were best accommodated. Conversely, those with the least money were, on balance, worst accommodated, usually under tarpaulins for the first several months, in makeshift housing or in rough shacks constructed of leftovers packaging. The dual-track economy divided the local economy from the international economy, in which “rich” foreigners drove around in expensive cars, lived in (relatively) good accommodation, ate and drank well, largely unable to communicate in a local language, and to a very large extent were removed from the lives of ordinary East Timorese. In particular, the large, white, four-wheel drive cars that many UN personnel drove about in became a particular source of antagonism. These cars would take their air-conditioned passengers from meeting to important meeting, tinted windows wound up, inuring their occupants to the details of the lives they were there to assist. This was set against, as one observer put it, a culture that was “strongly opinionated, impulsive(ly) antagonis(tic) vis-à-vis authorative rule and foreigners, [had a] high rate of post traumatic disorder syndrome, poor notion of citizenship and the good citizen, powerful historical reference and dominant political culture of resistance and occupation, lack of plurality of perspectives and critical analysis, severe practices of corruption and nepotism, dependency syndrome, emerging potential conflicting ideas of political identity and having a high illiteracy rate” (the last point affecting more than half of the population) (Boavida 2001). A deep rich-poor divide creates social and political tensions even in countries where it exists within a single community, but where it was seen to develop


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overwhelmingly between foreigners and locals, especially those reflecting at least some of the above attributes, tensions immediately began to surface. It was unsurprising, then, a few years later, that the windows of the UN’s large, white vehicles became a favorite target of gangs of disaffected, rock-throwing and dart-firing youths. The importation of consumer goods from Australia, Singapore, and elsewhere and, for a brief time at least, the suspension of most trade with Indonesia, also meant that consumer goods became considerably more expensive relative to their pre-September 1999 cost. In 1999 to 2000, inflation leapt to around 200 percent for general goods and by 500 percent for manufactured goods (da Costa and Soesastro 2002), while the economy shrank by between 38 and 45 percent (IMF 2000, JAM 1999). For the overwhelming majority of East Timorese, this meant the capacity to buy goods was decreased beyond that, with a reduction in effective purchasing parity power (PPP). This, in turn, led to greater, not lesser, practical poverty for most East Timorese. The people in large part were forced to retreat to an even more basic economy, built around local subsistence, the importation and distribution of charitable items such as secondhand clothing, household goods, and other equipment. Perhaps inevitably, at least initially, most East Timorese were reduced to being the passive recipients of international charity. As noted by Collier (2001), it is possible for well-managed economies to absorb up to around 15 percent of GDP in foreign capital flows, in this case aid, without destablizing the economy. However, inconsistency in the flow of aid to East Timor complicated by only moderate levels of management meant that it was difficult to moderate the impact of sudden large flows of income on the economy. Especially in the first year but even thereafter, East Timor underwent wild swings and fluctuations as large quantities of foreign cash sloshed into its economy and, very often, back out again. Despite the preponderance of UN staff, the World Bank, the IMF and aid agencies, there appeared to be a real dearth of expertise in understanding how developing economies work, and how they can sustainably develop. The main debate in East Timor until 2007, and beyond, was whether or not East Timor should borrow development funds from a multilateral lender such as the Asian Development Bank. From 2007 this debate shifted focus slightly, to whether or not East Timor should access its petroleum fund, the interest from which was increasingly underpinning the costs of running government. There was, however, little understanding of macroeconomic sustainability— refusing to take loans or not tap the petroleum fund was arguably the most basic and simple economic decision, but hardly a plan in its own right. Further, microeconomic variables were almost completely absent for what passed for

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planning, although to be fair there was precious little microeconomic substance to draw on. However, given that East Timor was effectively an economic tabula rasa little thought was given to other than falling back on coffee production— that last commodity a developing country would want to rely on but which East Timor had in commercial quantities—and hoped for income from the petroleum fund. Perhaps there are no complete answers to development questions, but with all the expertise and experience the international community has gathered in the post–World War II period one might have hoped that it was not continually necessary to reinvent the development wheel, and to repeat the mistakes of previous interventions. Beyond this, aid was not always used productively and very often spent on externally sourced goods and skills otherwise unavailable in East Timor. There were realistic claims that up to 40 percent of the funds allocated to East Timor ended up quickly leaving the country by way of consultant’s inflated salaries, overhead, tied grants, and external purchases. Even much of the money spent by UN staff within East Timor was spent on imported consumer goods which meant all but the profit margin flowed back out again, while other money in the form of salaries was repatriated (see Russell 2008, ch. 2.3). This meant that while there were relatively high levels of income and aid coming in to East Timor, much of it was having at best a marginal impact on the people it was intended to assist. Set against a backdrop of one of the lowest per-capita GDPs in the world (and the poorest in Southeast Asia), the “dollarization” of the East Timorese economy and the massive influx of foreign cash had the combined effect of pushing up prices and the consequent cost of labor, meaning that East Timor’s economy was out of synchronization with parallel economies (notably that of Indonesia). As a consequence, any hope that East Timorese might have had of establishing an export economy other than in the field of dollar-denominated coffee or hydrocarbons (oil and gas) were dashed upon the rocks of an uncompetitive cost structure made worse by limited skills, a tiny and impoverished domestic market, and inadequate infrastructure. East Timor’s tourism potential, for example, based on its natural if rugged beauty, was undermined by a very high cost structure for accommodation, meals, and transport set against inadequate or no infrastructure, usually poor service and an at times unstable political climate. As a consequence, the experience of liberation from Indonesia proved to be a very mixed blessing; Indonesia had gone and East Timor’s people no longer lived in fear of an oppressive security apparatus, but the country was largely destroyed, unemployment had jumped with the loss of Indonesian-originating jobs, in particular around seven thousand jobs for East Timorese in the Indonesian


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bureaucracy, the price of most goods had leapt while the currency that was in use was largely out of reach of many, perhaps most, East Timorese. Not surprisingly, it was from around this time that some East Timorese began to ask if liberation from Indonesia had been worth the many sacrifices, given that it produced so little tangible benefit. Set against the determination of the resistance struggle for so many years, the hopes of liberation and the heightened expectation of the ballot period, the disappointment and bitterness of many people was palpable. Drawing on deep traditions of ritualized violence and set against a culture in which domestic violence, in particular, remained common (the focus of a later UNTAET campaign), increasing desperation, and alienation pushed many youths into localized gangs, for belonging, for security, and, very often, for profit. It was at this time that East Timor also saw the renewed appearance of quasimystical, quasi-criminal nonstate groups, some with links back to the resistance movement, including Sagrada Familia (Sacred Family) based on former resistance commander L7’s group around Baucau, the Conselho Popular de Defesa da Republica Democratica de Timor Leste (Popular Council for the Defense of the Democratic Republic of Timor-Leste, or CPD-RDTL), and Colimau 2000 which had its base in Atsabe and the northwestern region of East Timor. Of these groups, Sagrada Familia, founded in 1989 as a breakaway resistance group, was primarily located in and around Laga in the Baucau region and to a lesser extent in Los Palos, and combined religious mysticism, blending Catholicism and animist beliefs, welfare for former veterans and petty criminal activity, principally around extortion. At its peak, around 2002, this organization claimed around 5,000 members, and was opposed to the Fretilin government led by what it referred to as outsiders. CPD-RDTL had its origins in the late 1980s, when its precursor group split from Fretilin and other elements of the resistance. Founded in 1999, it rejected the UN’s role in East Timor and the subsequent elections, claiming that East Timor had become independent in 1975. It also rejected the use of Portuguese as an official language. Confusingly, however, CPD-RDTL promoted the idea that East Timor could only achieve true independence by reuniting with Indonesia and then seeking a new way forward toward independence. At its peak, around 2000 to 2001, it counted around 6,600 members, including former Falintil veterans, unemployed youths, and some former militia members. Similar in outlook to these organizations, Colimau 2000 was an animist/ criminal sect that combined former Falintil veterans, unemployed and illiterate youths, impoverished peasants, and former militia members, with allegations of links across the border into West Timor-based former East Timor militia camps. Based on the Hatolia subdistrict southwest of Dili and named after a Bunak

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village in Bobonaro, this Bunak-speaking organization believed that dead independence fighters would return to life to lead them, although it also had links to local Catholic priests. Colimau 2000 was part of CNRT until August 1999, when it split, and was thus not part of CNRT when that organization assumed de facto subgoverning status under UNTAET. It was involved in a number of disturbances, and in 2003 was attacked by the police, during which a number of members were arrested in allegedly brutal circumstances. After having been accused of being involved in riots in Dili, Colimau 2000 later changed its name to Movement for National Unity and Justice (MUNJ) and was involved in significant violence against Fretilin members in Dili and Liquica during the 2007 elections. Other organizations similar to these noted included Orsnaco, located in the Manufahi area and affiliated with Colimau 2000, and Forcas Falintil, located in Ailieu and intended to develop a parallel government and military but continuing with Falintil’s original clandestine structure. Forcas Falintil was believed to regard Sagrada Familia in oppositional terms (see Scambary 2006a, 12–14). East Timor’s economic problems and, in particular, the poor light in which some of the international community was held, were worsened during Australia’s negotiations with the UNTAET and later the new government over an agreement on where seabed boundaries between the two countries lay. Australia had been awarded generous concessions in the Timor Sea by the Indonesian government in exchange for recognizing East Timor’s incorporation into Indonesia. However, this “Zone of Cooperation” agreement was well outside any acceptable legal framework, and clearly a cozy arrangement whereby Australia benefitted from greater access to Timor Sea resources than was otherwise its due by selling out East Timorese claims to independence (see Cotton 2004, 102–9; Fonteyne 1999, Peacock 1978). Once East Timor separated from Indonesia, however, all this changed. Of the disputed areas, “Area A” of the Zone of Cooperation, renamed as the Joint Petroleum Development Area (JPDA), was to go to East Timor, with 10 percent returning to Australia. Given that the JPDA falls within what would ordinarily be regarded, under international law, as East Timorese sovereign waters, this was a significant victory for Australia, brought about through a high level of pressure on other Australian aid to East Timor. However, Australia continued to press the issue, through what was called the International Unitization Agreement, which allocated 20.1 percent of the highly productive Greater Sunrise field to the JPDA. However, most of the Greater Sunrise field falls outside the JPDA, but well within what should otherwise be East Timorese territorial waters but that had been signed to Australia by Indonesia. Further disputes between Australia and East Timor continued, principally over the allocation


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of funds from Australian-run fields outside the JPDA but within what should have been East Timor’s sovereign waters, both to the east and west of the JPDA. The matter was partially settled only in 2006, with the signing of the Treaty on Certain Maritime Arrangements in the Timor Sea (CMATS) when Australia and East Timor agreed to a fifty-fifty split of the revenues from the Greater Sunrise field, with other matters of dispute being deferred for fifty years. The matter was settled for the interim, although on terms that made a mockery of international law, and which rewarded might over right (see Cleary 2007). Australia’s standing in East Timor, once high after the Interfet intervention, had sunk to a new low, which was to play out in events soon after the signing of the CMATS treaty. Finally, while not directly a consequence of UNTAET’s benign neocolonialism, from the earliest post-Indonesian days, there developed in East Timor a linguistic and later political divide between English and Portuguese language speakers. In this, the greatest tension existed between the two greatest contributors to the non–UNTAET presence, Australia and Portugal. In the first instance, many Portuguese who had come to East Timor did so out of a deep and genuine concern for those they understood to be their Lusophone cousins. Many were deeply disappointed to find that not only was Portuguese not widely spoken, it was hardly spoken at all, while Portuguese culture had, beyond religion, only touched Timorese culture in the most superficial and tangential of ways. Moreover, given that UNTAET conducted its operations in English and was the single biggest employer in East Timor, and that most NGOs used English as their working language, East Timorese who voluntarily chose to learn a new language generally opted for English. There was also some competition between Portuguese and Australian troops in East Timor, especially in 2000 when there remained a genuine militia threat. Indeed, in September 2000, this threat was manifested just across the border in the militia stronghold town of Atambua, where militia members attacked the office of the UN High Commissioner for Refugees (UNHCR), murdered three UNHCR personnel, and burned down its office. The UNHCR subsequently closed down its operations in West Timor. In what only reinforced Indonesia’s culture of impunity, six militiamen were later jailed by an Indonesian court for a maximum of twenty months for the murders. There was a further clash on June 14, 2001, when between five and eight men in uniform attacked an Australian army patrol, 4 Section, 2 Platoon, Alpha Company, 4 Royal Australian Regiment, near the Indonesian border. The attacking force was believed to be Kopassus members, who used automatic weapons and grenades in the attack (Uzunov 2008).

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The Australian battalion was based in Bobonaro on the West Timor border and engaged in daily patrols. The Portuguese battalion, by comparison, was based in Dili. Portuguese soldiers were more neatly dressed than their Australian counterparts, which led to some critical comments between them. Australian soldiers replied that if they were less neatly dressed, that was because they were on patrol in the field, instead of swanning about in Dili’s coffee shops and bars. Some of the competition between Australians and Portuguese around the issue of language also led to poor relations between many among the East Timorese political elite who usually preferred to speak Portuguese, and the overwhelmingly English speaking UNTAET staff. The East Timorese elite tended to push for more Portuguese speakers in UNTAET, regardless of their other qualifications for the job. In some cases this also had negative consequences for the employment of suitably qualified staff. Early in the reconstruction phase, a significant number of exiles returned to East Timor, in many cases hoping to contribute to the reconstruction process and very often expecting or hoping for a job with UNTAET. In most cases these returned expatriates were frustrated, mostly because UNTAET had brought in most of its staff and where it employed locals it required recent local knowledge, which the expatriates did not have. Further, despite often having a relatively good impression of their own skills and abilities, many expatriates who returned to East Timor brought with them few practical skills; having been sent into exile and perhaps being politically active might have provided a warm inner glow, but it did little to give substance to an employment-focused curriculum vitae. Not all expatriates, however, felt out of place upon their return to East Timor. Many came back and found employment, started new businesses or, in a few rare cases, picked up the threads of businesses that had been abandoned decades previously. But these were few, and most only found desolation, what they perceived to be an insensitive bureaucracy, and a gap in their own local experience relative to that of those who had not left. Increasingly, the frustration of some of these expatriates led to calls for the closure of UNTAET, which they described as another form of colonialism, and a speedy return to East Timorese sovereignty from which, presumably, they would be better positioned to benefit. This discontent among returned expatriates fed into that also being felt and increasingly expressed by other East Timorese who continued to subsist at often unsustainably low levels. In particular, those returning from the hills, or from refugee camps across the border, often came back to find the tarpaulin-covered shells of their homes occupied by others, the jobs they might have once had disappeared, or their other means of livelihood no longer available. The internally displaced and alienated, used


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at best to only clandestine activity and with relatively limited language skills, found it difficult to communicate with UNTAET; the expatriates had greater language skills and were more open to speaking and organizing in public. The two came together over their grievances, with the expatriates tending to acquire a type of representative status, poorly constructed though that often was. After having at first been overlooked, many expatriates did acquire the elite status that they had in many cases believed was theirs as due payment for their time in exile (see Federer 2005, 88). When the CNRT announced, in March 2000, that Portuguese was to be East Timor’s official language, there was something akin to incomprehension among Australians and other English speakers in East Timor. Why, they asked, would such a small and vulnerable country adopt the language of a tiny European state that had no relevance in global affairs? English was, after all, the de facto global language. In part, this reflected, though, most Australians’ own poor language skills, as well as a self-congratulatory view that Australia had “saved” East Timor. Interestingly, following a 1998 decision by the CNRT, at the CNRT congress in August 2000, at which the decision on language was made, the vote from the floor was to adopt Indonesian as the language of state affairs. More East Timorese spoke Indonesian than any other language, the whole of East Timor’s locally educated class had been educated in Indonesian, and Indonesian with minor variations was the lingua franca for the region in which East Timor was located. However, this preference was overturned by the executive of the meeting, in line with existing CNRT policy and reflecting the growing grip on political power by the small and largely expatriate emerging elite. Portuguese and Tetum were made official languages, with English and Indonesian to be “working” languages. In part, this decision reflected opposition to the use of the “colonial” language of Indonesian, and the neocolonialism of English, as well as the support that Portugal had given the resistance, particularly since 1991. But the decision also and perhaps more pointedly reflected the predominance of Portuguese-speaking exiles in the CNRT executive, along with senior former fighters who had been educated in Portuguese. The move was further rationalized by Portugal’s commitment to supporting primary education in East Timor, which Australia and other countries failed to do directly. As a colonial language spoken by perhaps 5 percent of the population in 1975, the move to use Portuguese as the official language was not only controversial but separated members of the Portuguese-speaking elite and the few Lusophonic government officials and judiciary from the overwhelming majority of non–Portuguese speakers, as well as doing little to encourage a sense of unity among East Timorese. Indeed, many of the judiciary who were trained

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in Portugal little understood the language in which they were instructed, and were thus poorly able to implement the legal code written in that language. Defendants and petitioners to the court also rarely spoke Portuguese, meaning the language of rule of law separated the practice of law from most people. In order to develop a sense of national unity, East Timor is still to resolve its language issue, and must settle on one language and embark on a major literacy campaign in that language.3 This linguistic divide was also to play out in political terms. Many Australians who flocked to East Timor in the early period of reconstruction were little more than carpetbaggers, intent on making as much money as quickly as possible and then getting out. The large majority of these Australians were tradesmen and small contractors from Darwin, who, in too many cases, exemplified some of the less attractive or sophisticated aspects of Australian culture. This too led to resentment by many East Timorese, as well as to some patronizing Portuguese assessments of Australians, and entrenching elements of a chauvinistic Australian-Portuguese rivalry. If many Portuguese thought that Australians lacked style, many Australians felt that the Portuguese lacked substance. But most importantly, Australian political stocks plummeted as a consequence of its hard-line position over seabed boundaries and the subsequent allocation of access to oil and gas reserves in the Timor Gap. English, associated with Australia, became unpopular with Fretilin and “nationalists,” while Portugal was keen to express its opposition to Australia’s position on the seabed boundary dispute and hence became identified with the “nationalist” position. This divide became more serious in 2006, when Fretilin generally and its leader and prime minister Mari Alkatiri in particular came under sustained criticism from Australian media and politicians. As Fretilin continued to portray itself as the only true party of liberation, Australia was increasingly portrayed, with some justification, as a neocolonial ogre. Even within Australia, those who aligned themselves with Fretilin also adopted a pro–Portuguese language position, despite its imposition had been in contravention of a democratic vote. But perhaps more importantly, while the decision to adopt Portuguese came to be increasingly accepted, especially as a Portuguese language education campaign began to take some hold, the executive decision in the face of a popular organizational vote reflected a distinct tendency toward elite decision making. This division between East Timor’s political elites and its maubere people began to be identified in the political rivalries between elite figures, which were ultimately to push the country to the brink of collapse. In the meantime, as UNTAET ran East Timor as a benign if not especially competent colonial power, East Timor’s elites positioned themselves ahead of elections for a National


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Consultative Council that was ultimately to be transformed into the country’s first parliament. Meanwhile, the people continued to struggle to rebuild their lives from the meager resources that were sometimes at their disposal. Mostly, though, they had no resources, and barely managed to survive at all. Toward the end of UNTAET’s first year, the sense of optimism, not to say euphoria, on the part of both the East Timorese people and UNTAET staff had waned, to be replaced by a sense of disillusionment and frustration. The high hopes that had greeted UNTAET’s arrival, and its own hopes for rebuilding a country out of nothing, foundered on the slow pace of reconstruction and development, the social and professional disconnect between most malae and East Timorese. Large, white, four-wheel drive cars and relatively expensive restaurants and cafes became symbols of removal from the mostly pedestrian Timorese, continuing high unemployment, especially among urban youths, limited income set against rapidly escalating prices, and a sense that UNTAET was implementing a program that it believed the people of East Timor either needed or wanted, but which, for the most part, it had little way of knowing. In response to this growing disenchantment, the SRSG Sergio Vieira de Mello moved to appoint East Timorese as deputy district administrators in each of the thirteen districts and to deputy positions in what had become government departments. This process, however, took time, given a lack of suitably qualified East Timorese personnel. Pressure from local political leaders led to the replacement of the National Consultative Council in July 2000, by the National Council, being expanded to thirty-six members, including a representative from each of East Timor’s thirteen districts. Inaugurated on October 23, all members of the National Council were East Timorese, representing the main political parties, churches, women’s and youth groups, with Xanana Gusmao as its Speaker. The National Council took on quasi-legislative type functions, with the right to debate future regulations issued by UNTAET. To assist in decision making, in August a Transitional Cabinet was established as an executive body, comprising four East Timorese and four international members. As UNTAET and CNRT began to develop a structure that it hoped that new state could be based upon. In August 2000, they established the East Timor Transitional Authority (ETTA), headed by the Transitional Administrator. The establishment of the National Council, ETTA and the Transitional Cabinet were positive steps in terms of UNTAET’s “Timorization” of decisionmaking. Long time observer of East Timor politics, Helen Hill, saw UNTAET’s “Timorization” program as having parallels to Portugal’s own plans for decolonization. “I was surprised to see so many similarities between the program of UNTAET and that which the Portuguese had planned for decolonization in 1974 to 1975 . . . The Portuguese set up committees for decolonization of the

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economy, of education, of administration. They had plans for appointed East Timorese cabinet members in a transitional cabinet and for a quasi-parliament, not unlike the National Council of 2000 to 2001,” (Hill 2002, xiii). In this, Hill, tended to romanticize if not the newly liberalized Portugal’s broad intentions toward its colonies, then at least the concrete plans that were in place at this time. Some among Portugal’s colonial administration believed that East Timor’s incorporation into Indonesia was a practical and, therefore, desirable outcome. Those who promoted the establishment of East Timorese political parties either did so from the safe distance of Lisbon or, more locally, did so through preferential associations with local elite figures. However, while Hill drew parallels between East Timor’s decolonization process under Portugal and that under the UN, she appeared to side with East Timor’s emerging political elites that appeared to be increasingly intent on capturing state power. Faced with the immediate tasks of coordinating the physical reconstruction of East Timor, with establishing a functional state administration and imparting a range of complex skills to an emerging bureaucracy that commonly lacked even the most rudimentary capacity, UNTAET was fully focused on the task of ensuring the emerging state’s survival. Yet many among the international activist/solidarity community were also impatient to see the idealized aim of independence manifested as soon as possible. In this, Hill asked if what she and some of the local emerging elite viewed as a lack of discussion about the term “decolonization” was a result of it already having taken place with the act of self-determination on August 30, 1999, or the collapse of colonial structures with the departure of Indonesian forces and the arrival of Intefet. “Or,” she asked, conspiratorially, “is the real reason that UNTAET itself is a colonial structure, as some Timorese argue, and refuses to recognize that it is” (Hill 2002, xiii–xiv). UNTAET was a type of colonial structure, albeit a necessary, temporary and largely benign one. But, unlike more conventional colonial structures, UNTAET did not have ulterior motives for its “colonialism,” it did not exploit the local population or their resources, it did not attempt to “colonize” East Timor in the sense of establishing a continuing alien colony and it did not intend to stay for any longer than was absolutely necessary to fulfill its internationally approved mandate. UNTAET was, of course, an external administrative authority; short of East Timor not having any state capacity at all and hence immediately constituting “failed state” status, there was no choice but to accept its global mandate to oversee the building of the state that was to succeed it. Yet despite Hill asking if UNTAET equated to colonialism, she also stated that, “The Portuguese believed they were in a process of handing over power to the Timorese political parties in a way that is remarkably similar to what


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UNTAET believes it is doing today” (Hill 2002, xiii). If this assertion is correct, perhaps the greatest commonality between the withdrawal of Portugal and the UN from East Timor was the precipitous and largely self-serving manner in which both largely abandoned the fledgling state to its fate. There was, at this time at least, a claim by some local elites that they should assume state authority. But such claims were based very much more on their desire for power and much less on their own capacity to run a state, not to mention the almost entire absence of administrative capacity that existed below this self-serving, self-proclaimed and premature bid for power. If UNTAET’s “Timorization program could be regarded as largely benign and, broadly designed with the best intentions (not withstanding its occasional ineptitude and the often naked self-interest of its constituent members), they also contained problems. The first problem was that the process by which the National Council and Transitional Cabinet was chosen was not democratic. The elite figures who were appointed to these bodies were argued to represent the main parties and other institutions that comprised East Timorese political society. But, given that many of them were among those elites that had interposed themselves ahead of East Timorese who had stayed throughout the occupation and the UN and other agencies, their capacity for representation was, in significant part, self-defined. Thus such elites, often external to the previous quarter century’s history of the territory, were further entrenched in the political process of the fledgling state. Many of these individuals also lacked the type of organizational capacity that might have otherwise been expected of the positions they were appointed to, meaning that some and perhaps many of the decisions that they did make did not reflect the best possible judgment or awareness of or concern for longer-term consequences. One of the failures of judgment exercised by many of the new political elite was to ensure that friends, political colleagues, and family were appointed to a number of senior positions or handed lucrative contracts, regardless of their capacity to be able to fulfill the terms of such jobs or contracts. While this behavior reflected traditional patronage processes, it also engendered a culture of corruption that most had hoped would have ended with the removal of the Indonesian administration. These types of problems were typical of the situation in many postcolonial states, but which many had hoped would be avoided in East Timor given the benefit of both hindsight and the significant presence of the international community. The final problem was, as a transitional authority, these bodies further pressed for East Timor’s quick progress to independence, at a time when they should have been making overtures to the UN and others to stay for very much longer in order to put in place and ensure the working capacity institutions the state required to be functionally autonomous. Apart from the international presence in East Timor,

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however, there was almost no capacity to run a state and no economy, other than that generated by the international community, with which to sustain it. The emphasis on a quick transition to self-determination and independence pushed by the country’s essentially undemocratic elite had the effect of playing to UN member countries that wished to rid themselves of the responsibility and cost for East Timor’s operations while at the same time as compromising the country’s democratic credentials. Few in the new elite properly understood what democracy meant, which was a problem to persist up to the present time, and even fewer had a meaningful commitment to it as either a core principle or as an operating method. Thus when political disputes arose, as they inevitably did, the various responses to them were not in line with arbitrated dispute resolution via agreed methods, respect for the law or for the option of political change as a means of resolving differences. The responses instead quickly devolved into confrontation, intimidation and, finally, violence. One of the first decisions that the Transitional Cabinet made was, in September, to approve the establishment of the East Timor Defense Force (Forcas Defesa Timor-Leste), formally established in February 2001, marking the disbanding of the former Falintil. In the face of opposition from some former Falintil members over the disbanding of a force that had already long served the people of East Timor, the new force was to be known as Falintil-FDTL. However, from the outset, F-FDTL caused problems. The first concern with the F-FDTL was whether it was at all necessary. While Falintil had kept alive the hope of independence for the people of East Timor, the new force of less than two thousand soldiers could not represent a credible deterrence to any external aggression, which was, moreover, guaranteed by the international community. In response, senior F-FDTL leaders argued that the international community had abandoned East Timor in the past and might do so again in the future. Their links, too, to the rest of the resistance were strong, so their arguments in favor of continuing to have a military force were persuasive. Yet from the outset, F-FDTL proved to be problematic, and was to get worse, leading the state to the brink of collapse in 2006. In the first instance, many of Falintil’s fighters were getting old, often suffered from medical ailments or injuries sustained during the resistance and otherwise lacked conventional criteria for inclusion in a standing army. What they had brought to the resistance was dedication, toughness, loyalty, and survival skills; many were soon to learn that these were only some of the qualities required by a professional standing army, and that they were unable to meet others. As a result, many of the existing members of Falintil were not selected to progress into F-FDTL, causing a deep well of bitterness and resentment. It was not until early 2008 that these former fighters, and others who could establish that they


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had actively participated in the resistance, became eligible for a government grant to assist them in their transition to civilian life or retirement. Training of F-FDTL was handed over to the international military, primarily although not exclusively the Australian army, while equipment was principally supplied by the United States. However, it quickly became apparent that communications between trainers and the trained was poor, that skills were not being completely imparted or according to the timelines laid down for the training process and that, most importantly, preexisting members of Falintil had begun to distinguish themselves from new recruits. It was this latter aspect, and the geographic separation of most of the older soldiers from and to the east and the newer recruits from and to the west, along with mounting evidence of discrimination, that led to a deep and ultimately disastrous split within the F-FDTL. But even before the split, signs were emanating from the F-FDTL that it wanted to have a political role in the state, which was a worrying sign for anyone familiar with the role of militaries in newly independent postcolonial states facing a series of difficult challenges. More positively, from late 2000, there was progress toward establishing a local judicial system, if initially confusion over which legal code East Timor was to follow. At the beginning, and as a convenience, East Timor employed the preexisting Indonesian judicial canon. This, however, proved to be problematic, given that many of its statutes were designed to control the population, that it was incomplete in its own right, that it was drawn from different and sometimes competing legal traditions (the Napoleonic Code, wartime Japan, local law and traditional law) and was thus internally inconsistent and incoherent, and that there were no local staff adequately trained in it. Similarly, as displaced people and refugees began returning, there were disputes over land ownership, with claims and counter-claims being made on the basis of preIndonesian ownership, ownership during the Indonesian period, and simple possession. UNTAET quickly decided, in order to simplify matters, that ownership under Indonesia would be regarded as the legitimate claim. Problems arose, however, as a result of the destruction of almost all of the documents of proof of ownership, along with historically poor and indistinct demarcation of land boundaries and, consequently, numerous overlapping claims. Progress was made with the development of a judicial system (later to run into language and training problems), with a Prosecutor General’s Office and a Defender Service established. At around the same time, District Courts and a Court of Appeal were also established, putting into place the framework of legal environment upon which the state would come to heavily rely as its principle independent adjudicator.

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Problems immediately arose, however, with the law and the training of lawyers and judges. Initially, as judges were required to adjudicate in East Timor’s official language of Portuguese, they were sent to Portugal for training. Yet few of the candidates for training could speak Portuguese, and very rarely at a level proficient to understand the complexities of legal training. So, many returned to East Timor culturally enriched by their visit to Portugal, but legally little the wiser. Beyond this, the process of adjudication in courts was similarly conducted in Portuguese, a language spoken by perhaps 5 percent of the adult population at this time, which meant that the overwhelming majority of ordinary East Timorese were effectively shut out of due legal process. Finally, criminal law in East Timor remained confused not only in application but also in principle. As noted, criminal law in East Timor required “significant improvement, as their texts are not in line with the criminal law tradition and theory and, in particular, with the tradition and theory of civil law countries to which East Timor belongs. Moreover, the deviations from the criminal law tradition and theory in practice hinder the operation of criminal justice and the protection of legal interests in East Timor” (Girginov 2008). This problem had only been partially addressed by the end of 2008. Among the most important steps to be taken in the period before 2002 was voter registration ahead of the election of a Constituent Assembly that would have the task of preparing East Timor for formal independence, and would then become the country’s first legislature. At this time, there were debates about whether or not East Timor required new elections for its Constituent Assembly in order to transform it into the country’s first legislature, or if the vote for the Constituent Assembly sufficiently constituted such a vote. Xanana Gusmao argued in favor of new elections, saying they should be held concurrently with the presidential elections scheduled for 2002. However, Fretilin’s Mari Alkatiri and Francisco “Lu-Olo” Guterres argued against new elections, saying that the money spent on them would be better spent on reconstruction and other development projects. These competing perspectives reflected the interests that both parties had in the outcome of such an election. With the vote for the Constituent Assembly having been held and Fretilin taking a majority, it did not wish to jeopardize its position by going to a further ballot. Conversely, Gusmao had much to gain by a further election, and very little to lose. On August 30, 2001, exactly two years after the ballot on independence, elections for a Constituent Assembly were held across the country. Its eightyeight members were to comprise seventy-five national representatives and thirteen district representatives. Voter turnout was high, at over 90 percent, and the ballot was conducted in a peaceful atmosphere. Candidates from Fretilin took 57.4 percent of the vote, which while a convincing majority, was much less than


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it had anticipated. However, because Fretilin won a majority across numerous individual electorates, it gained fifty-five of the eighty-eight seats, or two-thirds of those available. The Democratic Party, representing elements of the youth/ student wing of the resistance, gained seven seats on 8.7 percent of the vote, with the Social Democratic Party (reconstituted from UDT, which continued to exist in its own right) taking six seats with 8.2 percent of the vote, as did the ASDT with 7.8 percent of the vote. Eight smaller parties and one nonpartisan candidate took the remaining fourteen seats. The task of the Constituent Assembly was to draft and complete a constitution for the new state. The constitution, drafted in Portuguese, closely followed the Portuguese model, choosing a unicameral legislature with a parliamentary executive, and a largely ceremonial presidency4. In fact, the group that accompanied Mari Alkatiri back from Mozambique to East Timor brought with it a draft constitution for East Timor, largely written while in Mozambique. It was only slightly modified once it was presented in East Timor. The decision, reflected in the constitution, to opt for a largely ceremonial as opposed to executive presidency came from two sources. The first was, with a significant majority in the Constituent Assembly, Fretilin wanted to be assured that it would control political power when it was converted into a legislature and to do that it needed to ensure that executive authority stayed where it already had power. This preference was further compelled by Fretilin’s knowledge of the very high likelihood of success of Xanana Gusmao in his own bid for the presidency, and the now well-established antipathy between Gusmao and the Fretilin leadership. At the same time, there was also concern that an executive presidency could return East Timor to a type of despotic rule similar to that experienced in Indonesia under President Suharto. In the short term, a competent and benign executive president might be a good option for a small and somewhat fractured country. However, once such a system was in place, there were no guarantees that the presidency might not one day be captured by a politician who was less competent or benign, with disastrous consequences for the political life of the country. Illustrating the potential for such problems to arise,5 Xanana Gusmao, as then recently resigned speaker of the National Consultative Council, handpicked three supporters to help draft a constitution to be promulgated after, not before, the then proposed 2001 elections. UNTAET political insiders at that time said Gusmao’s version of the draft constitution would have formalized his highly centralized authority, while precluding the usual checks and balances expected in a plural political framework. This was at a time when Xanana had also exploited his close association with the head of UNTAET, Sergio Viera de Mello, for what appeared to be personal political gain. Gusmao had used his

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Table 4.1 Summary of the August 30, 2001, National Parliament of East Timor election results Parties

%

Seats

Revolutionary Front for an Independent East Timor (Frente Revolucionaria do Timor Leste Independente)

Votes

57.4

55

Democratic Party (Partido Democrático)

8.7

7

Social Democratic Party (Partido Social Democrata)

8.2

6

Timorese Social Democratic Association (Associacao SocialDemocrata Timorense)

7.8

6

Timorese Democratic Union (União Democrática Timorense)

2.4

2

Timorese Nationalist Party (Partido Nacionalista Timorense)

2.2

2

Association of Timorese Heroes (Klibur Oan Timor Asuwain)

2.1

2

People’s Party of Timor (Partido do Povo de Timor)

2.0

2

Christian Democratic Party (Partido Democrata Cristao)

2.0

2

Socialist Party of Timor (Partido Socialista de Timor)

1.8

1

Liberal Party (Partai Liberal)

1.1

1

Christian Democratic Party of Timor (Partido DemocrataCristao de Timor)

0.7

1

Nonpartisan

1

Total (turnout 91.3%)

88

Source: UNTAET

friendship with de Mello to campaign across the territory, requesting helicopter flights to different provincial towns which de Mello arranged, at US$10,000 a day. But choosing to stay with “his people” overnight, Gusmao required two sets of flights per visit, at US$20,000. This was not a luxury afforded to any of Xanana’s political competitors6 And which raised concern both over the advantages being offered to Gusmao and to hints of a potentially nonaccountable political style. A key theme of Gusmao’s campaigning at this time was his idea of a government of national unity. This “national unity” could have provided respite from East Timor’s then recent bitter history, and there was at this time considerable public skepticism about an adversarial party process. But there was also a growing concern, within the parties and within sections of UNTAET, that competing parties, delegitimized, would lead to the creation of a functional one-party state under Gusmao’s tutelage. The party of state would have been the CNRT,7 or what at that time had become its functionally empty shell. Concerns over the political style of such a government were exacerbated by then growing complaints that Gusmao, de Mello, and their representatives had directly intervened in East Timor’s legal process, in particular, by ordering the release of prisoners held over


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the events of 1999. So, when the Constituent Assembly had the opportunity to draft a new constitution, it chose a model that denied an executive presidency, and effectively sidelined Gusmao, who had already committed himself to running for that office. The draft constitution was duly approved by the Constituent Assembly in February 2002, announcing presidential elections for April 2002. In order to give the election some semblance of democratic process, East Timor’s first president, Francisco Xavier do Amaral, agreed to run in opposition to Xanana Gusmao. Amaral received 17.31 percent of the vote; Gusmao received 82.69 percent. Gusmao was overwhelmingly elected to an office that had virtually no power, and which, as a consequence, he no longer wanted. As discussion and debate about the content of East Timor’s new constitution consumed most attention, there was raised the question as to whether the Constituent Assembly had, in fact, been elected to become the new government, or if it had just been elected to draft the constitution. That was, after drafting the constitution, should East Timor hold new elections to determine its government. Recognizing that he was in the process of being outflanked by Fretilin, Gusmao argued in public that the people of East Timor should be allowed a formal vote for government. Having lost the debate prior to the Constituent Elections, Gusmao’s chances of winning such a debate after the elections receded. Some in UNTAET, particularly those close to Gusmao, viewed the transformation of the Constituent Assembly into the Legislative Assembly as a democratic travesty, given the lack of prior agreement around the purpose of the Constituent Assembly elections and the unpreparedness of some parties to adequately contest that ballot. Others, however, including in UNTAET, were quite happy to allow the transformation of a constitutional body into a legislative one, in part because they believed such an outcome adequately reflected the wishes of the majority of East Timorese, in part because UNTAET was under pressure to accept this arrangement from East Timorese elites who stood to gain from such an outcome, and in part because such an outcome could hasten the departure of the UN from East Timor. In the meantime, East Timor established its Truth and Reconciliation Commission, Indonesia inaugurated a human rights court to investigate the atrocities of 1999, which was to produce virtually no results, and East Timor and Indonesia took a step toward normalizing relations. On May 20, 2002, East Timor formally declared its independence, the Constituent Assembly became East Timor’s first government, and UNTAET ended, to be replaced by the UN Mission of Support in East Timor (UNMISET) to assist East Timor’s political leaders and fledgling bureaucrats. The following September, East Timor became the 191st member of the UN, celebrating its role as the “world’s newest country.”


CHAPTER 5


E

ast Timor’s formal independence on May 20, 2002, was celebrated by tens of thousands in Dili, along with delegates from ninety countries, and reached beyond East Timor itself to the cities of the world that had in some way contributed to this moment. At the same time, UNMISET, headed by SRSG Kamalesh Sharma of India, was established for an initial period of twelve months, to assist the new government with administration, law enforcement, and external security. Despite the initial difficulties of the first two and a half years after Indonesian occupation, there was again a renewed sense of optimism about East Timor’s future, characterized by its active use of the tag “the world’s newest country,” which it actively promoted until Montenegro took that honor in 2006. Fretilin assumed formal government at this time, coming to power on a wave of public support, much of which it had retained from its foundation. The political party that took power in 2002, however, was not that which most East Timorese had known more intimately, but a party headed by expatriate East Timorese, few of whom had spent any time in the country since 1975. East Timor’s new political leadership enjoyed the legitimacy of having acted as brokers between UNTAET and the people, and came with skills and sometimes perspectives picked up in Portugal, Australia, Mozambique, and Angola. Many of the senior leadership had not, however, directly experienced the hardship of and resistance to the Indonesian occupation, had not acculturated Indonesian social and organizational methods much less learned the Indonesian language, and as a result were out of touch with the people they were intended to represent. A number of these political leaders became known as the “Maputo Group” or “Mozambique Clique,” after their time spent in Mozambque or through ideological association with this geographically defined cohort. The Marxist Mozambique liberation organization, Frelimo, came to influence those who worked with it, sometimes for it, and who shared common

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anticolonial concerns. As Ramos-Horta noted, “The Mozambicans impressed us with their strict observance of discipline and treated us with warmth and deference. A code of ethics verging on Puritanism was the mark of FRELIMO leaders” (Ramos-Horta 1987, 102). The austerity of some of the Maputo group, in particular, Mari Alkatiri, could at least in part be attributed to the influence of Frelimo cadres. Similarly, while a faction of Fretilin long held Marxist views and this tendency came to dominate the organization in the late 1970s, it appears to have been reinforced in both content and style among those who spent longer periods in Mozambique, where revolutionary exclusivity was dominant until the late 1990s and which retained a powerful influence thereafter. Scott noted that from early on there were divisions within Fretilin’s External Committee based in Maputo in the later 1970s. “The ‘death or victory’ approach of the small Marxist or pseudo-Marxist group versus a more moderate/inclusive one was an area of conflict” (Scott 2005, 84). The best known of this Maputo Group was the secretary-general of Fretilin, Mari Alkatiri, who became economics minister in the Transitional Cabinet and chief minister in the Constituent Assembly, and who upon independence became prime minister. Alkatiri’s family, descended from the famous Yemeni clan of that name, had migrated from Hadhramut to Portuguese Timor in the late nineteenth century. Alkatiri was born one of ten children to the impoverished family of Amude Alkatiri, and only managed to escape his family’s poor origins through intelligence and sheer hard work. A Muslim in an overwhelmingly Catholic country, Alkatiri’s religion did not become a problem until he faced down the Catholic church over the issue of control of education. Although adopting a conventional secular approach to education, this angered the church and allowed it to form a nucleus around which gathered different forms of dissatisfaction with Fretilin’s rule. Another key member of the so-called Maputo Group was Rogerio Lobato, who was appointed as interior minister. He had been taken into the government following what amounted to a show of force by staging a demonstration of thousands of ex-Falintil fighters in Dili in May 2002, and after his appointment had control of the police force. Others in this group included Defense Minister Roque Rodrigues, (former wife of Ramos-Horta) Minister for State Administration Ana Pessoa, Foreign Minister Jose-Louis Guterres, and, arguably, Vice Prime Minister and Minister of Agriculture, Forestry and Fisheries, Estanislau da Silva,1 Secretary of State of Council Gregoriao de Sousa, and Finance Minister Madalena Boavida. Olympia Branco was appointed as East Timor’s ambassador to Beijing, while Pascolo Barreto, who had lived in Portugal, was appointed as ambassador to Lisbon. Other Fretilin members also lived in Mozambique, for various periods, during the occupation, although the reference to “Mozambqiue”


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or “Maputo” as often implied an ideological alignment as much as having actually lived in Mozambique. Ramos-Horta had also lived in Mozambique (1970 to 1972) and visited often thereafter, while Xavier do Amaral had also visited in June 1975 (accompanied by Nicolau Lobato), but they were clearly not part of the grouping that came to be identified with it. There was much criticism of the term “Maputo Group” as if to imply some sinister motive. However, the term was widely used within East Timor to imply a group of expatriates who had maintained a personal loyalty to Mari Alkatiri and who, moreover, had little or no experience of East Timor under the Indonesian occupation but who quickly came to dominate the political landscape. Their party organization and methodology was of a conventional MarxistLeninist model (see Hill 2002, 93, on early hopes for this model), meaning topdown elite (“vanguard”) leadership of the movement, corresponding to both the Marxist principles2 that had informed Fretilin’s earlier political development, the split between the party and command of the resistance, and the political style of the country in which many of them had spent much of their exile, Mozambique. In power, this structure was reflected in a disinterest in and a growing intolerance of questioning or criticism, and in what was referred to in Marxist-Leninist states as “bureaucratic centralism.” It should be noted, however, that while the organization style of Fretilin in government was Leninist, its policies were a fairly conventional mix of developmentalist criteria around education, health care, and basic infrastructure mixed with more or less neoliberal economic policies. The policy adopted toward what would become the country’s oil and gas fund was based on that of Norway, in which royalties were invested in government bonds, in this case in the United States, and from which interest only was employed to fund government activity. If there was one characteristic of the government that set it apart from what coalesced as the Opposition, it was in its strongly “nationalist” responses to protecting national interests, in particular, the strength with which Mari Alkatiri, in particular, argued, if ultimately unsuccessfully, for East Timor’s rightful allocation of the seabed boundary with Australia. This “nationalist” approach was also reflected in limits upon foreign ownership of land and what some regarded as limitations upon more or less unrestricted external investment. Fretilin’s bureaucratic centralism in part reflected a serious, almost debilitating, lack of institutional capacity and hence real decision-making being delegated to a small handful of more senior and necessarily centralized bureaucrats. This centralization created bottlenecks and, due to their usual political affiliation, some vetting of decision making on grounds of ideological association. A very large proportion of decision making, in particular, the allocation of funds, was directed by Prime Minister Mari Alkatiri himself. Partly in a bid to ensure

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that funds were being appropriately allocated, in part to limit the potential for corruption, and in part as a method of micromanaging and hence controlling East Timor’s political and economic environment, Alkatiri personally approved the overwhelming bulk of government spending, especially to the districts, and for amounts as small as hundreds of dollars. This was probably the most constricted point of the administrative bottleneck. The first impact of the micromanaged centralization was that of all the bottlenecks, the relative workload, and the limited capacity of one person to undertake such a mammoth task. As with some of the senior bureaucrats, Alkatiri made decisions based on political preferences rather than bureaucratic procedure, which implied an inconsistency of application. But most importantly, and constituting an increasing political danger that was not noticed until it was too late, was that this bureaucratic centralism starved the districts of not just cash for much needed projects, but of financial liquidity. As the main source of cash into the districts, restricted government funds meant restricted money circulating through local economies, effectively further impoverishing much, perhaps most, of the country’s population. If unemployment and poverty were high in Dili, in the districts the situation was even more parlous, beyond the subsistence agriculture that continued to keep most people alive. This led to considerable resentment on the part of many East Timorese, particularly among those who believed they would gain some material benefit from independence. As resentment became increasingly vociferous, the government’s earlier tolerance began to grow thin. Thus, following an almost conventional postcolonial model of underdevelopment, political restiveness and subsequent closure of political space, the government moved, gradually at first, then more fulsomely, toward direct control. There was a sense, accelerated toward the end of 2005 and into early 2006, that the state was heading toward a type of authoritarianism to which so many postcolonial states had succumbed. Democratic Fatalism Assuming a ‘”naturalized” view of a developed political model (e.g., “democracy”), which happens to work well (or is broadly perceived as working well) for and within a particular hegemonic framework, it is possible to convince oneself that this represents the highest manifestation of human existence (e.g., see Fukuyama 1993). That is, “democracy,” usually uncritically but in all its rich variety, is a, perhaps the, normatively desirable political state. There was no doubt that the international community had wanted East Timor to be a democracy, and no other general political model was to have been countenanced. That the people of East Timor also happened to want a say in their own affairs,


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after so many years of repression and hardship, via an electoral system happily coincided with this external requirement. Some in the new leadership, however, were much less used to democracy in an open, substantive sense, while some of the citizens tested the limits of expression of public dissent, particularly when that dissent manifested as intimidation, destruction, and violence. When applied to a developing country such as East Timor, however, the democratic assumptions that many outsiders regard as “natural” and that many insiders regard as desirable often founder on the rocks of economic scarcity and political destabilization. While democratic representation and participation can be claimed to have a normative value and a broad aspiration, its capacity for effective function can be and was in the case of East Timor constrained by circumstance. In simple terms, few people understood democracy’s substantive principles, and the immediate postindependent conditions did not encourage a stable learning environment. From the perspective of donor countries, it was such cultural assumptions, in very many cases masquerading on behalf of structural requirements, that on one hand allowed the Australian government to pressure East Timor to respect democratic principles while on the other hand restricting the economic capacity of the country through its position on negotiating seabed boundaries. Combined with free market liberalism, the imposed “democratic” paradigm appeared to suit the interests of dominant countries while undermining the capacity for survival of recipient countries, in this case East Timor. This was not to reduce the importance of democratic principles, but it is to suggest that they were presented, from outside, as part of a very mixed political and economic package. This then comes to the issue of “democratic fatalism,” or the assumption that “democracy” defined idealistically but shaped in practice by particular structural, institutional, and cultural circumstances, will arrive and become sustained as a matter of a natural historical trajectory. While particular political models may become available, or more available, as a consequence of particular economic circumstances, particular economic circumstances may give rise to and accommodate a variety of political models, only one type of which could be meaningfully defined as “democratic.” Assuming a tension, or more properly competition, between structure and agency, in which the default position of structure is to draw to itself as much political authority as possible, any assumption about political development that is passive necessarily plays into the hands of structural interests. That is to say, for East Timor to continue its political development process, it required an explicit and constantly reinforced decision to do so, competing against the constraints imposed by its historic and contemporary economic, institutional, and social circumstances.

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Institution Building Any complex social organization, namely one that has a definable functioning economy and polity, will have institutions. These are the manifestation of regularity or consistency of its system of operation, and as such require a quasiindependent capacity and sense of self or culture. Huntington (1968) argued that institutional development was a necessary prerequisite for political participation without chaos. However, the “institution first” theory can, through institutional fixity, preclude political participation and lead to a form of state corporatism in which the self-referential logic of the state precludes the interests of individuals or groups within it. Based on an earlier understanding of the state and the “people” being as one (“organicism”), the (incompletely articulated) political philosophy of Indonesia’s New Order government, which forcibly annexed East Timor, meant that it was subject to immersion in a bureaucratic organicist ideology enforced by an extended claim to and frequently gratuitous employment of a monopoly of violence. Fretilin’s own early claim to be a “front” and hence to preclude political alternatives reflected a similar “unity,” although with the establishment of the CNRM and later the CNRT this practical claim foundered. Yet there remained a sense that Fretilin felt it owned a monopoly on political legitimacy, and a challenge to it as a aprty was necessarily understood as a challenge to the state. Bureaucratic institutionalism can account for bloated and slow-moving administration, but it can also account for the political role of organizations such as the military (or police, or intelligence agencies). Having established themselves as relatively organizationally efficient, with the sole legal capacity to employ state violence, often economic self-benefit, and not infrequently an overdeveloped self-regard, institutions also come to develop a “culture” or worldview that explains and rationalizes not just their continuing role but the orientation of such a role. Given the economic benefits (employment, security, business, corruption) that can accrue to institutions, they are reluctant to change relative to change around them, and can consequently be a force for reaction. This was the history of Indonesia’s intervention in East Timor, and East Timor’s security agencies and bureaucracy continued to exhibit some tendencies in this direction, particularly in terms of their lack of accountability, in the case of the police over the claimed excessive use of violence, and in relation to allegations of corruption. In a related sense, political violence or its threat is the single most significant issue that faces notions of political development. Political violence can preclude political development, can define the way in which it develops, or through acting as its guardian can ensure and enhance political development. By 2005, there were increasing complaints that state violence was becoming a regular and


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somewhat arbitrary feature of state rule in East Timor, limiting and beginning to preclude political development. Laws enacted or enforced that do not represent popular wishes, that may reflect a nonrepresentative political process, or that may run contrary to broadly accepted social and moral codes, may in turn raise the question of the “obligation” of civil disobedience. While this characterized the relationship between the CPD-RDTL and to a lesser extent the PNT, the substantive basis of this claim for “obligation” was poorly founded, not least as was the riot in Dili in December 2002. Within notions of “violence” is the role of militaries, and civil-military relations. Throughout 2003 until 2006, there were rumors in East Timor that should the government “fail,” the F-FDTL would step in to assume political authority. However, this claim had existed since soon after its founding without being enacted and increasingly seemed as though it would not be enacted. Should such an intervention eventuate, however, it would present the F-FDTL as much or more of a threat to the state than the “threats” to the state they sometimes seek to contain (see Farcau 1996; Huntington 1957; Kennedy and Louscher 1991; Stepan 1976). There was a moment, in early 2008, when it seemed the F-FDTL was moving out of its conventional military role and closer to a political function. But that threat gradually subsided, even if the F-FDTL did show that it was more than happy to come out of barracks for what should have been a civilian judicial matter. In this, the question of institutional capacity, in this case police capacity or lack thereof was the critical issue. The role of other, nonsecurity institutions was identified by the World Bank, among others, as being central to the success or failure of development projects, particularly in their larger and more bureaucratic sense. That is, the capacity of states to make use of aid and to deliver its benefits and indeed to sustain the process of development is generally vested in the institutions of the state. This thesis, first developed by Huntington (1968) and more recently reprised by Fukuyama (2004), is a generally sustainable if limited assumption, although reflecting a world view that is less than universal or universally endorsed (i.e., it assumes the natural supremacy of the American model of “bureaucratic efficiency”). This view is, however, correct in that the relative capacity of states to satisfy the needs and aspirations of their citizens, and to ensure the consistency of government service, is embedded in the institutions of state. To the extent that they are independent of private or sectional interests, including an ability to resist corruption or nongovernment influence (Evans 1995), such institutions should have a functional capacity to provide services. However, this view can be too easily understood in purely bureaucratic or instrumentalist terms, which not only focuses on formal and usually hierarchical (and therefore not always responsive) structures, which are too often self-referential,

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self-aggrandizing, or prone to degrees of institutional failure, but also ignores informal and noncodified social structures (“convention”) that have an institutional quality. The latter may include, for instance, a general assertion of egalitarianism or unity, or of certain fundamental rights that implicitly underpin the way in which a state operates. Yet another institutional quality, especially in cases in which the law was regarded as inadequate or access to it was limited, traditional law continued to play an important role in the lives of many East Timorese. That is, institutions are necessary for political development, but defined in the narrow bureaucratic sense they are not sufficient. This then required the addition of nonbureaucratic and in some cases nonstate “institutions,” either to be allowed to continue or to be created. Resistance? While governments maintain a monopoly on the use of violence, it may also be that legitimacy is actually enhanced by the capacity for social resistance; that social resistance is a legitimate function of citizenry and in itself constitutes an “institution.” In the period before 2006, the government of East Timor stood at the juncture of these propositions. It had only moderate legitimacy, having diminished some of that legitimacy through its failure to adequately respond to grievances, if not address them. Quickly mounting frustration with the performance and responses of the government led to serious public protest and then rioting on December 4, 2002, just months after East Timor’s formal independence. UN soldiers and police were called in to restore order when a violent demonstration by several hundred people led to the death of three and several stores and hotels were looted and burned, ostensibly as targets of unequal foreign wealth or by association with the prime minister, including his home and that of his brother. The old Resende Inn, a squat postwar hotel at the center of Dili, had until the establishment of the Hotel Timor (then known as the Hotel Makhota) been the best hotel in town.3 Its whitewashed walls and low, dark wood paneling offered a cool invitation against the relentless heat of the day. For no known reason, it was completely destroyed. Across the road, the small Hello Mister4 supermarket, established to cater to malae population, was a more obvious target, even if it was otherwise inoffensive and offered employment to local Timorese. The riot began when students protested outside the parliament building about the arrest the day before of another student. The protest quickly escalated as the protesters attacked specific targets, apparently being directed to do so by older political dissident leaders. Police failed to adequately respond to the destruction for several hours, only doing so when they fired on the protesters, causing the three deaths. As La’o Hamutuk noted, “The easy manipulation to


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mob violence stems from underlying social and economic conditions: massive unemployment, poor education and other public services; limited mutual respect between government and civil society; frustration with the pace of democratic and economic development; widespread post-conflict and post-traumatic stress; lack of confidence in peaceful processes for change” (La’o Hamutuk 2002). For many East Timorese, boredom, frustration, and, for some, desperation, could easily be turned into anger and violence with small amounts of money, alcohol, and provocation. In terms of quality of life, the national census of 2004 showed that East Timor continued to face serious development problems. The two critical problems continued to be unemployment, at 43.5 percent, and illiteracy, at 54.2 percent. Compounding these problems was the fact that more than 40 percent of the population was less than fifteen years old and, along with what by 2006 had become the world’s highest fertility rate, looked set to further unbalance the age distribution of population (the fertility rate was the world’s highest at 7.8 children per woman in 2008, see UNMIT 2008). Lao’s Hamutuk, and others, also criticized the UN Police (Unpol) for their inaction over the protests, noting that the East Timorese police (Policia Nacioanl Timor-Leste [PNTL]) was under the command of the Unpol at this time. In part, this lack of action by Unpol derived from its actual and intended rapid reduction in numbers, and hence eagerness to hand over to the PNTL as much operational responsibility as possible. As noted by La’o Hamutuk, Unpol deployment was, by December 2002, two-thirds less than the number when East Timor gained independence just five months earlier (La’o Hamutuk 2002). Unpol also suffered from being a force comprised of the police of thirtytwo countries (in November 2002), with the capacity of its officers ranging from among the most professional to among the least. Two other events highlighting the failure of the PNTL’s capacity for a monopoly on the use of violence occurred in January and February 2003, near Atsabe in Ermera district, and Atabae in Bobonaro district, both relatively close to the Indonesian border. In both cases, armed men, believed to be from militia from the 1999 period, attacked the local population, killing seven in Atsabe and two in Atabae. The motivation for the attacks was not clear, but there was some belief that they were either aimed at establishing new bases within East Timor to further destabilize the government or that they were part of a smuggling ring working the border at this time. In both cases, the PNTL failed to act, even though it was an internal security matter, while both the PKF and the F-FDTL crossed over and to some extent confused their own roles in the handling of the problems. Local people in both towns said they preferred to have the F-FDTL

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or PKF take control of the situation, as they had no confidence in the police (La’o Hamutuk 2003). Such grievances included protests against corruption by the Catholic Church in April and May 2005 (Lusa 2006), as well as its dispute with the Catholic church over resourcing for and control of education. Following conventional state practice of ensuring the option of secular education, the East Timorese government attempted to remove control of education from the hands of the Catholic church, which had historically dominated this field. However, the church reacted both negatively and strongly, and organized public protests against the government’s policy. The government’s steadfast refusal to bow to the church’s demands represented a legitimate preference for secular education, and could be seen to also constrain the authority of the largely anti-Fretilin church. The government’s policy failed to recognize that the authority of the church, while not an equal match for that of the government, was considerable. The church might not have enjoyed Fretilin’s revolutionary credentials, and indeed this was a major point of separation between the two. But it was an important bastion of the resistance during the Indonesian occupation and its local priests had been the last line of defense and first point of succor for many East Timorese at a time when much of what was to become the government was living overseas. In short, the church had been there, listening and helping, when the current leadership had not. The government might have had the right to pursue its own policy on education, and it might well have been the correct policy, but a failure to accommodate the church—not least as a legitimate civil society actor—to find a negotiated solution, only demonstrated how out of touch the government was and how, in so many respects, it was increasingly becoming its own worst enemy. Allied to the church were anti-Fretilin political groups, including former members of UDT, a significant proportion of the F-FDTL, former Fretilin members around Xanana Gusmao and Jose Ramos-Horta, and an unpalatable mixture of ex-combatants, ex-militia, quasi-criminals and youth gangs associated with CPD-RDTL, Colimau 2000, Sagrada Familia and various martial arts clubs that in many cases had their origins in silat (Indonesian martial arts) clubs that had been established by the Indonesian army. The government ignored this powerful if shifting combination of forces, noting that it had been elected to govern with a two-thirds majority and that these groups were ideological opponents rather than representing legitimate civil grievances. However, the government failed to acknowledge that in the immediate postindependence period it needed to be more inclusive and less determined in its own approach to government. It also failed to detect what by 2003 had become a shift in the


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political ground, in which opposition to the government hardened and grew, in response to which the government became increasingly aloof, uncommunicative, and, notably in the person of the prime minister, at times combative, at others dismissive. Despite what was beginning to look like a clear failure to listen, and despite a ready temptation to do so, the government chose not to proscribe the CPDRDTL, perhaps gauging that its influence had peaked and that it was on the wane. Similarly, while there were police actions, sometimes quite strong actions, against members of Colimau 2000 in the Ermera region, for conventional legal reasons, the government also chose not to proscribe this organization. Sagrada Familia was at this time sufficiently divorced from the center of opposition to the government, located around Xanana Gusmao, to not present a threat to the government. In any case, the government would have realized, if nothing else, that proscription in East Timor would simply drive these organizations underground, recalling the networks that had made the resistance such a deeply entrenched and intractable opponent to Indonesian rule. Within such a discussion, the question of lawful behavior becomes implicit. It is a normative requirement that states act within the laws they themselves have framed, through their institutions. And it is a normative requirement that those institutions that have framed the law have done so in an equitable and just manner; that they are broadly socially acceptable and reflect the values of the society to which they are intended to apply (see Maravall and Przeworski 2003). If the state behaves in a way that corresponds to law, it can be said in one sense to be legitimate (Morris 1998, 103). However, if the state does not behave in a way that corresponds to its own laws, or if its laws do not reflect the values of the society to which they are intended to apply, then the state could be said to be illegitimate. In the period between 2002 and 2006, East Timor suffered a growing crisis of legitimacy, in which state institution functioning was often poor and sometimes corrupt. Public servants were regularly appointed on the basis of political affiliation, as members of Fretilin, or as family favors. District administrators, appointed by the government, were all Fretilin members, and often spent as much or more time on party work as on administering the districts they were responsible for. The system of patron-client relations that characterizes premodern societies and that remained prevalent under Indonesian rule was also a key characteristic not just of institutional operation but also of wide social expectation. In a society in which the state had not cared for its people, expecting and being paid in favors continued to maintain social bonds of mutual obligation. In particular, having evolved from Indonesia’s judiciary, East Timor’s legal system was susceptible to and undermined by political influence, not least

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through the application of institutional prerogative—the rights of certain political figures to, for example, unilaterally grant amnesties. But more importantly, given the confusion of legal codes that had operated in East Timor and the broad illegitimacy of the Indonesian code that remained in place at least in the short term, the law was not seen by many, perhaps most, East Timorese as offering a method of dispute settlement or other forms of justice. Moreover, with courts run by magistrates who were commonly poorly trained, including those trained in Portugal, and conducting court business in an official language spoken by perhaps 5 percent of the population—and often the judges were less than fluent in Portuguese—courts were places alien to most East Timorese, venues of misunderstanding and what sometimes appeared as arbitrary decision making. Not surprisingly, with almost no history of rule of law and traditional dispute-settling mechanisms still retaining an important place in village life, this basic tenet of a functioning modern society was notable primarily by its functional absence. Further exacerbating a high level of perceived judicial failure, the PNTL also discouraged respect for rule of law. Police brutality became commonplace, and in a country where few people can remain unknown to others for long, it was obvious that many of the postindependence police had been recruited from among former Timorese police under the Indonesian occupation, their primary role from that time being social control. It would be an understatement to suggest that this did not encourage respect for such a critically important institution. Further, it quickly became apparent that not only were police involved in excessive and sometimes arbitrary use of violence, they were also implicated in crime themselves. Notably, police were increasingly accused of corruption, from extracting bribes from complainants or people charged to involvement in underworld criminal activity, including extortion, smuggling, and other black-market activities. Among the police, too, was the development of a Rapid Intervention Unit (Unidade Intervensaun Rapida—UIR), in effect, a riot squad, which was armed similarly to the F-FDTL and members of which appeared to be personally loyal to Rogerio Lobato, who allegedly used them to intimidate political opponents and critics. There was a growing sense that many members of the police were not only acting in an arbitrary manner, they were also becoming increasingly predatory. Lobato used the growing dissent to employ these new police who were personally beholden to him (ICG 2006, 6). As social dissent continued to grow, tension developed between the F-FDTL and the PNTL. If a state does not generally act lawfully, or if the laws it acknowledges are arbitrary or predatory, the legitimacy of the state is likely to come under fundamental challenge, both from within and without. This went to part of the wider and


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less specifically ideological appeal of nonstate organizations such as the CPDRDTL. It also reflected to some extent why much of the F-FDTL regarded the PNTL with little more than contempt. The issues of legitimacy and the rule of law were further complicated by what is generally referred to as (partial) “state failure,” whereby the state or its institutions are no longer capable of functioning across the extent of the state’s territory. State failure may result from civil conflict, excessive corruption or venality, or a decrease in institutional capacity. Venality as state failure is where the individuals or institutions that comprise the state “feed off ” the state and its citizens in what has been described as a “predatory” manner (Evans 1995). Such predatory states are characterized not by their meeting the needs or aspirations of their citizens but by exploiting their citizens for the benefit of a small minority, usually with the application of actual or implied violence. It can be argued that this was the case during Indonesia’s New Order era (1966 to 1998) and perhaps beyond, but East Timor has not yet degenerated to this point, even if elements of such behavior were starting to show. In such cases, the capacity of the state to assert authority is diminished, its legitimacy recedes relative to its capacity to assert authority, and its capacity to assert a claimed rule of law as a principal institutions of state is similarly eroded. It should be noted here that where the rule of law erodes, this erosion will gain momentum once it passes the point at which state capacity is seen to have fundamentally broken down, thus accelerating the pace of state decline and movement toward failed state status (see Fukuyama 2004 for discussion on state failure and rebuilding). In East Timor, respite from Indonesian coercion resulted in an automatic legitimacy for the new government, bolstered by the free and fair electoral process by which it was chosen (even if not initially for the purpose of governing). However, the inconsistent application of law, notably in relation to crimes from 1999 and exacerbated by the sometimes seemingly arbitrary manner of operation of legal institutions, challenged legitimacy via the loss of the idea that consistency in the application of the rule of law is a key criterion (Morris 1998, 24, 105–11; Rawls 1991, 7). Further, the frequent failure of the separation of powers between the executive and the judiciary, for example, regarding trials for breeches of human rights (see JSMP 2005), allowed laws to be interpreted inconsistently, and in principle allowed for the development of tyranny (see Morris 1998, 287). The government’s refraining from banning the CPDRDTL, however, was a marker of its tolerance on one hand and recognition that the use of force against a populist movement, on the other, could have unduly negative consequences. The Fretilin government took responsibility for running a new state in what could only be described as difficult if not parlous economic circumstances. Set

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against such economic difficulty, the CPD-RDTL and similarly constituted organizations focused wide-ranging disaffection, employing extralegal means of challenging the state, and explicitly opposing the state as it existed. The government was thus tempted, if not persuaded, to proscribe the CPD-RDTL and similar organizations. The destabilization the CPD-RDTL offered the state was, at that time, however, enough to deter investors and to undermine sometimes still fragile local political communities. It was therefore not surprising that these activities were viewed with considerable hostility by the government. The question was whether the CPD-RDTL presented such a threat that the existence of the state could not be guaranteed while it maintained an active presence. However, the government and state institutions’ disinclination to proscribe the CPD-RDTL and similar organizations could be seen as a sign of political maturity and a positive indication of East Timor’s political development. In terms of the state being able to assert its sovereign authority, however, serious problems remained, not least in terms of the state’s capacity to control its own border. If the state was beginning to show signs of internal stress, there were, however, some more positive signs in the external arena. Continuing the UN’s commitment to East Timor, if in declining fashion, on May 20, 2004, the UN Security Council extended the mandate of UNMISET for another year, followed soon after on May 20, by East Timor’s second anniversary of independence. Despite these positive international signs, however, the storm clouds of serious political dissent had been gathering. While unanimously deciding to extend UNMISET for a further six months, its resolution 1453 also stipulated a reduction in the size of the mission, with greater emphasis on training and advisory services, as well as a phasing out of UNMISET by May 2005. As part of the UN’s desire to reduce its commitment in East Timor as quickly as possible, and pushed along by a sometimes self-serving “nationalist” desire to take control of the institutions of state as quickly as possible, on September 16, the UN Police handed over responsibility for policing in the last district outside Dili, in Baucau, to the PNTL. On December 10, responsibility for day-to-day policing in Dili was handed over to the PNTL, giving it complete responsibility for policing throughout the country. However, the police, in many cases those who had been recruited from among the police that had operated under Indonesian rule, were poorly trained, often brutal and in many cases seriously corrupt (WB 2006, 2, 6, 11, 14, 28–32; USDS 2004, 1.c). Without even Unpol’s sometimes inadequate supervision, the standard of policing quickly declined, in many cases to a point at which the PNTL became predatory. Responsibility for external defense was also handed over to the F-FDTL by UNMISET’s PKF.


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The issue of the crimes committed in 1999 continued to be at the forefront of much thinking within, and about, East Timor. The UN secretary-general called on UN member states to ensure that the 279 individuals indicted for serious crimes as a consequence of the 1999 violence but who continued to live outside East Timor—virtually all Indonesia—not be given immunity. Yet at the end of a two-year process, in which just eighteen people were tried by Indonesian courts, and at the end of a series of appeals, in March 2006, only one militia member, Eurico Guterres, was eventually jailed by Indonesia for his crimes, sentenced to just ten years, and even then released in April 2008. East Timor’s governor during the 1999 mayhem, Abilio Soares, was in 2002 found guilty of not stopping the violence at the time, and sentenced to three years in jail, but released on appeal in November 2004. Soares was, he noted, a scapegoat for the Indonesian military, none of whom were found guilty of anything. With no one effectively being held responsible, it was as if the events of 1999 had not happened. In response to this failure of justice but in an effort to placate disgruntled citizens and the international community, in August 2005, East Timor and Indonesia established what they called a “Commission for Truth and Friendship” (CTF). Critics of this process noted that it had no power to prosecute and, being held in Indonesia, was potentially intimidating for many of its East Timorese witnesses. The “truth” that finally came out of the commission’s proceedings was that which was already well known and previously documented (e.g., McDonald et al. 2002; UN Commission of Experts 2005), that the violence and destruction in East Timor was “systematic, coordinated, and carefully planned.” Unlike the Commission of Experts report, however, it did not recommend charges to be heard by an international criminal tribunal. Confusingly, the report also laid blame for some of the violence at the feet of Falintil and East Timor, even though the involvement of the former in the events of 1999 was fanciful—it remained in cantonment throughout the ballot period—and to the latter that the state did not exist at that time. However, “The commission concluded that gross human rights violations, in the forms of crimes against humanity, did occur in East Timor in 1999 and that these violations included murder, rape and other forms of sexual violence, torture, illegal detention, and forcible transfer and deportation carried out against the civilian population.” The commission’s report concluded that there was institutional responsibility for these violations: “Pro-autonomy militia groups, the TNI, the Indonesian civil government, and Polri must all bear institutional responsibility for gross human rights violations against civilians perceived as supporting the proindependence cause” (CTF 2008). The report’s focus, and that of the official commentary that followed its release, was on “friendship” constructed out of

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East Timor’s leadership’s desire to put the past behind it, knowing full well that in so doing it would not achieve any outcome associated with the word “justice,” yet would deeply antagonize many of Indonesia’s still powerful “nationalists,” with potentially problematic consequences for the quantitatively unequal bilateral relationship. Indonesia’s foreign affairs spokesman, Teuku Faiza Syah, captured the purpose of the CTF report when he said, “The spirit of the CTF is reconciliation, the spirit of cooperation, and looking forward to the future” (Michelmore and March 2008). It had little to do with culpability and nothing to do with justice. While East Timor’s political leaders were united in their real politik acceptance of the necessity of good relations with their large and potentially destabilizing neighbor, the political elite was otherwise divided. The establishment of a transitional government in 2001 and the election of Xanana Gusmao as president in 2002 saw the first heated clashes between Gusmao and Prime Minister Mari Alkatiri over the extent of Fretilin’s desire for control of the parliament, with Alkatiri promoting effective one-party rule. This clash and the issues over which the two men differed came to characterize East Timor’s politics over the following five years. Beyond the problems that arose over the transition process, East Timor’s constitution itself implied future problems over the formation of government, mostly as a result of poor and ambiguous expression. Two state institutions, the F-FDTL and the police, were also established soon after independence. The F-FDTL was created from the old guerrilla force, although few of the original members passed the recruitment test. A division hence opened up between newer and older members, which came to be identified along geographic (east-west) lines and which fed into the conflict of 2006. Within the F-FDTL leadership, there was also disquiet about civilian politics and a sense that the military was ready to intervene should civilian politicians not live up to the task set for them. At the same time, as noted, the national police were recruited in many cases from East Timorese who had served as police under Indonesian occupation. This not only meant that some corrupt and brutal Indonesian police practices transferred to the new national police but that there continued to be a rivalry between the military and the police, over political origins, the allocation of resources and respective functions. This also fed into the conflict of 2006, and which ultimately saw the police dissolve as a viable organization. Border Security Issues On June 13, 2005, the last Australian troops in East Timor lowered the Australian flag flying over the base at Moleana, to the northeast of the capital of Bobonaro district, Maliana, near the border with West Timor and hence Indonesia,


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thus ending a peacekeeping mission begun on September 20, 1999. For the previous five years these soldiers had offered East Timor generally and those who lived near the border in particular a sense of security against further possible cross-border incursions. With the departure of the Australian troops, many in Bobonaro district now felt that security was gone. It is conventional in state theory that a state must, among its other attributes, be able to control the territory within its borders up to the extent of those borders, and must thus be able to guarantee the sovereignty of the state (e.g., see Morris 1998). The promise by Indonesia’s then president, B. J. Habibie, at the beginning of 1999, that the residents of East Timor would be allowed to vote on whether or not they wished to remain as part of Indonesia directly challenged this basic assumption. Should the people of East Timor so wish, they could secede from the state, thus undermining the principle of sovereign inviolability of state borders. This raised the even greater issue, in the case of Indonesia as a composite postcolonial state, that should East Timor successfully secede from the state it would stand as an example to other constituent parts of the state that they too could secede, reducing if not ending the state as it was understood. What this line of thinking failed to incorporate, however, was that East Timor’s incorporation into the state was via a military invasion and occupation that was never recognized under international law. Assuming, however, that the state was a legal entity and, more importantly, enjoyed legitimacy as a state in the eyes of its citizens, the maintenance of territorial integrity and sovereign authority was and remains a central, perhaps the principal, quality of statehood. Once East Timor seceded from Indonesia, or asserted its rightful claim to sovereign independence as per international law and the normative process of decolonization, its claim to territorial sovereignty automatically sat alongside that of any other independent state. If, however, a state defines itself by its capacity to exercise territorial sovereignty, among other ways,5 from its very beginning East Timor faced significant challenges, not least from irredentist aspirations within Indonesia,6 but also from an Indonesian military that not only harbored irredentist ambitions but that also relied on East Timor as a means of subsidizing its underfunded military. On top of a shortage of human resource skills, economic development, limited infrastructure, and similarly limited institutional capacity, challenges of various types from across the border represented a major challenge to the fledgling state. These challenges did not of themselves suggest that East Timor was or was about to become a failed state, or a state in which there was a failure or collapse of conventional markers of state capacity, such as functioning state institutions (Smith 1986, 235), compliance with laws and ultimate authority (Laski 1934, 21–24; Morris 1998, 45–46), a monopoly on the use of violence (Weber 1948)

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or, not least, international recognition. However, these challenges did directly suggest that these markers of statehood were relatively weak and vulnerable to further setback, and this then had the capacity to devolve further toward failed state status. State failure in East Timor would most immediately have very negative implications for the lives of its citizens, the existence of many of who is already marginal. On this score, however, there is a level of subsistence at which the role of the state ceases to be important and in which society functions at the level of effectively autonomous village units. There are two further issues that arise here. The first is the potential capacity of the state to assist in improving the lives of its citizens by the generic process of “development,” usually defined as improvements in material standards of living.7 The second issue is the relationship the state conducts as a sovereign body with other states, not least of which are its immediate neighbors, in this case Indonesia and Australia. State failure in East Timor would likely elicit a high level of concern in Australia as the development of a potential site for officially unwanted migration and transnational illegal activity, and more rhetorical concerns over the quality of life of its inhabitants.8 Such state failure would more importantly and probably more immediately raise security concerns in Jakarta. It would be seen as legitimizing “nationalist” Indonesian sentiment, which remained bitter over the “loss” of East Timor in 1999 and which retained irredentist ambitions which could easily feed into internal competition over the orientation of the government and the military and relations between them, and Indonesia’s international standing in which East Timor was a slowly fading if still unpleasant blemish. East Timor, then, had a number of reasons to avoid failed state status, or conversely to be successful. Its best chance for avoiding such failed state status, then, and the range of problems that would imply was therefore if its institutions functioned at a relatively competent level, including honestly and without corruption, if its rule of law applied fully and consistently up to the limits of its borders, and if its territorial and economic integrity was not undermined, especially from beyond its borders. The arrival in October 1999 of the Australian battalion in Bobonaro and the New Zealand battalion in Cova Lima quickly ended the wholesale violence that followed East Timor’s vote for independence, but encountered the new security problem of cross-border incursions by groups and individuals who mostly appeared to be of malay Indonesian extraction (i.e., western Indonesians, rather than Timorese), who were well built and apparently well trained (i.e., probably Kopassus or off-line or ex-Kopassus “special military” (militer khussus—milsus), and who were well armed with conventional TNI weapons. There were a number of minor clashes between the Australian and New Zealand troops and such armed groups and individuals in the early period of


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Interfet’s presence, as if to test the determination of the external military presence. However, the incursions were faced with what was described by one UN Military Observer (UNMO)9 as a “robust profile.” The track marks of the Australian armoured personnel carriers that patrolled the border roads could still be seen in the asphalt long after they had left East Timor, while the school where the Second Royal Australian Regiment was stationed at the village of Memo, facing the river that demarcated the border, had been returned to its original use. Memo is immediately on the border with West Timor, about five kilometers from Maliana, which sits on the edge of the Nunara Plains at the foot of Mount Lelo. Increasingly, the border situation calmed and the armed incursions became fewer, although with some notable exceptions. As late as January 2003, men wearing Indonesian army uniforms, although without markings, and carrying standard Indonesian weapons (SS1 and G3 rifles) made two forays into Bobonaro district, holding up a bus and terrorizing a village, although in one case a militiaman was captured by villagers (AFP 2003, Laksamana.net 2003). But more importantly, with the artificial expansion of the East Timorese economy following the arrival of the first postballot UN mission (UNTAET, then UNMISET), and the need to rebuild East Timor’s shattered infrastructure, smuggling across the border became rampant (Kingsbury 2003). Smuggling was a popular method of avoiding the relatively high taxes imposed by the East Timorese government at the border, and was further boosted by the closure of the previous twice weekly border markets that had operated at Motaain on the north coast, Turiscain on the Loes River and at Selele, just west of Suai in Cova Lima. At the time of writing, there were still no border passes available to allow the markets to operate, although the issue of border passes and the markets they facilitated was under reconsideration by the East Timor government. Part of the problem with the border markets had been that they were seen to be a vehicle for the imposition of extortion on market traders by militia members and supported a money laundering racket run by the Indonesian national police (Polri). Smugglers brought across everything from household goods, food, alcohol, and tobacco to motor vehicles (especially motorcycles and scooters) and, most importantly, petrol and kerosene. These two latter items were about a quarter to a fifth of the price in West Timor that they were in East Timor, and consequently petrol smuggling was a lucrative trade. East Timor was a popular market for smuggled goods because of the relative price differences, due to both high East Timor taxes and the inflation that had wracked East Timor as a consequence of the UN and foreign aid worker presence and East Timor’s U.S.dollar-denominated currency. But despite being formally the world’s poorest

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country, with a per capita GDP of $400 (CIA 2004), East Timor or sections of it were relatively prosperous compared with West Timor, to the point at which, according to East Timor’s head of the Department of Labor and Social Affairs, Arsenio Bano, there was more than three thousand West Timorese “guest workers” in East Timor who had come for the relatively greater job opportunities.10 The border between Indonesia and East Timor remained poorly demarcated on the ground. By April 2005 there was a formal agreement about the status of all but 4 percent of the land border between Bobonaro and Cova Lima and West Timor (although not for the enclave of Oecussi11 or the sea borders), although the border itself was still officially known as a Technical Coordination Line (TCL). A clarification of land borders for Oecussi in October 2005 led to rioting and attacks by local West Timorese who claimed to have lost access to farming land. In reality, however, apart from where rivers marked the border, such as at Motaain and Memo in Bobonaro and near Selele in Cova Lima, the border was at best porous and in many cases either not actually defined on the ground, or so remote as to be nearly impossible to secure. This situation was complicated by ambiguous command and control functions within East Timor’s otherwise specially selected and trained Border Patrol Unit (Unidade de Patrulhamento de Fronteira—UPF). From mid-2003, the UPF, which was a segment of the East Timor National Police (PNTL), began to take responsibility for border security. However, at this time there were too few UPF members to adequately cover the long, rugged, and often remote border, they had too little logistical support, such as transportation and communications, and when they started did not even have accommodation, cooking facilities, or in most cases weapons. Even after the Australian troops had left East Timor, the UPF only had between five and ten weapons (M16s) at each of the five UPF posts (at Motaaini, the Loes River, nearby Turiscain, in the mountains near Lolotoe and at Selele), which meant the weapons taken by UPF on patrol left none at the given post. There were less than 20 percent per capita weapons for the total UPF. By the time the last Australian contingent left, there were 123 UPFs in Bobonaro and a slightly smaller number in Cova Lima, of around a total of 360 members of the UPF. The UNMOs that had previously liaised between the TNI and UN PKF had, under Resolution 1599 of the UN Security Council, which transformed UNMISET into UNOTIL, been transformed into a Military Training Advisory Group (MTAG). The purpose of the thirty-five members of the MTAG was to advise the Defence Force of East Timor (FDTL) and the UPF, with twenty MTAG advisers being from various militaries assigned by the UN, and fifteen being from UN assigned police. Four members of MTAG were assigned each to Bobonaro, Cova Lima and Oecussi, with the task of


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assisting with “capacity building” of the UPF. The remainder of the MTAG was stationed at headquarters in Dili, with responsibility to assist in training the FDTL. According to residents in the border area,12 there was, not surprisingly, a great deal of insecurity about the withdrawal of the last Australian troops from East Timor generally and from the border areas in particular. The Australian government had continued to impress upon the Australian population that the border environment had quietened and was stable, and there was no longer any need to retain Australian troops in East Timor. The East Timorese government, however, said it would have preferred at least some Australian troops to remain, if only as a symbolic deterrent to future possible transgressions from across the border. Australia, however, had a delicate relationship with Indonesia and appeared to want to do all it could to calm with it perceived to be Indonesian anxieties about the Australian military presence so close to its own troops. From 1999 until April 2003, the TNI retained a Kostrad battalion, Linud 721,13 along the border, as well as keeping in place (if rebuilding) in Atambua its existing Battalion 745, which had been repatriated from East Timor (formerly based in Los Palos) in 1999, and Battalion 744 (formerly headquartered at Dili) based in Kupang, with both incorporated into Korem 161 headquartered in Kupang. As well as these conventional and reserve units, the TNI retained a small number of Kopassus members, mostly from what was then Group IV (later named the Covert Warfare unit of Group III), as well as various members of its thirteen East Timor militias that had been reformed into a single unit, Pasukan Perjuangan Integrasi (PPI), under the leadership of former Aitarak militia leader Eurico Guterres. By mid-2005, PPI had begun to disintegrate, with some members having been sent to Aceh and West Papua, some seeking other opportunities in Indonesia and a small number returning to East Timor where they met a mixed reception14. By early May 2003, Kopassus and most Kostrad units had been withdrawn from West Timor’s border areas, to be freed up for the beginning of the major operation, under a declaration of martial law in Indonesia’s westernmost province of Aceh, against the Free Aceh Movement (Gerakan Aceh Merdeka, GAM). GAM had been in rebellion against the Indonesian government since December 1976, but had been emboldened by the success of East Timor’s vote for independence. Although a Cessation of Hostilities Agreement had been signed in December 2002, both sides but especially the TNI had subverted it, and used its subversion as an opportunity to promote its own “military solution” to the problem of Acehnese separatism (see Aspinall and Crouch 2003). As the biggest military campaign in Indonesian history, comprising some 51,000 troops and paramilitary police, the new Aceh campaign meant that the TNI had to draw

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down its troop levels elsewhere, especially of its more highly trained Kostrad and Kopassus troops.15 As a consequence, the number and standard of TNI troops stationed in West Timor along the border was significantly reduced. While the larger contingent of Kostrad 721 troops had been moved to Aceh in 2003, a small number remained on border duty in south West Timor opposite the East Timor district of Cova Lima. The Kostrad 721 troops that had been based opposite Bobonaro district had been replaced by the TNI’s 8th air defense/artillery battalion (as infantry, without its antiaircraft guns), while the TNI’s 12th air defense/artillery battalion was tasked with border security opposite the enclave of Oecussi. The Kostrad 721 units and 8th and 12th artillery battalions comprised the TNI’s Border Security Taskforce, with its Strategic Headquarters based just outside Atambua near the beginning of the road that led inland to the East Timorese town of Balibo,16 The Border Security Taskforce answered directly to the commander of Kodam IX Udayana based in Denpasar, Bali, rather than more conventionally to the Korem 161 commander in Kupang. The commander of the Border Security Task Force, in mid-2005, was Lieutenant-Colonel Zul Avianal. Kostrad 721 troops were commanded by Lt. Col. Haryanta, with the 8th artillery battalion commanded by Lt. Col. Achmad Budiono and the 12th artillery battalion commanded by Lt. Col. Alfred Denytuejeh. As Territorials, the remaining troops were those who were most intimately acquainted with East Timor, in particular Battalion 744 which was based at Atambua in West Timor. Battalion 744 had been based in Dili and was directly implicated not just in the various militia attacks in and around Dili in 1999, but had also been responsible for an era of torture and murder, as well as the more usual Indonesian army racketeering and other criminal activity. Battalion 745, on the other hand, had earned a particular reputation for its brutality, especially in its retreat from Los Palos in which in engaged in an orgy of murder on its way across the country (Barr 2000). Battalion 745 members did not just locate across the border, but they often took their families with them, and established traditional Los Palos-style houses17 in West Timor, in particular in the area just to the west of Atambua. As Territorials, battalion 745 was also deeply involved in a range of local criminal activities, including gambling, extortion and, not surprisingly, smuggling, and had often employed members of the PPI militia on their behalf. Battalion 745 was at the time of writing being retrained and regrouped in order to eventually assume Indonesia’s border control functions. Despite claims by then Australian Foreign Minister, Alexander Downer, that there was no longer any security threat to East Timor from across the border, in 2004, the TNI had in fact established an air base near Atambua, from which its air force (TNI-AU) F-16s could patrol disputed border areas or, if need be,


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strike across the extent of East Timor. But perhaps more importantly, incidents along the border continued, even before the withdrawal of the last Australian troops. There were four separate incidents in which TNI personnel had been shot in border clashes with the East Timorese UPF. In one incident, on April 21, 2005, a TNI army 8th battalion section leader, a lieutenant, was shot in the leg by a member of the UPF. There were three different accounts of the clash and how it came about. According to the TNI, members of one of its patrols were setting up an ambush for smugglers near one of its posts (the TNI had a post at Delomil approximately due west of Memo, and another at Makir just south of Memo). The TNI claimed that it saw smugglers and issued a warning. The TNI account is not clear, but it claimed there was a UPF patrol in the vicinity and that after shouting a warning to it the UPF patrol had fired on the TNI ambush. In the ensuing exchange, the TNI team leader was wounded. The TNI also claimed that the UPF were dressed in civilian clothing, implying that the UPF patrol were, in fact, the smugglers. The TNI also claimed that its troops remained on its side of the border, conventionally demarcated by the river, at all times. However, according to the Technical Coordination Line and subsequent agreement on the land border agreed between Indonesia and East Timor in April 2005, according to the official map of the agreement, there was an “unresolved segment” of the border opposite Memo that remains in dispute and this is where the incident took place. There remained a number of other points along the border that were under “ongoing technical processing,” with the only other “unresolved segment” being on the western land border of Oecussi to the sea, and at the southernmost point of Oecussi (Ramos-Horta and Wirayuda 2005). The UPF, however, claimed that it was on patrol looking for smugglers when it came across the TNI members and that they were wearing civilian clothes and were in the process of crossing the shallow river, implying that it was the TNI, not the UPF, that was engaged in smuggling. The UPF claimed that it shouted a warning and was fired upon by the TNI patrol, and returned fire, wounding the TNI lieutenant. In both accounts, it is clear that smugglers were officially regarded as the primary cause of concern across the border. What is not clear, however, was whether it was the TNI or UPF who were engaged in smuggling or whether there was a third party involved in smuggling. The MTAG officers based at Maliana asked for a joint investigation into the incident. However, the TNI responded that MTAG had no authority to call for a joint investigation, and that the TNI would conduct its own investigation. The commander of TNI Korem 161 in Kupang, Colonel Amir Hamka Manan, complained that East Timor had not fulfilled its part of a border security

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agreement by failing to prosecute the UPF member who had shot the TNI soldier, and allowing him to continue to carry out his usual functions. Manan claimed that the East Timor government had failed to take seriously each of the four shooting incidents (“TL-Indonesia relations still problematic,” TLS 2005, 2). East Timor’s Minister for the Interior, Rogerio Lobato, said there had been a full investigation in to the shooting incident and that East Timor would present its findings to Indonesia (TLS 2005). However, a third account of the incident following a private investigation18 showed that the shooting incident occurred between the UPF and TNI during a mutual smuggling exercise in which there had been a dispute over the goods being smuggled. That is, both the UPF and the TNI were involved in the smuggling operation. “The business went wrong,” according to a senior investigator, “They messed up, both of them.” Joint smuggling operations that had gone wrong between the TNI and UPF were also held to be responsible for the three previous border incidents. On February 21, the UPF commander at Checkpoint C, at Turiscain, a police customs officer there, the chief of Maumara village near Nunara and a local school teacher were arrested on charges of being engaged in smuggling. “All the improvements (in the UPF) are fragile,” according to the investigator. That is, smuggling remained rife across the border and the UPF was involved in it with the TNI. The situation in Cova Lima, by contrast, was claimed to be much more stable, with the local UPF and police saying that smuggling was not a problem. According to a police officer based at the border crossing at Selele, the earlier problem with smuggling into Cova Lima had been eradicated by the UPF, which maintained active patrols along the Cova Lima-West Timor border. However, a senior MTAG officer claimed that Cova Lima was also troubled by smuggling and that the UPF was involved in it with the TNI, as in Bobonaro, and that such smuggling also existed in the region of Checkpoints D and E (at the Bobonaro-Cova Lima district border and further south into Cova Lima, where between these two checkpoints in 2002 the author had seen petrol being smuggled across the border on horseback. “There is smuggling more or less all over the border,” the MTAG investigator said. He added that not only was there TNI-UPF smuggling, but that the groups also employed people in Dili to sell the smuggled goods. The point of sale is where profits from smuggled goods are generated. Meetings with UPF officers indicated an outwardly high level of discipline and that they regarded themselves as very good trackers in both the forested areas and the remote highlands. However, the technical skills of UPF members continued to be lacking, as was indicated by an experience on June 27, when UPF members based at Motaain found six hand grenades and did not know


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how to respond, even initially.19That the UPF was also clearly involved in smuggling, however, remained its biggest problem. In line with the overall redeployment of Kostrad personnel to Aceh, the TNI presence in Cova Lima had been reduced, with just one platoon (thirty members) of Kostrad Linud 721 stationed across the river demarcating the border at Checkpoint F near Selele. The smaller number of UPF occupied the former Selele barracks of the Thai battalion (and previously the New Zealand battalion) that had been stationed in Cova Lima. Such was the lack of tension (or level of mutual understanding) at this point on the border that when a border police officer and a UPF strolled onto the bridge that constituted the “free zone” between the two states, to relieve his own boredom, a member of Kostrad Linud 721 stationed on watch on the other side also ambled up on to the bridge to chat, sitting on the bridge railing, with his counterparts. This Kostrad member was East Timorese, originally from the town of Viqueque. Conclusion The issue of smuggling that remained prevalent along the Indonesian border presented four major challenges to the fledgling government of East Timor. The first major challenge was that it denied badly needed revenue to the government. The second challenge was that it had the capacity to subvert the legitimate economy, which was still struggling to rebuild following the massive physical destruction of 1999 and the profound inflationary pressures resulting from the UN-generated spending boom and the use of the U.S. dollar as legal tender. More importantly for a state that was still struggling to establish itself as a viable entity, a key conventional marker of statehood being the full application of the law up to the extent of the state’s boundaries was subverted by this uncontrolled economic activity. That is to say, many of the people of Bobonaro and Cova Lima districts continued to live in fear of cross-border incursions, and were frequently confronted with the reality of an insecure border. In significant part this insecurity was a consequence not just of intentional destabilization or the presence of an opposing military force, but reflected the connivance of the East Timorese organization that was designed to secure the border following the drawdown and withdrawal of foreign troops. Beyond this, the government of East Timor was unable to claim with any real authority that it maintained full legal authority over its territory. This in turn had implications for the capacity of Indonesia, or elements of Indonesian political society, including the TNI, to continue to destabilize the border areas if and when it suited them. Finally, and most importantly, the involvement of members of the UPF in cross-border smuggling with the TNI fundamentally subverted the capacity of the state to control its borders, and hence claim full legal authority over its own

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territory. In a related sense, the corruption of a state service this implied and its spread into sections of Dili society established a legal and social cancer that has the capacity to bring undone much of the fragile work done by the UN and other East Timorese since the UN’s intervention in October 1999. That is, such smuggling also fed into a wider problem of potential or actual official corruption (UPI 2005). That such corruption should exist at the heart of the organization that had been given the frontline task of combating precisely such activities was indeed a black mark against the UPF, and augured poorly for East Timor’s capacity to control its own future. This capacity was about to be sorely tested.

CHAPTER 6


A

s 2005 unfolded, East Timor’s impending political crisis began to reveal what would become its component parts. It was to be a year of hardening positions, in which the government became less responsive to complaints against it, and more authoritarian in the methods of its responses. The institutions of state that had not been working especially well until this time declined in public performance on one hand while on the other, especially in relation to the police, slipped closer and closer to the style and methods of their Indonesian predecessors. Following a not unusual if not entirely intended postcolonial model, the force that had literally fought for independence, now reconstituted as the F-FDTL, became increasingly disenchanted with both the police and with civil politics. Rumors of a possible military coup began to circulate and, while few took such rumors as constituting a meaningful threat, the fact that they were talked about at all was sufficient indication that the recently independent country’s hopes were beginning to be realized in the breach. Yet some aspects of East Timor’s political profile at this time were also more positive, especially in international relations. In April, East Timor and Indonesia signed an historic border agreement during a visit to Dili by Indonesian President Susilo Bambang Yudhoyono. With numerous points of the East Timor-Indonesia border unclear, the settlement of much of the outstanding border demarcation was an important step for both countries, in terms of formalizing where each country began and finished, where local farmers lived, and in terms of standardizing border security arrangements. East Timor-Indonesia relations took what at the time, and fairly superficially, appeared to be a further turn for the positive in August, with the establishment of a Truth and Friendship Commission (TFC) set up by the two countries to investigate the causes of violence in East Timor in 1999. In large part, the TFC was intended to fulfill Indonesia’s obligations to the international community to investigate the violence of that time, in exchange for which the international

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community and in particular the UN would not pursue charges against Indonesian military officers of crimes against humanity. However, based on an agreement between the two countries, the TFC was not given any power to prosecute those found responsible for such crimes. From East Timor’s perspective, agreeing to the TFC was a means of pursuing “truth” while at the same time allowing Indonesia to avoid being directly accountable for events in 1999. This was especially important to Indonesia given its military had made clear to its government that it would not countenance the extradition of any officers on related charges, and given the strength of “nationalist” sentiment in Jakarta against allowing any sort of investigation into the 1999 events. The TFC was, however, widely criticized by human rights groups both within East Timor and internationally, as being a whitewash and for failing to provide justice over the 1999 crimes. As the TFC’s hearings progressed, it became clear that while many East Timorese were reluctant to travel to Jakarta, the commission had amassed considerable evidence of serious crimes having been committed by the Indonesian military. In large part, however, these findings only confirmed what was already known about the events of 1999 and which had been on the public record for years previously. The year started relatively well, when in January East Timor and Australia signed a deal to divide billions of dollars in expected revenues from oil and gas deposits in the Timor Sea. Under the agreement, talks on a disputed maritime boundary were postponed. Oil revenues had been expected to become substantial, as indeed at the time of writing they were beginning to do. Yet having so much of East Timor’s economy tied to gas and oil meant that it would also be subject to fluctuations in price, positively when prices were high, as they seemed destined to become as oil became more scarce, but potentially negative when prices fell, as they had after previous energy price booms and during times of economic down-turn. Territorial disputes, including those with Australia and potentially Indonesia, also loomed large on East Timor’s economic horizon. Australia’s rapacious pursuit of oil and gas income from fields properly, under international law, well within East Timor’s territorial waters, was a case in point. But perhaps as importantly, receiving income from a single profitable source meant that other aspects of East Timor’s economic development were left behind. In particular, beyond a reasonable quantity of export grade coffee (which was selling at historic low prices), East Timor’s capacity to build an export industry was all but impossible, while its internal markets were too small and too poor to provide a basis for local economic growth. Traversing this “resource curse” was to be one of the fledgling country’s greatest challenges (Lundhal and Sjoholm 2008).


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The literature on democratic transitions argues that not only do newly democratic states face greater difficulty in sustaining their legitimacy in government in times of economic hardship or downturn, but also that the nature of the new government, the degree of its democratic embeddedness, and the extent to which the executive remains accountable to a coherent legislature are all critical issues in retaining legitimacy (see Haggard and Kaufman 1995, chap. 6). The first government of the independent state of East Timor brought to its style of administration a range of factors, some of which appeared appropriate to the circumstances, some of which did not, and some of which appeared to conflict with each other. Not least among conflicting styles was a 1970s MarxistLeninist revolutionary organizational structure and outlook while at the same time accommodating the more or less absolutist free market demands of the International Monetary Fund, the World Bank as the coordinators of multilateral and bilateral aid and, in theory at least, of the NGO aid programs that flourished in East Timor at that time. After Indonesian forces withdrew from East Timor, the fledgling state had to begin to build from political fundamentals; there were no structures or institutions left in place. These were only partially established by the time the UN began to wind down its presence in East Timor by 2003, and the process of political development was still underway when the crisis arose, demolishing much faith in the existing polity. Most basic, East Timor had to build its sense of nationhood, so its people understood themselves to have a common, bonded political interest and identity beyond simply that of opposition to a common enemy. The most basic criterion for national unity is a common language (Anderson 1991; Connor 1994; Gellner 1983, 18, 44, 140–42; Smith 1986a, 27–29, 121–24, 159–60, 1986b). Ironically, the East Timorese developed their sense of unity in opposition to the occupying Indonesians through the common use of the Indonesian language.1 The government’s adoption of Tetum Praca as a national language helped unify the state. However, its adoption of Portuguese as East Timor’s official language was divisive (Inbaraj 2000; La’o Hamutuk 2002; McDonald 2000). Beyond language and other cultural markers, national unity is constructed around a recognition of and commitment to common civic values. To create a coherent sense of national unity, these values should include support for regular elections for a representative and accountable government, and equality under rule of law (see Seymour 2000; Smith 1986a, 121–22, 210–13). The East Timorese people warmly embraced democratic voting, with more than 90 percent voluntarily and consistently going to the polls. But the Fretilin government, which came to power with a 57.4 percent majority but fifty-five of eightyeight seats, was seen by many in East Timor as being combative, distant, and

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largely unaccountable,2 even according to members of his own party (UNOTIL 2006b), and there was as a result of police corruption and brutality—and allegations of progovernment thugs—an absence a sense of rule of law (see HRW 2006, chap. 4). At the time of the May 2006 crisis, the idea of rule of law and notions of justice were still not well understood in East Timor. This in large part reflected Portuguese colonial rule and then brutal Indonesian occupation. Justice was often taken into the hands of aggrieved parties, who acted directly, while notions of revenge were also well entrenched. Beyond this, as noted, around half of cabinet members of the government spent most or some of their exile in Mozambique (Fox 2002), which despite offering them sanctuary, education, and employment, had a poor reputation for democratic practice (until 1992 it was a one-party state), respect for rule of law, or the separation of powers between the executive and the judiciary (Harrison 1996). Also, it had little tolerance for an active civil society, in which nonparliamentary groups and organizations could freely express a range of political views. Not surprisingly, the government itself has stepped outside of legal bounds in asserting its political claims, especially in relation to the parliamentary opposition,3 while the police have developed a reputation for unlawful brutality (HRW 2006). Genuine representation, accountability, and equity of rule of law are each critical to democratic state success. A comprehensive resolution to the problem of policing and rule of law that goes to the core of these institutions was, then, essential. This appeared to be recognized in early attempts, with the support of the UN, to reorder the PNTL and Falintil-FDTL. To avoid failed state status, which between April and June 2006 appeared perilously close, East Timor required capable functioning institutions. The most important institution, upon which all others rested, was the constitution. In short, respect for the provisions of the constitution by all parties was inviolable, especially in ensuring a framework for a return to rule of law. As the crisis eased following the intervention of international troops and police, it appeared that the constitution would continue to be respected. Although Alkatiri claimed he was the victim of a “coup,” his resignation and the appointment of a new cabinet was within the constitution. That Fretilin continued to dominate the cabinet, as the majority party in parliament, indicated that there had not in fact been a coup, but rather a conventional political accounting (see Lane 2006), in which the political leader accepted responsibility for a major failing of government. As a set of functional institutions, East Timor’s bureaucracy had been developing, but even under Indonesia institutional capacity was poor (Pedersen and Arneberg 1999, 83–99) and, despite development of a post-1999 depleted work force, remained at low levels.4 “Capacity building” has come to be an


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almost overused term, implying methods or mechanisms intended to increase the ability of a workforce to undertake increasingly complex tasks. There is no single method by which such capacity building is or can be achieved, although education, skills-based training and higher conceptual and analytical skills development are among both its methods and its outcomes. In simple terms, the idea revolves around the simple capacity of a person to suitably undertake a particular job and to produce or exceed an expected level of outcome. Assuming an accepted standard for being able to undertake and complete a particular task, in East Timor at this time, there was a widespread very low level of individual capacity, which in turn meant that institutions that comprised such individuals exhibited very low levels of institutional capacity. Capacity building in East Timor remained a critical component of overall development (APHEDA 2005; Russell 2008) and, during 2006 and beyond, required continuing international assistance in order to develop local capacity but, also, just to ensure that many critical tasks were successfully undertaken. Two key state institutions that had clearly failed were the PNTL and the F-FDTL. The police failed primarily in employing torture, rape, excessive detention and other illegal methods against suspects and ordinary civilians (HRW 2006). The F-FDTL failed both through the rebellion of soldiers from the west, and those “loyalists” who shot unarmed police on May 25, 2006, and who armed nonserving civilians. The F-FDTL was created largely to satisfy its former guerrilla commanders and members in giving them a continuing role in protecting East Timor’s people. But since its creation on February 1, 2001, the F-FDTL has been a source of antagonism with and muted threats against the government (Rees 2003), growing tension including earlier attacks against the PNTL (Gusmao 2004) and the site of internal and interdistrict disputes (Rees 2004), culminating in the events of April to May 2006. As a consequence of the events of April to June 2006, the PNTL effectively collapsed as an organization, and was hence scheduled to undergo reorganization and retraining. With 1,400 troops (at least before the defection of the western command), F-FDTL was too small to be effective against East Timor’s most probable aggressor, Indonesia, but too large to be affordable for the poor state. F-FDTL consumed 8 percent (around US$18.5 million) of the national budget (US$230 million in 2006). Finally, as a military force, it was far too politicized to sit comfortably with a young and fragile democracy. With border security in the hands of the UPF and internal security in the hands of the PNTL, which had grated with the F-FDTL, it looked more like a job-creation exercise to satisfy former guerrilla commanders rather than a rational defense force. By comparison, Costa Rica has not had an army since 1949—among twenty-four unarmed small states—and has developed both politically and economically all

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the better for it. While logic suggested that Falintil-FDTL should be scrapped, such a move remained too politically sensitive and, upon becoming prime minister, Ramos-Horta continued to endorse its existence. Beyond formal security institutions, there remained a significant legal and security threat arising from local gangs, “self-defense” groups and the creation of politico-criminal organizations, notably based around former Falintil veterans including the above-noted Sagrada Familia, CPD-RDTL, Colimau 2000, and the “isolados” (individuals). Colimau 2000, CPD-RDTL, and Sagrada Familia also had links to former 1999 militia members, while Colimau 2000 members were also alleged to be involved in the violence and destruction in Dili in April 2006 (AP 2006). The motives of these groups remained ambiguous, with agendas that ranged from opposition to the state or state institutions to criminal activity, paramilitary organization and even religious association (McCarthy 2002, 12). While proscription of such organizations would have tended toward authoritarian suppression of legitimate dissent, such groups, especially when armed, did step outside the bounds of conventional law. Beyond formal state institutions are informal or social institutions, or social codes of behavior. Perhaps where East Timor political society was weakest was in the social acceptance of political and legal institutions, their lack of “embeddedness” (see Evans 1995) and in exchanging social or informal codes for formal codes. East Timor has a parliamentary democracy, but there was little respect within it, or indeed outside, for the right to hold dissenting opinion (despite this being guaranteed by the constitution). There was also weakness with its political society not yet grasping that when its constituent groups had grievances they were required to express them through legitimate channels, even where those channels were weak or seemingly unavailable, rather than take law into their own hands. By way of illustration, even the governing party, Fretilin, seemed to believe that party had a role in maintaining state order (Fretilin 2006, point 9), the language being used being that of a revolutionary organization rather than a party in a plural parliamentary democracy. Further, for a society unused to formal institutional processes, in which they remained shallowly rooted, and with little faith in state institutions as a means of redress, the option of private redress for legitimate grievance continued to exercise powerful sway. For example, where an individual was perceived to have caused an offence or damage to another, rather than seek legal redress it was much more common for the aggrieved individual to simply seek direct, personal revenge. Channels to accept the expression of grievances were required to be open and receptive in order to make such a process work. These channels were compromised by violence (HRW 2006), at best difficult to access, often excessively formal and sometimes uncommunicative, for reasons of government arrogance,


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institutional weakness, and language barriers. Those with grievances needed to learn that such grievances had to be legitimate and were required to be expressed through legitimate channels. Similarly, those channels had to be open to accept communication of such grievances, in terms of capacity, language, and willingness. This commitment to shared civic values was, perhaps, East Timor’s greatest challenge following the 2006 crisis. As important as were understanding and acceptance of ways in which concerns or grievances could be legitimately communicated, and acceptance that some forms of activity were not legitimately in the hands of ordinary citizens, there also needed to be not just tolerance of difference, including of language and region (overstated though the latter was), but also of political association and history. In particular, the East Timorese were notable for the capacity to know not just the political allegiance of a particular individual, but also the allegiance of their parents and often grandparents, this lineage then being assumed to determine successive allegiances. Similarly, the political orientation of a village or district was seen by many, perhaps most East Timorese to determine the political orientation of every individual from that village or district.5 Not only must family, village, or district allegiance be seen as legitimate if it does exist, it must not in the first instance be assumed to exist. To that end, negative distinction made by district or language reflected historical bigotry more than fact, and was fundamentally antinational in character. Beyond tolerance, then, there needed to be mutual respect, if not for the ideas of others, then at least for their right to hold them. This then went to the very nature of social transition from a traditional suku based society to a modern political state. Such transition takes time and has many potential pitfalls along the way, but such social education is absolutely necessary if East Timor is to progress beyond an understanding of politics being based on the local, uninformed and reactionary. Finally, from a history of social and communal violence, from before Portuguese colonialism to after Indonesia, the East Timorese had to learn that only official state institutions could legitimately employ violence. The corollary to this was that the state must be competent, behave lawfully and as benignly as possible, and itself only use violence legitimately, and only as a last resort. For East Timor to avoid becoming a failed state, it needed to achieve greater material development. But at least as importantly, it also needed to further develop its sense of cohesive national identity and shared political purpose, and establish and embed the institutions which support such political purpose. As the events of 2006 began to loom closer, East Timor’s emerging sense of national identity had begun to unravel, with many seeking identification and security within their specific language groups, including when they had moved to Dili. The

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binding force of opposition to occupation was now well past, and personal and group survival became paramount. The 2006 Crisis Even set against its long history of misery, 2006 was one of East Timor’s worst years. There were many years in which many more people had died and in which its physical infrastructure had been more greatly destroyed. But 2006 saw if not the ending of a dream, then the harsh realization that the value of independence was only as good as its entire political community made it. In 2006, East Timor’s political community tore itself apart, setting in motion an internal conflict that ran well beyond the year’s end, and that threatened to relegate East Timor to the status of just another postcolonial failed state. East Timor’s descent into factional conflict and the related forced resignation of its prime minister reflected the type of political chaos that has affected many newly postcolonial states, in which the competition for power overwhelmed a fragile and still fragmented political environment. So much had been hoped for and invested in East Timor, by the international community, by the United Nations, and not least by the East Timorese themselves, yet the events of 2006 showed how little had been achieved. Despite the change of prime minister, with the ascendance of the popular foreign minister Jose Ramos-Horta, the establishment of a large UN police presence, growing from 900 in October (AFP 2006) to 1,600 by the end of the year, along with continuing external military support from some 3,000 foreign troops, violence and destruction continued, entrenching a regional divide that challenged East Timor’s future. Prior to the crisis in East Timor, under the Fretilin government, the state had been moving along at steady if slow pace toward a series of its development goals. East Timor’s most pressing issue was its poverty. At around US$366 per capita GDP, corrected for purchasing power parity (WB 2005), East Timor was the equivalent poorest country in the world, although with a slightly better Human Development Index ranking of 140 of 177 states. More important, though, that broad per capita GDP figures, was that 40 percent of the population lived on 55 cents per person per day with, among poorer people, threequarters of all income being spent on food (WFP 2006). Such poverty, allied to high levels of unemployment (higher in Dili than elsewhere) and widespread illiteracy, underpinned and exacerbated all other social and political tensions (see RDTL 2006, vi; Scambary 2006a, 4). Against this backdrop, East Timor’s Fretilin government, led by Alkatiri, had made several sound development decisions, in particular avoiding external debt, seeking local food security and bringing down inflation (WB 2006a; WB


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2006b). Alkatiri also led difficult negotiations against Australia for the best possible deal from the Timor Gap oil and gas field. The income from oil and gas receipts increased from $649.8 million in June to $847.1 million in September (BPATL 2006; Macauhub 2006) and was invested in interest bearing U.S. government bonds, returning 8.37 percent in 2006. The economy had moved from negative to positive growth by 2005, if still at low levels and off a low base, education was developing and medical services had been considerably expanded, if somewhat controversially by accepting Cuban doctors. However, the East Timorese government also made some poor decisions (WB 2006a; WB 2006c), in particular in relation to the letting of government contracts to Alkatiri’s brother Bader Alkatiri to build roads and supply weapons. It was later shown that the Tafu Oil Company, which supplied fuel to the government worth over $1.2 million per month, was owned and operated by another Alkatiri brother, Djafar. Auditors later noted that there was no performance bond on the contract, that it was not let as a result of an open tender process, that the contract was extended without due authority, and that there was a failure to identify and recover “significant overpayments to the vendor” (Gusmao 2008). The Interior Minister and close Alkatiri ally, Rogerio Lobato, allegedly being involved in smuggling also alienated many East Timorese and the international community, upon which East Timor still significantly relied. According to the World Bank, corruption was becoming a problem in East Timor (WB 2006a, 2, 6, 11, 14, 28–32), about which public complaints were frequently and loudly heard. In a statement in response to allegations by Fretilin of corruption on the part of the succeeding government and following a review of previous food purchases, Xanana Gusmao highlighted issues of corruption of the Alkatiri government that had not previously been made public. These included that in 2006 to 2007, 76 percent of rice and other food purchases totaling more than $11 million were through single-source contracts, and that one of the single-source suppliers, Nadiria Supplier, was yet to supply seven hundred tonnes of rice already paid for. Further, Gusmao said that the previous government had deferred some debts. This included the then prime minister authorizing payment from the Contingency Reserve exceeding the amount charged to the Solidarity Fund, totaling $960,000, to Timor Global P. L. for two thousand tonnes of rice even though there was no shipping documentation attached to the payment order. Gusmao said that the auditor’s report stated that only one very poor photocopy of a cargo manifest was found attached to a separate payment voucher made out to the stevedore company handling the same rice acquisition for $35,200. However, this shipping mandate was for a different quantity of rice (3,000 metric ton) and annotated as “Donated by P.R. China” inconsistent with the Timor Global contract. Further, the costs charged to the

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Timor government for the transport and wharehousing the rice shipment were charged for an amount of 3,000 metric tons rather than the 2,000 metric ton in the contract. (Gusmao 2008)

Gusmao added that when his government took office, it found that the bank account for revenues from the sale of rice by the state only held $830,000, even though $11.9 million had been spent by the government on that rice (Gusmao 2008). This meant the rice had either been given away (as indeed much was during the 2007 election campaigns) or had been sold but the income not recorded and the profits privately pocketed. Gusmao added that even though the state started its purchases early in 2006, there were no bank account entries prior to February 2007. Further, he added that soon after taking office, it was discovered that 54 percent of the value of all of the previous government’s expenditure for 2006 to 2007 was coded to a supplier cited as “No vendor.” “This means we will never know where more than half our public state budget went or how it was spent because there is no documentation,” Gusmao said. Due to a large number of payments being incomplete, Gusmao said the audit team noted that “This has resulted in a situation where there is a very poor audit trail and retrospective investigations of malpractice or fraud would be very difficult” (Gusmao 2008). Gusmao also identified corruption through the government allocating of false invoices for servicing government cars. Despite destructive riots in late 2002, and the activities of quasi-criminal political organizations such as CPD-RDTL, Sagrada Famiglia and Colimau 2000, the government had generally exercised considerable restraint towards them, although there was some violent persecution of Colimau 2000 members. However, the government and its institutions had been noted for a tendency toward authoritarian responses (see HRW 2004), as well as incompetence in the face of serious challenges to state authority (UNOTIL 2006a, 2006b). More importantly, the government also interpreted expressions of alternative perspectives as disloyal and potentially seditious. This lack of acceptance of legitimate dissent and a loyal opposition was perhaps its greatest political failure (see Osborne 2006). By way of illustration, the opposition Democratic Party head, Fernando de Araujo, and other party members reported harassment by individuals associated with then Interior Minister, Rogerio Lobato, who was otherwise claimed to have established his own security apparatus6 and to have illegally armed nonstate groups (McGuirk 2006; see also Murdoch 2006a, 2006b). Later, De Araujo said he had been threatened with death by a gang allegedly working for Alkatiri,7 and his home was one of the first to be burned in the violence following the events of April 28, 2006. This lack of tolerance and respect for the legitimacy of dissenting or alternative views, or the notion of a loyal opposition, which increasingly marked


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Alkatiri’s relations with the opposition, was also reflected in the poor relations between Alkatiri and President Xanana Gusmao. Alkatiri said that he believed that Fretilin could win up to 90 percent of the vote in the 2001 elections, while Gusmão said he preferred a vote closer to 50 percent in order to create a viable opposition and hence a balanced democracy. This marked out the competing political styles of the two political leaders and brought to the surface longstanding underlying tensions between the two. Gusmao campaigned for non– Fretilin candidates to provide a balance against Fretilin, creating further friction with Alkatiri. Alkatiri also indicated that he was more committed to Fretilin dominance than to successful plural politics. While the split between the president and the prime minister was most apparent from this time, it reflected the much deeper and older division within elite East Timorese politics. The ideological split of the1980s continued to be echoed in the postindependence period, especially in 2006, and underpinned the friction between various political actors (see ICG 2006, esp. 4–5). Despite the East Timorese people’s warm embrace of electoral politics, the Fretilin government under the leadership of Mari Alkatiri tended toward an “economic development first” model in which democratization was sacrificed on the alter of claimed material benefit, or at least state unity. It has been proposed (e.g., see Hadenius 1994) that many earlier postcolonial states had abandoned democracy in the face of popular demands for economic improvement, set against a fractured and incoherent polity. In this approach, a confluence of ruling party and state was often evident. However, the claimed tradeoff between economics and politics usually more reflected the particular ideological perspectives of those in power, or corruption on the part of the ruling elite, than it did any clear economic benefit. In the case of Fretilin, the party that had started with a Marxist faction in 1975 had, by 1999, embraced the free market as an economic principle. However, a group within Fretilin led by Aklkatiri and therefore sometimes associated with expatriates who had lived most of their exile in Mozambique, retained topdown, highly centralized organizing principles often associated with bureaucratic authoritarianism. This was contrasted with a less dominant mudanca faction within Fretilin, which unsuccessfully challenged Alkatiri for party leadership in April 2006. Along with an increasing tendency toward authoritarian responses to political dissent, and with its limited tolerance of opposing political views, East Timor’s government appeared to be sliding toward one party status. Having begun its political life as a successful plural democracy, by the beginning of 2006 the state was heading toward a crisis.

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The Events of April-May There had been long-standing disquiet within F-FDTL over a range of issues, including their status vis-à-vis the PNTL, general pay and conditions, a lack of clear purpose, and disenchantment with civilian politics. There were also divisions within Falintil-FDTL, primarily between members of the organization who had participated in the struggle for independence from Indonesia, and those who had since been recruited. Broadly defined, the older members were primarily located in the east of the country, in Battalion II based in Bacau, while the newer recruits were largely located in the west, in Battalion I based in Metinaro near Dili. On February 17, 2006, 591 soldiers from Battalion I went on strike after claiming grievances were being ignored by the government. Their grievances, outlined in a petition signed by 159 soldiers and sent to Gusmao as well as other leaders on January 9, centered on alleged discrimination, particularly concerning promotions and accommodation. After consultation between the prime minister, the defense minister and the commander of Faltintil-FDTL, the government ordered the troops back to barracks. They refused and on March 17, were sacked for desertion (UNOTIL 2006c). While soldiers cannot ordinarily go on strike, the government sacking them appeared to be an ill-considered response to a potentially volatile situation, as noted by Gusmao at that time (UNOTIL 2006d). The government’s refusal to listen to the striking soldiers’ grievances was consistent with ignoring wider social expressions of concern. The government’s response was, at best, legalistic, at a time when it should have been sensitively political. In particular, Alkatiri could have called on President Gusmao to mediate the problem. But, because of his antipathy toward the president over their diverging political orientation, he did not do so. Just days before it broke, there was little overt sign of the ferocity of the impending storm. The sacked soldiers then came to Dili, and on April 28, staged a protest that also included unemployed youths and members of the organization Colimau 2000. The protest quickly turned into a riot, the police were claimed to be unable to control it and at that point Alkatiri ordered in soldiers. The soldiers were ordered to shoot, which resulted in five deaths and a large number of wounded. There were claims, and some evidence, that rioters and others were shot while trying to flee. There were also claims at this time that up to one hundred anti-Fretilin demonstrators had been killed along the road at Tasi Tolu on Dili’s western outskirts, which heightened tensions. However, while there was significant destruction in the Tasi Tolu area and attacks by western gangs against easterners, no evidence was found of the alleged massacre (it was not clear where the up to one hundred bodies came from in a mass grave


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discovered near the airport at Delta Comorro, not far from Tasi Tolu, in July 2008). Following the shootings, the “rebel” soldiers went into the nearby hills near Ermera, along with thousands of others, including Democratic Party leader Fernando de Araujo and his family. “Loyalist” soldiers were then sent to disarm one of the groups of sacked “rebel” soldiers, on May 23, (O’Shea 2006) at Fatu Ahi near Dili. The group at Fatu Ahi was commanded by Major Alfredo Reinado, who had joined the dissident troops after the F-FDTL fired on the protesters. On May 4, Reinado deserted his post as in army headquarters, where he had been posted after being removed as military police commander, along with a platoon, some police, and a truckload of weapons. After ignoring requests from Reinado to desist, the troops that had been sent to arrest him and his followers were fired on by the “rebel” troops, with one soldier being killed. The confrontation lasted into the night, with Reinado’s men surrounding the F-FDTL force, not all of whom were armed. Local F-FDTL commander Lieutenant-Colonel Falur sought reinforcements, and PNTL vehicles travelling between Baucau and Dili was caught in the fighting. Four others, including a PNTL officer, one civilian and two of Reinado’s men were also killed during fighting, along with eight F-FDTL soldiers and two PNTL officers being injured. At around midday the following day, F-FDTL reinforcements arrived, but a bus carrying soldiers to Dili was also attacked, about three hundred meters to the west of the original fighting. One of the soldiers shot in this attack died. Soon after, the F-FDTL’s Major Rai Ria arrived, but both he and his escort were wounded. At around 2:00 p.m., Major Amico and ten soldiers arrived from Metinaro, to the east of Dili, establishing a position on higher ground above Reinado’s force. Reinado then retreated, using a stolen PNTL vehicle. Fighting quickly descended into attacks in Dili, the arming of youth gangs, and attacks by “loyalist” soldiers against police. Violence and destruction, primarily in Dili but also affecting regional centers, was increasingly located around a division between gangs identifying themselves as deriving from the west of the country, as opposed to those who derived from the east. The terms that were being used to describe the geographic split, loro manu and loro sa’e, were incorrect and refer to West Timor and East Timor respectively, not the western and eastern parts of East Timor. More accurate although still debatable terms to describe the division within East Timor were kaladi (westerners) and firaku (eaterners). The east-west divide that came to characterize, and to plague, East Timor has at best an approximate historical origin. As noted by Soares (2003), easterners were associated with the districts of Lautem, Bauacau, Viqueque and Manatuto, while westerners were said to derive from Dili Ailieu, Ainaro, Same, Ermera,

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Liquica, Bononaro, Cova Lima, and Oecussi. Soares suggests that the source of conflict might have emerged in the period after World War II, when Macassae people from Baucau and Bunak people from the western highlands immigrated to Dili and began to compete for trade at local markets, evolving into a broad cultural division over competition for economic resources. Elements of this rivalry were recreated in the period after 1999, when people from outlying areas began to move into Dili, seeking work and relief from the destruction of their homes and villages. Language groups tended to be associated with particular areas within Dili (e.g., Delta Comoro and Quintal Boot with the east, Bairo Pite and Bebonuk with the west), and localized street gangs, often associated with martial arts clubs, occasionally engaged in “turf wars.” The martial arts clubs that formed the basis of many of the gangs had their own origins in the silat (Indonesian self-defense) clubs established under the Indonesian occupation. Two of the largest such clubs were the Federasi Karate Timor-Leste (from Indonesian, East Timor Karate Federation—FKTL) and Persaudaraan Setia Hati Terate (Lotus Sacred Spirit Brotherhood—PSHT). The Federasi Karate Timor-Leste was established in 1989 but relaunched on October 20, 1999, after which it became a member of the World Karate Federation. The FKTL counted around 3,400 members in 2005, and operated in all of east Timor’s thirteen districts. The FKTL was a more formal sporting club than some others, focusing on national sporting competitions sport and with ambitions to compete internationally. As a more formal sporting organization, the FKTL engaged in leadership and capacity-building programs, but eschewed involvement in political activities. There were up to twenty registered martial arts clubs, with a combined membership of up to around twenty thousand. However, it was the nonregistered “clubs,” or gangs that comprised the majority, as many as ninety thousand members in total, or almost 10 percent of the total population (Scambary 2006). Of these “unregistered clubs,” or gangs, among the most active in the political and gang wars was PSHT (also known as Nehek Metan, or Black Ants), established in 1983 and with membership growing from 5,500 members in 2005 to 30,000 members in 2008 (some claims had it at over 55,000). Membership of PSHT stretched across the country and across professions, including in its ranks police (including from the paramilitary Rapid Intervention Unit ), soldiers, and public service administrators. It is from the police in particular that PSHT members received weapons. PSHT was a hierarchical organization, structured along community lines from the local village level up to national leadership. While PSHT was based around self-defense classes, it also held computer and language training courses, and members were blood donors to hospitals. Less public spirited, however, PSHT was deeply involved in the 2006 violence and


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was held directly responsible for burning houses and a number of gang related killings. Although not formally politically affiliated, PSHT was widely believed to be closely associated with the Democratic Party (whose head, Fernando de Araujo, said had been approached by the gang for affiliation but refused it) and the Social Democratic Party, and was a clear rival to the Korka gang, which had an explicit association with Fretilin. The two gangs were involved in a number of clashes, especially in the Same and Ainaro regions. A key gang that was formally linked with Fretilin and that was widely engaged in violence and destruction in 2006 was Korka (Kmanek Oan Rai Klaran— Middle Land’s Excellent Children), which claimed more than 10,000 members (Scambary 2006, 14). Another of the explicitly pro-Fretilin gangs was IKSPTL Kerasakti (Ikatan Keluarga Silat Putra Timor–Leste, or Association of East Timorese Sons of Self-Defense). This organization was established in 1997, and by 2006 numbered around 3,500 across each of East Timor’s thirteen districts. Much more a politically motivated street gang than a self-defense group, the kakalok (mystical or magical) “77 Gang” had around 12,000 members by 2008, and had also been deeply implicated in house burning and some of the gangrelated killings. Deriving its name for its claimed year of establishment (1977, although most sources say it came into existence after 1999), the 77 Gang had parallels with other quasi-mystical groups, believing in aspects of magic (protective charms, curses and allegedly cannibalism), with members identifiable by seven scars cut into the arm. Similar although smaller kakalok groups included “1212” and “55.” Other gangs included Lito Rambo, which had associations with the “77” gang, the pro-Fretilin Commando, Lafaek (Crocodile) and Refut (Refuse), the pro-Reinado Sintu Kulao (Kulao Belt) and Gaya Anak Sadar (Sadar Child Style), which together were involved in conflict with Lito Rambo (Scambary 2006, 14–17). Scambary (2006, 22–23) counted 107 gangs and youth groups in East Timor in 2006, more than a quarter of which covered all districts in East Timor. Most of these groups were involved in violence at one time or another. Reflecting the origins of these types of organizations, many, perhaps most, also had partial or complete Indonesian language names. As noted, there were claims and counter-claims over degrees of resistance to and connivance with the Indonesian occupation based on geographic distinctions. Claims were made that the worst militias—Aitarak (Dili), Besi Merah Putih (Liquica), Laksaur (Suai), and Mahidi (Ainaro) derived from the west. Yet this was a false dichotomy, with both “easterners” and “westerners” both resisting and being co-opted, and the western militias having a disproportionately high number of non-East Timorese members, especially men from West Timor and nearby islands. Yet such differences were felt, and claimed, and exacerbated tensions within the F-FDTL, especially between western-based (and mostly

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recruited) soldiers and the eastern-based F-FDTL leadership. But in that there was a clear division within East Timor, and in Dili in particular, it could be said to have coalesced around those who were loyal to the Fretilin government of Mari Alkatiri and others, often disaffected, marginalized, and alienated youth, who wanted change. Within this context, there was considerable scope for more senior political actors to exploit these divisions for personal and political gain. In response to the fighting and widespread destruction, in which around 6,000 homes were destroyed, up to 163,000 East Timorese were forced from their homes or fled them in fear (IOM 2000a; WFP 2006), creating serious problems with food security and sanitation. As the wet season began toward the end of the year, more than 100,000 were still displaced, many without homes to return to (IOM 2006b; WFP 2006). Through the second half of 2006 and into 2007, there were numerous IDP camps scattered around Dili, and outside Dili toward Metinaro and Ermera. With many people scared to return home, or not having homes to return to, many of these camps quickly took on a semipermanent status. The International Organization for Migration (IOM) and UNHCR assisted in the camps, proving tents, water, and sanitation. For some, living in the camps, with guaranteed supplies of food, clear water, and sanitation, was better than the homes they had lost or had deserted. Given that the camps were usually comprised of people from one area or another, they also took on political affiliations, with ideological orientation in some camps becoming as important a factor in staying as others. During the 2007 elections, and after, the pro-Fretilin IDP camps were sites of political activism and occasionally unrest, especially in the large IDP camp next to the airport to the west of the city. When it became clear, in 2007, that the new government would compensate families who had lost their homes, many remaining IDPs stayed in the camps in order to be eligible for a government payment. Poor relations between the F-FDTL and the police, which descended into open violence at this time, stemmed from the poor human rights record of the police, though cleared of wrongdoing, many of them having served as police under Indonesia, that many also came from the west of East Timor, that they enjoyed higher pay and better conditions and that some, especially from the UPF, were corrupt. In a display of both the total breakdown of law and order, and the seriousness of the division between the army and the police, soldiers attacked the police headquarters, leading to a drawn-out gun battle. The battle only ended when the UN intervened and brokered a surrender of the police trapped in the building. The police surrendered their weapons and came out under a UN escort. They were then fired upon, with nine being killed on the spot (one died later) and twenty-seven wounded. This premeditated murder


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of the PNTL officers was perhaps the worst point of the violence, and was the point at which the country was closest to descending into civil war. In total, thirty-seven people were killed in the violence of this period. After these events, there was widespread recognition that the UN had withdrawn from East Timor too much too soon after helping establish the state, that the state was not yet sufficiently established, and that it was consequently unable to deal with the issues that now arose. There was also significant criticism of Australia, and to a lesser extent the United States, for wanting to remove Alkatiri as prime minister. As the shambles of East Timor continued to unfold and foreign observers and politicians bayed increasingly loudly and frequently for the political blood of Alkatiri, they appeared to forget some of East Timor’s constitutional facts, not to mention diplomatic niceties. Despite Alkatiri being widely condemned as arrogant, dismissive of genuine concerns, and nepotistic, he remained at this time the democratically elected leader of the Constituent Assembly; East Timor’s parliament. Under the constitution, it is not possible for the prime minister to be sacked or his government removed other than through a vote of no confidence by a majority in the parliament. There was a sense in Australia, the government of which was perhaps the most vociferous critic of Alkatiri, that it was less concerned about East Timor’s constitution than it was about short-term political outcomes. Yet any attempt to go outside either the constitution or the parliament would have invited vastly greater division within East Timor and create a long-term political and security nightmare. At this time, it appeared that when parliament resumed there could indeed be a successful vote of no confidence in Alkatiri’s leadership, in which case he would have been obliged to resign as prime minister. Especially following the split in Fretilin, it was likely that such a vote of no confidence would occur, and that Alkatiri would be pushed from office legally and constitutionally. Beyond this immediate crisis, he and his government faced the people in elections scheduled for the first half of 2007. At this stage, in which Fretilin looked like it would lose its absolute majority but perhaps still be the single largest party, a Fretilin-led coalition with a smaller party then looked possible. The likelihood of a coalition that did not include Fretilin, at this time, seemed more remote. The question of the future of the army was again raised at this time, if by outsiders more than East Timorese themselves. External observers (including the author) noted that the army was too small to be effective, to expensive, too poorly trained and too politicized and too divided. However, while the future of the F-FDTL was under something of a cloud at this time, in that the greatest threat to Alkatiri’s leadership had come from within his own party (UNOTIL 2006a, 2006b).

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In response to the mounting political crisis, and increasing expressions of concern within Fretilin about Alkatiri’s leadership, between May17 and 19, the party held its second national congress of subdistrict party delegates. The meeting was held in the Gedung Matahari Terbit (translated from Indonesian as Sunrise Building, better known as GMT). At this meeting, there was a challenge to Alkatiri’s leadership by what became known as the Mudanca group, headed by East Timor’s UN ambassador Jose Luis Guterres. Alkatiri forced a show of hands vote on his leadership under circumstances that some at the meeting later described as personally threatening (pers.com). Although the legality of the vote was later upheld in a court challenge, Xanana Gusmao poked fun at the congress, later saying that GMT really stood for Gedung Mengangkat Tangan (translated from Indonesian as Show of Hands Building). This vote, and the threats that were used to ensure Alkatiri’s continuing leadership of the party, led to a more distinct split within the party, which resulted in many members leaving in early 2007, or campaigning against Fretilin under the banner of “Fretilin Mudanca.” Allied to widespread voter dissatisfaction with Fretilin under Alkatiri and the heavy-handed tactics employed to retain him as party head, this led to desertion from the party but massive voter desertion at the 2007 elections. In 2006, though, no one in Alkatiri’s inner circle understood or accepted the party was hemorraging political support, while most of Fretilin’s external supporters were similarly incapable of facing what was becoming an otherwise increasingly obvious situation. While still in the grip of violence, at the request of the East Timorese government then still under the leadership of Alkatiri, Australia and New Zealand immediately sent troops to help control the still continuing violence and destruction, supported by Portuguese Republican National Guard (Guarda Nacional Republicana—GNR) paramilitary police, and later Malaysian riot police. The Australian and New Zealand soldiers, constituted as the International Stabilisation Force (ISF), were initially criticized by many in East Timor, particularly Fretilin supporters, as being too slow to act. Based on some excessively antiFretilin and anti-Alkatiri media reports emanating from Australia, and the Australian government’s own criticism of Alkatiri, this criticism then morphed into allegations of bias on the part of Australian soldiers in particular. Following an Australian media report on arming unofficial groups, on May 30, the interior minister, Rogerio Lobato, and the defense minister, Roque Rodrigues, were sacked, with Lobato being charged with arming an illegal gang. Rodrigues was replaced as defense minister by Ramos-Horta. A television report in Australia claimed evidence that Alkatiri had also been involved in arming illegal gangs, and on June 25, Ramos-Horta resigned both his portfolios in protest against Alkatiri’s continuing tenure as prime minister, while


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Gusmao threatened to also quit as president. The following day, Alkatiri bowed to this intense domestic and international pressure and resigned as prime minister. Fretilin put forward three names for alternative prime minister to President Gusmao, who chose his longtime ally, foreign minister and Alkatiri opponent, Jose Ramos-Horta as East Timor’s new prime minister, assuming the position on July 8. Following the split within Fretilin in the 1980s, Ramos-Horta had resigned as a member of the party, which made his appointment particularly bitter for many of the hardliners remaining in Fretilin, who thereafter embarked on a campaign of noncooperation, bringing government functionality to a standstill. The subsequent UN report on the violence showed its cause in a high level of institutional failure, criminal acts by a number of leading political figures, and at least a failure of decision making by Gusmao and Alkatiri (UN 2006). The report found that Gusmao had made provocative statements during the crisis and should not have directly communicated with rebel troops. While Xanana Gusmao was found by the inquiry to have shown a lack of restraint in the affair, contrary to some claims at the time that exacerbated by the country’s internal divisions or, according to some media reports (e.g. Martinkus 2006) that he had been directly implicated in the events, he was not found to have authorized Reinado’s activities (UN 2006). The report also found that rebel leader Major Alfredo Reinado and his men committed criminal acts by shooting at and killing and wounding government soldiers and police. The UN report also found that then Prime Minister Mari Alkatiri did not directly distribute weapons illegally to civilians, but probably had knowledge of the distribution and failed to act to stop their distribution. The report also found that, in contrast to constitutional requirements, Alkatiri in particular bore responsibility for calling out troops to confront protesters on April 28, which led to the fatal shooting of five protesters and the wounding of many others, and that the government had failed to follow required legislative procedures by calling out the army on April 28. However, the report also found that claims of sixty more being killed on the outskirts of Dili were unfounded. Senior figures were directly implicated in the distribution of weapons (UN 2006). Police commander General Paulo Martins illegally distributed weapons within the police, while sacked Interior Minister Rogerio Lobato, Defense Minister Roque Rodrigues and F-FDTL Force chief Taur Matan Ruak also illegally armed civilians. A number of charges against these individuals were recommended by the report, only some of which were pursued. The report provided further impetus to the International Crisis Group (2006) report that recommended that Gusmao and Alkatiri retire from politics to allow a new, untainted and hopefully more competent generation of political leaders to come through.

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As targets of criticism and, on occasion, attack (particularly by steel darts— rama ambon—fired from slingshots), some Australian soldiers developed an anti-Fretilin bias, which exacerbated tensions between them and Fretilin supporters, and made Australia even more of a target of criticism. Reflecting an historical siding with external powers for local purposes, Fretilin came out as supportive of Portugal and the GNR, while Australia was portrayed as favoring an anti-Fretilin coalition and, in particular, Ramos-Horta and Xanana Gusmao. A rift was even regarded as having begun to develop between the official Australian and Portuguese representatives in East Timor (e.g., Fernandes 2008), although any evidence of such a rift only became apparent in the obverse two years later as Australia’s then new ambassador, Peter Heyward, who had formerly served in Brazil and hence spoke Portuguese, made a point of developing more cordial relations with his Portuguese counterpart, including reaching agreement about areas of concentration of aid programs. Most importantly, however, if not observed at the time, was that the international intervention not only quelled the violence in Dili and elsewhere, with only sporadic and localized outbreaks occurring until the election period of 2007, but this external intervention forestalled intervention by the F-FDTL. Given the complete institutional collapse of the PNTL, the F-FDTL remained the only internal institution capable of asserting authority in this very troubled time. Yet there were two serious problems with any suggestion that it should do so. The first problem was, having split, and with large civilian groups quickly siding with the “loyalists” (pro-Fretilin “easterners”) or “petitioners” (anti-Fretilin “westerners”), there was a ready-made recipe for a civil war. There was a very public sense within East Timor at this time that such a civil war was a real possibility, especially given that the commander of the F-FDTL, Brigadier-General Taur Matan Ruak, was named by a UN inquiry as being one of those responsible for the violence, by handing out weapons to civilians, as was PNTL chief Paulo Martins. The threat of a civil war between April and May 2006 was real, and could have been triggered by further domestic military intervention. This was, however, averted by the intervention. The second critical problem with F-FDTL intervention was, even if it could assert authority and avoid sparking a civil war, it would by definition have assumed an internal security function. There was little doubt, at the time, that this is what it was very ready and quite eager to do. That is, East Timor would have fallen into the postcolonial trap of the military, being the most or only viable state institution in a deteriorating political environment, assumes responsibility for internal order. Given the militaries are not trained to engage in policing and that they are necessarily organized along hierarchical and somewhat authoritarian lines (i.e., internal military authority is absolute), it is but


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a very short step to declaring martial law, the military becoming the de facto institution of all of the state and, almost inevitably, replacing the government, as ineffectual, it has sought to protect. The history of postcolonial military intervention and a military coup, leading inevitably to a military dictatorship, came very close to being a part of East Timor’s history as well. But this did not happen, and this was almost entirely as a consequence of relatively benign external intervention. The International Crisis Group later reported that a high level of UN assistance was necessary to ensure security sector reform in East Timor, saying that a year and a half after the events of 2006, there was still no national security policy, the PNTL still “suffer from a low status and an excess of political interference,” while the army continued to trade on its heroism in resisting the Indonesian occupation but had not yet found a meaningful role. From January 2006, the F-FDTL’s numbers plummeted from 1,435 men to just 715 by September that year, with the proportion of westerners in the army falling from 65 percent to 28 percent. The ICG’s Southeast Asia director, John Virgoe, said that the government of East Timor should engage in security sector reform, including parliamentary and judicial oversight, while the ISF maintained basic security in the country. However, he noted, it would have to move quickly, which it did not appear to be doing (Deen 2008). In the face of domestic security failure, Reinado and his men roamed relatively freely in central and western East Timor at this time, posing a threat to any semblance of stability that might have been created in Dili and other main towns. While Reinado was on the loose, many in the pro-Fretilin camp felt they were in potential if not actual danger. This, in turn, ensured that local communities supported vigilante gangs comprised of local thugs and unemployed youths, which in turn left anti-Fretilin communities feeling as though they also needed similar “protection” through their own gangs. This almost automatically led to gang fights, most of which resulted in injury and destruction, and some of which resulted in death. In response to this continued sense of lawlessness, Xanana Gusmao sent a message to Reinado asking him to canton himself and his men at the hilltop guesthouse at Maubisse. That Gusmao paid the cost of Reinado and his men to stay at the guesthouse was later claimed as evidence that the president had been secretly supporting or financing Reinado all along. Rather, however, this was just a practical means of stopping him from roaming around the countryside creating a widespread sense of insecurity and further promoting local gangs as ‘self-defense’ groups. With Australian troops sent to ensure that Reinado did not leave the guesthouse, he was in effect under house arrest. On July 25, this informal situation was formalized, and Reinado and his supporters were arrested by Australian

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troops, brought to Dili and held at Becora jail on Dili’s eastern outskirts. But just a month later, on August 30, Reinado and fifty-five others staged a mass breakout from the prison. The prison guards claimed they had been threatened by Reinado and other escapees, although there appeared to be little resistance to releasing them. It appeared that either the prison guards had been sympathetic to Reinado or had been bribed to release him. The escapees immediately headed to the west of the country where they had a strong support base, taking weapons from border patrol police. Reinado later claimed he had not stolen the weapons, but that they had been freely given to him by the border police, which appeared to be supported by some of those police joining him and his gang. Although gang violence and some destruction continued sporadically following external intervention, there was an escalation of gang fighting in October 2006, with eight people being killed in the last week of October in fighting between rival gangs. Dili airport was closed for twenty-four hours due to the violence just outside a refugee camp near the airport (UN News Center 2006, UNMIT 2006a). FDTL commander, General Taur Matan Ruak said the violence was politically motivated, and that it was aimed at destabilisng the Fretilin government and creating a “government of national unity” (Walters 2006; Murdoch 2006b). In response, he called for the army to be released from barracks to deal with the violence (UNMIT 2006b), which again fed into fears that the F-FDTL wished to replace the police as the enforcers of internal law, and that it again was edging toward military intervention in domestic politics. At the same time, what had started as random hostility began to turn into a more formal political campaign against Australian troops, with claims being made they had taken sides in the conflict and calling on them to be put under the administration of a UN-led force (Lu-Olo 2006; Murdoch 2006c). This allegations being made by this Fretilin-led campaign were strongly denied by the Australian Defense Force Chief (Houston 2006) and Prime Minister Ramos-Horta, who said that different gangs made such accusations against both Australian and Portuguese forces depending on which force had directly confronted which gang (de Queiroz 2006). The violence that continued to destabilize East Timor was based around a complex of issues and organizations that had begun to harden into distinct factions following the events of April through May. At one level, the violence was linked to martial arts clubs and quasi-political organizations (noted earlier). A report on the violence estimated that up to 70 percent of East Timor’s men belonged to one of the clubs, including the Dili-based PSHT, and Korka, which was aligned with Fretilin. According to the author of a report on the violence, in the six months following: ‘the gangs have become larger, more violent and their behavior more disturbing,” (Scambary 2006b). Particularly disturbing was


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the finding that some of these gangs were affiliated with leading political figures and had infiltrated the security forces, while others increasingly appeared to have links to quasi-political organizations, some with pro-Indonesia militia links or led by former restistance fighters, such as Colimau 2000, CPD-RDTL, Orsnaco, and Sagrada Famiglia (Scambary 2006a). Other gangs were based on affiliation with mystical organizations, churches, youth associations, ethnicity, locality (“bairo”) and criminality. As Scambary noted, East Timor’s grinding poverty, property disputes and turf wars over criminal activities directly contributed to the gang violence, along with contentions over which groups most greatly contributed to the independence struggle (Scambary 2006a, 1–8). Following the Indonesian occupation, preexisting land ownership was disrupted, as it was again as a consequence of the widespread destruction and loss of records in 1999. As squatters moved into deserted buildings, the competition over land and buildings became, therefore, sometimes fierce, especially if differentiated by language group. These disputes were exacerbated by historical antecedents, including traditional rivalries over market access between Bunak speaking people from the west and Makassae speaking people from further east, and around Portuguese gangs (Moradores) and later Indonesian-supported gangs, notably “home defense” groups, which in 1998 to 1999 morphed into militias (Scambary 2006a, 5–8). Looking Backward, Looking Forward Despite Ramos-Horta being appointed as prime minister, gang violence and destruction continued, if more sporadically, in East Timor, primarily in Dili. The UN and Australia argued about the organization and leadership of the international military presence, with Australia opposing a UN-led military mission. The rationale for this opposition to a UN-led force was unclear, although Australia has not been favorably disposed toward the UN for wider political reasons, and some had previously felt its majority contribution to the Peace Keeping Force had been compromised by non-Australian PKF leadership. International police, eventually under the auspices of the UN, meanwhile, took over almost all responsibility from the PNTL, which had functionally ceased to exist, ahead of that organization’s restructuring and retraining. Joint UNPNTL patrols resumed in November, but the police force remained weak and unstable. There was also a refocusing of international effort in East Timor, and at least in public some of its leaders recognized they had made mistakes. RamosHorta said, “If anything, we should blame ourselves for not being able to solve our own problems” (AKI 2006). However, there was also reluctance by some to accept responsibility for events, and to blame others. In particular, Alkatiri

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claimed that the Catholic Church was behind the “conspiracy” to oust him as prime minister, and that it had allied itself with “illegal groups” to do so (see Loizou 2006). East Timor had not quite become a failed state, but it was starting to look as though successful statehood, even at modest levels, was much further away than anyone had imagined it might be. It seemed as though the extent of the task in restoring its previous, if inadequately supported, sense of security would take years rather than months. As the crisis eased following the intervention of international troops and police, the constitution continued to be respected. Although Alkatiri claimed he was the victim of a “coup,” his resignation and the appointment of a new cabinet was within constitutional guidelines and he had resigned voluntarily, if under great pressure. That Fretilin continued to dominate the cabinet, as the majority party in parliament, indicated that there had not in fact been a coup, but rather a conventional (“bourgeois”) political accounting for the events of April to May (see Lane 2006). The appointment of Jose Ramos-Horta as East Timor’s interim prime minister was generally understood to be a move toward installing a unifying figure for a small nation that, for a moment, appeared to be in danger of fragmenting. A fragmented nation, in this case, would have meant a failed state. East Timor became a nation in response to a common Indonesian enemy. But like most other postcolonial states, it has had to construct a national identity that no longer relied on uniting against an oppressor, but uniting toward common goals. Ramos-Horta had the capacity to appeal across East Timor’s political divide, and what was becoming a geographic divide. In particular, he was temporarily able to heal rifts within the ruling Fretilin party, divided between supporters and opponents of former prime minister, Mari Alkatriri. Ramos-Horta also brought the government closer to the popular president, Xanana Gusmao, with whom he retained a strong personal and political bond. While the presidency was largely ceremonial, at this time Gusmao had huge legitimacy among ordinary East Timorese. Ramos-Horta, too, was widely popular, and their alliance strengthened and stabilized East Timor’s political environment. As prime minister, Ramos-Horta moved to heal the government’s rift with the Catholic Church and refocused efforts to address dissent among ex-resistance fighters. However, he did not alter Fretilin’s conservative economic policies. If there was a problem with Ramos-Horta’s appointment, it was that there were some in Fretilin who remained unhappy with his role in Alkatiri’s downfall. There was also the issue of the head of government not belonging to the majority party, which was even then believed would impact on Fretilin as it approached the 2007 elections. Many in Fretilin therefore worked against


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Ramos-Horta’s leadership, pushing him to clarify his own political ambitions. Ramos-Horta began to weigh up three options. The first was to try to stay on as prime minister, the second to become president, and the third option was to seek a senior post within the UN. To stay on as prime minister, Ramos-Horta would have had to rejoin Fretilin, the party he left a decade and a half ago, and would have required renegotiating his relationship with some party members. Despite its fall in popularity, Fretilin was still expected to draw a strong vote in 2007, given its institutional strength and continued depth of support, especially outside Dili. It was increasingly clear, though, even at this time, that Ramos-Horta would like to become president, and began discussing what was interpreted by some as a “job swap” with Gusmao. There was also speculation that Ramos-Horta could replace Kofi Annan as head of the UN (in no small part promoted by Ramos-Horta himself ), although to be available for this he would be better positioned by resuming being foreign minister. That would have, in turn, depended on whether Ramos-Horta’s prime ministership was indeed “interim,” or whether the logic of his appointment was seen as too strong to end. As it transpired, the depth of political bitterness by the Alkatiri faction of Fretilin was so profound that Ramos-Horta would not hope to stay on as prime minister other than as the head of a completely new government. And, of course, Xanana Gusmao still harbored his own long-standing political ambitions to lead the country, and Ramos-Horta was the junior partner in this otherwise close political relationship. In the end, and with no prospect of a major UN posting in sight, RamosHorta chose to run for the presidency, on what amounted to a unity ticket if excluding support from Fretilin. As a set of functional institutions, East Timor’s bureaucracy had been developing, but even under Indonesia institutional capacity was poor (Pedersen and Arneberg 1999, 83–99) and, despite development of a post-1999 depleted work force, remained at low levels.8 Capacity building remained a critical component of overall development (APHEDA 2005), and appeared to require continued international assistance. Despite the worrying drift toward intervention by the F-FDTL, as prime minister, Ramos-Horta endorsed its continued existence. Perhaps this was a reflection of his genuine belief that East Timor required a full-fledged, if diminutive defense force, perhaps it was in recognition of its political influence, or perhaps it acknowledged that the F-FDTL could have attempted to stage a coup should moves be made to disband it. No senior political figure in East Timor, however, suggested that the F-FDTL should go. As for the PNTL, it went back to basics, beginning training of its collapsed force over again.

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Beyond formal security institutions, there remained a significant legal and security threat arising from local gangs, “self-defense” groups and the creation of politico-criminal organizations, notably based around former Falintil veterans including the above-noted Sagrada Familia, CPD-RDTL, Colimau 2000, and the “isolados” (individuals). Colimau 2000, CPD-RDTL, and Sagrada Familia also had links to former 1999 militia members, while Colimau 2000 members were also alleged to be involved in the violence and destruction in Dili in April 2006 (AP 2006). The motives of these particular groups remained ambiguous, with agendas that ranged from opposition to the state or state institutions to criminal activity, paramilitary organization and even religious association (McCarthy 2002, 12). Even the governing party, Fretilin, seemed to believe that the party had a direct role in maintaining state order (Fretilin 2006, point 9), indicating its confusion in understanding the distinction between party political institutions and non-partisan state institutions. Perhaps where East Timor political society was weakest was in the social acceptance of political and legal institutions, their lack of “embeddedness” (see Evans 1995) and in exchanging social or informal codes for formal codes. In that political institutions were socially accepted, this was largely via the patronage networks of political parties, rather than of government itself. East Timor retained a parliamentary democracy, but until 2008 there appeared to be little respect within it, or indeed outside, for the right to hold dissenting opinion (despite this being guaranteed by the constitution). Channels to accept the expression of grievances were required to be open and receptive in order to make such a process work. These channels were compromised by violence (HRW 2006), at best difficult to access, often excessively formal, and sometimes uncommunicative, for reasons of government arrogance, institutional weakness, and language barriers. As important as understanding and acceptance of ways in which grievances could be legitimately communicated, there was also a lack of not just tolerance of differences, including of language and region (overstated though the latter was), but also of political association and history. In particular, the East Timorese were notable for the capacity to know not just the political allegiance of a particular individual, but also the allegiance of their parents and often grandparents, this lineage then being assumed to determine successive allegiances. Finally, from a history of social and communal violence, from before Portugal’s colonialism to after Indonesia’s, the East Timorese had not yet learned that only official state institutions could legitimately employ violence. The corollary to this was that the state must be competent, behave lawfully and as benignly as possible, and itself only use violence legitimately, and only as a last resort. For East Timor to avoid becoming a failed state, it needed to achieve greater


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material development. But at least as important, East Timor needed to further develop its sense of cohesive national identity and shared political purpose, and establish and embed the institutions that support such political purpose. At the end of 2006, this remained a distant goal. Calm slowly returned to East Timor, but serious doubts remained about its political future. The violence of 2006 shredded the fabric of East Timor’s political society, and repair was looking as difficult as it was necessary. Despite having made some sound economic decisions, there was little doubt that East Timor’s internal politics had been badly handled. East Timor had forgone foreign debt and had, with one notable exception, agreed to only draw interest on Timor gap revenues, which showed intelligent economic caution. But into 2007, government had done little to support its people, still traumatized after the deaths of around a quarter of its population under Indonesian occupation. After its Indonesia experience, East Timor began to build all of the political fundamentals, and it appeared it would need to do so again. The period to 2006 was, in political terms, a false start. Most basic, East Timor had to rebuild its sense of nationhood, so the people again understand themselves to have a common, bonded political interest. This common interest needed to be manifested in the state that existed, so far as it could, for the benefit of its citizens. The most basic criterion for national unity is a common language. Ironically, the East Timorese developed their sense of unity in opposition to the occupying Indonesians through the common use of the Indonesian language. Apart from the use of market Tetum and a handful of Portuguese speakers, until the introduction of Indonesian the East Timorese spoke the eighteen languages and more than a dozen further dialects that make the territory such a linguistic patchwork. The government’s adoption of Tetum as the national language helped unify the state, but the adoption of Portuguese as the second official language was both unpopular and illogical. Indonesian, which is referred to in East Timor as “Malay” and hence politically acceptable, remained widely spoken. Portuguese was growing in use, but was still limited to s small proportion of the population and was almost never used in daily conversation. Beyond language and other markers such as religion, which nearly all East Timorese share (if in some cases superficially) as Catholics, national unity is constructed around a commitment to common civic values. These should ideally include support for regular elections for a representative and accountable government, and equality under rule of law. The East Timorese people warmly embraced democratic voting, voluntarily going to the polls in percentages greater than in Australia, where voting is compulsory. But the Fretilin government, which came to power with a two-thirds

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majority, had been uncommunicative and largely unaccountable. Indeed, as prime minister, Mari Alkatiri was known for his arrogance and disdain, which was taken badly by a people living with severe economic hardship. Rule of law and notions of justice were not well understood in East Timor after experiencing feudal Portuguese colonialism and then brutal Indonesian occupation. Many of the key members of the government spent their exile in Mozambique, which did little to imbue them with respect for the niceties of law, or the separation of powers between the executive and the judiciary. Genuine representation, accountability, and equity of rule of law are each critical to democratic state success. East Timor failed on all three, and it was faced with the task of succeeding on these in the future. Beyond these basics, like any state, East Timor required functioning institutions. Its bureaucracy had been developing, but too many people still saw a government job as sitting in an air-conditioned office with a computer, with little idea of what should be done there (other than playing computer games). Capacity building still had a long way to go, and required continued international support. One key state institution that clearly failed was the army (FDTL), both for its rebellion of soldiers from the west, and those “loyalists” who gunned down unarmed police and who armed civilians. The FDTL was created to satisfy its former guerrilla commanders, and it had done nothing since then except cause problems. In short, it became increasingly clear that the F-FDTL should be disbanded. It was too small to be effective, too expensive for an impoverished state, and too politicized to sit comfortably with a young and fragile democracy. The failure of the PNTL, too, continued to have longer term ramifications, not least in that its retraining appeared to have altered little more than the surface of its performance. Perhaps where East Timor political society was weakest, heading into 2007, was in its political behavior. East Timorese political society had to learn, from this time, that when its constituent groups have grievances they must express them through legitimate channels. And those channels must be open and receptive in order to make such a process work, which until and following the events of 2006 they largely had not. As importantly, there also needed to be not just tolerance of difference, including of language, suku (village) and region, but also of political affiliation and history. Beyond tolerance, there needed to be mutual respect, if not for the ideas of others, then at least for their right to hold them. Finally, from a history of social and communal violence, from before Portuguese colonialism to after Indonesia, the East Timorese had to learn that only official state institutions such as the police could legitimately employ violence. The corollary, however, was that the state must tread as gently as possible,


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always first employ mechanisms other than force, and use violence only as a last resort. It was clear from this time that careful economic development remained critical for East Timor’s future. But, like all societies, economic development, of which there was precious little, was next to meaningless without parallel political development.


CHAPTER 7

The 2007 Elections

F

ollowing the political upheavals of 2006 and the uneasy political truce that had been entered into following the resignation as prime minister of Mari Alkatiri, many had hoped that 2007 would provide some relief from the previous political tensions. Gang fighting continued, if at a lower level, and house burnings had become more sporadic, if also regularized. Because it was an election year, there was much hope that the electoral process would resolve what had developed as a political deadlock between Fretilin as the majority party in government and the popular but non–Fretilin interim prime minister Jose Ramos-Horta. As was becoming something of a pattern of expectations, many hoped that the 2007 elections would not only break this political deadlock, but would also open the way toward a brighter future for East Timor. As with so many other aspirations for East Timor’s future, these hopes were, at best, only partially fulfilled. Reflecting a common pattern for most of East Timor’s impoverished population, 2007 began less with celebration for the new year than with growing hunger. The “hungry season,” as old crop stores begin to run low but before new harvests came in, was hurting worse than usual. The previous season’s crops had been adversely affected by a short rainy season and, given the drought conditions that had affected East Timor since 2003, there was insufficient food in store to last over what was already a difficult time for most East Timorese. But in early 2007, not only were the previous season’s crops inadequate, but also the rainy season started very late and lasted only a few weeks. The 2007 crops, too, promised to be inadequate. Malnutrition had long been a part of life in East Timor, exacerbated in the late 1970s and early 1980s by Indonesian military policy on resettlement, but always a feature of the harsh and often unforgiving landscape. The farthest point in an often drought-affected southeastern chain of islands, Timor’s topography and often unyeilding soil has always meant that scratching a living from the

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land was at best a precarious proposition. Almost half of East Timor’s children under five were chronically malnourished, with most of those regarded as severely malnourished. This phenomenon continues into school age children, and also women, about 30 percent of whom also suffered from malnutrition (WFP 2006). The government had a policy of alleviating some of the worst of the “hungry season” by stockpiling purchases of rice and then distributing them in times of need. Yet in February 2007, the price of rice had risen from US$10 to US$15 per 20-kilo sack to US$35. This meant that most people who might have just scraped together enough money to buy rice at the lower price were either forced to buy much less rice or were entirely excluded from the market. In part, the increased price of rice reflected a surge in world food prices generally and of rice in particular starting in late 2006, affecting rice prices from January 2007. The main cause of this price rise was a global downturn in grain production in 2006 due to widespread drought, exacerbated by generalized inflation and in particular the increase in world oil prices, which has pushed up the cost of shipping as well as price competition for biofuel grains. Yet the warehoused rice being held in Dili by the government had been purchased before the increase in food costs, while supplies continued to be available across the border in Indonesia. In short, there was a widespread suspicion that the government was stockpiling rice for political purposes. Later in the year this appeared to be confirmed when the government began to distribute rice as electoral booty to its supporters, in a twist on the old political term “pork barrelling.” But in early 2007, all that most people knew was that they were more hungry than usual, and the expected food relief was not available as they might have expected. Many people talked about the possible outcomes of the coming elections while the government was trying to rebuild its shattered relationship with the majority of East Timorese. The international community, meanwhile, openly speculated about the possible range of political scenarios that could eventuate. In a small country, and especially a small capital city such as Dili, perhaps there was little else of much interest to discuss. But perhaps, too, given that the political stakes were high, tensions remained close to the surface and the political environment was never far from anyone’s thoughts. There was, in particular, increasing speculation at this time about the political intentions of the president, Xanana Gusmao, and the interim prime minister, Jose Ramos-Horta. It was becoming increasingly likely from this time that Gusmao would run for parliament, and that Ramos-Horta would probably contest the presidency. In a society that had long been politicized, after the events of 2006, knowledge that the people would go to the polls in 2007 to elect a new government

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meant that the political race began early, if unofficially. Many also speculated on whether former prime minister Mari Alkatiri would bow out of politics, or at least take a more backseat role in Fretilin, given that he had led the party into the chaos of 2006 for which, as the country’s political leader, he in large part bore responsibility. Despite this early political foment, there was considerable disorganization within the parties. Fretilin was badly damaged following the events of 2006. Despite having a clear majority in parliament, it had managed to lose the prime ministership and its otherwise high level of party discipline had fragmented in the face of internal dissent. As was becoming increasingly clear, the party was about to divide, with its mudanca faction in the process of hiving off almost completely, to form the basis of what would later be a new party, Xanana Gusmao’s cleverly named CNRT (Congresso Nacional da Reconstrucao de Timor—National Congress for the Reconstruction of Timor). When it was announced, Fretilin objected to the use of the name, claiming that it was the acronym of the coalition that had won independence for East Timor in 1999. Indeed, the CNRT of 1999 was similarly led by Gusmao, and Fretilin’s claim concerning the crossover was legitimate. However, when the CNRT was finally announced, it employed the same acronym as that used in 1999 but under a different name. In 1999, it was Concelho Nacional da Resistancia Timorense (National Council of Timorese Resistance), which allowed Gusmao to sidestep any legal complications while still wrapping himself in the metaphorical banner of independence. Gusmao’s desire for a government of national unity after 1999, based on the original CNRT, was in a manner also resurrected by the use of this name, even if ahead of the elections it was now a single party and not a coalition of parties and other political organizations. But early in 2007, Gusmao had not yet registered CRNT and it was unclear as to the extent that the party could attract support. It was to be a relatively late political invention, and only managed to function as a party into 2007 by securing whole sections of Fretilin’s organization, from which most of its membership came. Other parties similarly began organizing around this time, drawing on the traditional constituencies and attempting to claim elements of the constituencies of others. There was much movement but, outside of Fretilin and the new CNRT, little change. By the end of February 2007, the people of East Timor had begun actively discussing who would lead them for the next five years and, consequently, who would be given the responsibility for shaping the course for their political future. Campaigning had started for elections which would determine whether the small impoverished country could live up to the hopes many still held for it or whether, after the events of 2006 and the external commentary

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that accompanied that, it became just another failed state. A sense of centralized neglect contributed to a widespread feeling of alienation and desperation, and the willingness of gangs to engage in violence had since become endemic. Behind the violence had lain a cynical elite manipulation of the gangs. The outcome of 2006’s political conflict was that, after the Indonesian era, violence was again seen as a viable political tool. Even for those who had lived through the Indonesian occupation, many of East Timor’s elites had only the barest direct connections with the people, and had shown they were prepared to use the force of gangs rather than force of argument to defend or expand their political turf. The gangs, and their victims, had become pawns in a contest not over policy or ideology, but for many, access to wealth and power. Of the two elections to come, those for the president on April 9 were seen as less critical than the parliamentary elections, to be held in June. In order to curb the excesses of a potentially authoritarian president, presidential powers had been limited by East Timor’s constitution. Real power, therefore, lay with the parliament and that was where the real political contest would be. The contest for the presidency would be, by comparison, far more symbolic and as a pointer for the parliamentary elections, rather than especially meaningful in its own right. Having said that, a president and a parliament opposed could have produced a political stalemate. Moreover, the president had the ultimate authority to appoint a new government, and if no single party held an absolute majority the president’s capacity to appoint a minority or coalition government had great practical importance. So, while primarily symbolic, the presidential election did retain considerable political potential. As a result of widespread political and economic alienation, made plain by the many East Timorese spoken to by the author at this time, it was expected that the ruling Fretilin party would struggle to maintain its absolute majority in the parliamentary elections. Its biggest hope of retaining a majority at this time came from its access to government funds and vote buying. By February 2007, Fretilin was clearly divided between the “Maputo group” and the Mudanca group, many of whom at this time had not yet split but were threatening to do so if Mari Alkatiri insisted on leading them to the polls. The challenge to Fretilin was even at this time expected to come from a coalition of opposition parties, including the CNRT, the Democratic Party (PD), the Social Democratic Party (PSD) and Fretilin’s precursor, the Timorese Association of Social Democrats (ASDT). However, also at this time, the possible success and allegiances of other small parties, such as UDT, Trabalhista and the then new Republican Party were unknown. And to further set matters on a course of political confrontation, the by now explicitly anti-Fretilin Gusmao had made clear he would not recontest the presidency, but was moving to formally register

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his own party, CNRT, which he was hoping would draw support from other parties, including Fretilin. The main policy differences between the party positions that had been articulated revolved around the extent of centralized control of decision making and spending and to a lesser extent around further liberalizing the economy, primarily through the reduction of taxes. There was also some debate on whether East Timor should access some of the capital from its oil and gas fund, rather than just the interest. Related to this are questions about taking out long-term development loans to spend on infrastructure. The most important outcome of the elections at this stage, however, was the extent to which the parties were likely to accept the results of the ballot. Fretilin’s access to government funds and problems with voter registration, with numerous voters being turned away when trying to register, would have made a Fretilin victory difficult for the opposition to accept. Similarly, Fretilin’s Maputo group had clearly demonstrated that it was reluctant to give up power. There were those in Fretilin at this time who continued to claim that Fretilin was the party that had delivered independence to East Timor and that it therefore had a “right” to rule. Some of this commentary reflected the political rhetoric of its foundation when, as a “front” organization, Fretilin claimed to be the sole legitimate representative of the East Timorese people. There were some in the party, three and a half decades later, who still believed that. In the background, meanwhile, was sitting the F-FDTL, holding civilian politics in barely disguised contempt. At this time, there was a belief by many and open speculation that, should the outcome of the elections result in more violence, it could stage a coup. Such an event would have cemented East Timor’s position as a failed state, and reintroduced into East Timorese life many of those authoritarian qualities dispelled along with the Indonesian military in 1999. This then reinforced the continued need for a benign international police and military presence. Like a shattered limb, East Timor had its international “cast” taken off too early, and the weaknesses quickly reappeared. A strong international presence therefore remained necessary until a detailed examination showed that East Timor had finally healed.1 Ahead of what was expected to be the first of two rounds of the presidential election, violence again broke out in Dili, threatening to derail the electoral process that was underway. Following a relative lull in internecine conflict after the 2006 upheavals, violence was again escalating, with politically motivated gangs attacking each other and international police and peacekeepers. The situation became serious, and allowed Fretilin to further cast Australia in a negative light, when on February 21 two people were killed by an Australian soldier outside the IDP camp at the airport. An Australian army group was patrolling

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near the IDP camp when one of them was attacked by a person at the camp who, it was later shown, had a history of provoking and attacking soldiers. The person at the camp was said to have attempted to attack an Australian solider with a machete, and the soldier fired his automatic weapon in self-defense. The attacker was killed instantly, but another person in the camp was also hit by the gunfire and fatally wounded. Following this incident, Fretilin supporters rioted, attacking buildings associated with or owned by Australians, and stoning and firing steel darts at UN vehicles, along with renewing threats by gangs that Australians would be specifically targeted. The darts were fired from elastic slings and had been shown to be capable of causing death. In the face of escalating tension between Fretilin members and Australian troops, on March 26, a convoy of Fretilin cars, including Mari Alkatiri and Fretilin presidential candidate Francisco “Lu-Olo” Guterres, was stopped by Australian troops at the Ermera district capital of Gleno. There was a confrontation between the troops and the driver of one of the cars, who was forced to the ground at gunpoint. This incident became a minor cause célèbre which Fretilin used to illustrate the alleged political bias of Australian soldiers. However, the ire of the many East Timorese toward Australian troops became more evenly spread, especially after Ramos-Horta requested Australian troops to capture Reinado and his gang of about seventy who had taken over the southern central town of Same on February 26. Six days later, an Australian military team was sent to apprehend Reinado but, despite Same being surrounded, Reinado and some others managed to escape. It later transpired that Reinado had left before the Australian troops launched their attack, apparently forewarned. As a result of the attack, five of Reinado’s men were killed and another wounded, which prompted pro-Reinado gangs in Dili to again riot. The renewal of violence and destruction in Dili highlighted that political conflict in East Timor was at this time still a long way from over. There were numerous factors contributing to the continuing troubles, but underpinning them all was a failure of East Timor to function under rule of law. This failure went to the heart of East Timor’s politics, and the failure of its leaders to move from traditional methods, including application of force, to civic methods of law and state organization. As a result, incidents such as the attack on Reinado were understood not as the imposition of rule of law but, by very many in East Timorese society, as an attack against dissent, in this case being dissent from an increasingly unpopular government. It was clear that while there was indeed significant dissent in East Timor, from a range of groups, Reinado had acted well outside any conceivable legal boundaries. Not only had he been responsible for the killing of five people in

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May 2006, but also after his arrest he escaped from prison. If Reinado had a legitimate case in his defense, which he continued to claim, it should have been presented to the courts. His decision to take a more quixotic path, and the inevitable confrontations that led to, clearly showed that he hoped that populist appeal would trump legal process. The consequent fallout was serious, but it increasingly marked a shift in how law was understood in East Timor, which was critical to its future. Under Portuguese colonial rule, civic law applied only to those few under its direct rule. Most East Timorese continued to live under traditional law. Traditional law implies a strong relationship between individuals, their village or clan, the land, and their ancestors. Under such law, while most disputes were resolved before they reached the point of violence, some were not. In such cases, a person acted, and then sought adjudication on the legitimacy of the action. This was in part reflected in the outlaw actions of Reinado, who sought public legitimacy after the act. The Indonesian interregnum did nothing to further respect of rule of law. From 1975 until 1999, Indonesia presided over mass deaths and institutionalised brutality. Indonesia’s reluctance since then to properly prosecute perpetrators of these crimes, and East Timor’s real politik acceptance of this failure, further left a strong sense that civic law had no meaning. This failure of civic law in East Timor was further compounded by wider institutional failure. East Timor’s police were widely criticized for incompetence, corruption, and brutality, and finally institutional failure and collapse. When Reinado was accused of raiding border police stations and stealing weapons, he claimed, believably, that the weapons were freely given to him by police, and that some of those police joined him. There was also public awareness of corruption at senior political levels, and a related sense of elite impunity. When the charge against former prime minister Mari Alkatiri of arming gangs was dropped because of “insufficient evidence,” this also led to rioting. Given the perception of judicial compromise and incompetence, such impunity further illustrated to many the failure of civic law. In large part, judicial failure strengthened Reinado’s popular appeal. Institutional failure could in part be blamed on the UN inadequately doing its job in East Timor, and in leaving too early. In part it could also be blamed on Indonesia’s poor training and education of the very few East Timorese it employed in institutional positions. But most importantly, East Timor institutional failure was, by 2007, the responsibility of its own political leaders. Xanana Gusmao, Jose Ramos-Horta, Fretilin’s Mari Alkatiri, ASDT’s Xavier do Amaral, the Carascalao brothers, F-FDTL commander Tuar Matan Ruak, and many more besides all retained positions not just of conventional political authority but, to differing constituencies and

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for differing reasons, loyalty based on charisma, tribal leadership, and a certain assumption of authority. This was instead of authority based on accountability, representation, or specifically articulated policies. In a hierarchical society in which patronage and personal loyalty remained dominant, political leaders thus had a joint responsibility to lead their people toward full civic statehood. This meant explaining how traditional forms of justice translate into civic justice, and shifting respect for one system to the other. It also meant that political leaders also needed to respect the agreed rules of the civic game. They failed to do both these things. As traditional societies transform, political equality and civic law replaces patronage and traditional law. In freeing societies to think and choose for themselves equally, political leaders have to abandon patronage and win back following through ideas, policies, and commitment. However, in the transition between patronage and political equality, there is also a moment at which leaders are politically exposed, having let go of one system but not quite being established in the other. Very few of East Timor’s political leaders were prepared to face this vulnerability, especially if their competitors did not do the same. As a result, nobody moved, except through gangs, leading to social breakdown. Also having assumed some degree of authority by dint of claiming on one hand or being seen on the other to represent antigovernment groups, Reinado romanticized himself as a people’s hero resisting an unjust government. But despite such appeals, he had more in common with “Rambo,” in which a claimed initial injustice legitimized subsequent gross excesses. State building required rule of law, not “Rambo justice,” and gang violence could not substitute for free and fair electoral competition. It was at this time that East Timor’s political leaders together needed to make clear, in actions as well as words, that they were fully committed to the need for equal and consistent rule of law, and that they would abide by the rules of the political and legal game. They did this only to the extent that such a process worked for them; when it did not, they rejected civic values and retreated to more traditional methods of mob rule. With this in the background, most ordinary East Timorese had hoped that the political climate would settle ahead of the elections, and that polls would provide a political solution to continuing tensions. However, just ahead of the first presidential poll, an attack against the head of the Democratic Party, Fernando “Lasama” de Araujo, damaged such hopes. De Araujo escaped unharmed, although a party colleague was seriously injured and de Araujo’s car was badly damaged when it was attacked when passing by a Fretilin gathering. The attack against de Araujo came just after announcing he would contest the presidential elections on April 9. East Timor’s prime minister, Jose RamosHorta, also announced he would contest the presidency, along with the Fretilin

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parliament speaker, Francisco “Lu-Olo” Guterres, and at least four others. Without an absolute majority to one candidate, the elections would go to a second round run-off, with Ramos-Horta and Lu-Olo being the favored contenders. The presidential elections were less important than the coming parliamentary elections for the largely ceremonial post, even if the president did retain some constitutional powers, epecially around appointing the new government. But the real interest in the elections for most people was more as an indicator of support in the parliamentary elections, to be held in early July. By this stage, many of Fretilin’s Mudanca faction had left the party to join Xanana Gusmao’s recently formed CNRT. However, hardliners within Fretilin were angered by some members wearing “Fretilin Mudanca” T-shirts and attending pro-CNRT rallies following the formal start of campaigning on March 15, as well as believing that the party’s historical “right” to govern has been undermined by what many claimed was wide-ranging conspiracy. Meanwhile, the UN and the East Timor Independent Election Commission continued with preparations for the elections, although slow voter registration, problems with registering candidacy and by now a steady background of violence and intimidation were beginning to put the legitimacy of the elections in doubt. If the results of the elections were not accepted by any of the political support bases, it appeared that there would be the prospect of further, and quite possibly worse, violence. Meanwhile, on March 7, Rogerio Lobato was convicted by an East Timorese court of manslaughter and arming gangs involved in the killings of the previous year, and sentenced to seven and a half years in prison. Many in East Timor, and outside, viewed the conviction as a welcome sign that the small and still teetering state could still pull itself back from the brink and see justice applied. The sentence was handed down by a panel of three international judges, which strengthened the sense of impartiality that surrounded the case, even if it did beg the capacity of the local judges to adequately handle a case as important and as sensitive as this. However, some viewed the sentence as being too light, given that charges included four counts of manslaughter. In particular, the National Movement for Unity, Justice and Peace (MUNJP, formerly Colimau 2000), which was responsible for a lot of violence at this time, was unhappy with the perceived leniency of the conviction, as well as the circumstances around the dropping of charges of illegally possessing firearms against Mari Alkatiri. However, the MUNJP had its own political agenda at this time, which was explicit opposition to Fretilin, regardless of the circumstances. Moreover, chief judge Ivo Rosa’s assessment that Lobato had “behaved in an anti-social and anti-democratic way” could also have been leveled against other of East Timor’s political actors. Lobato was bad, but he was not alone.

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Charges against Alkatiri were dropped with prosecutors citing lack of evidence, in exchange for which Alkatiri agreed to cooperate with further investigations into the 2006 violence (although such cooperation was not pressed for and was not forthcoming). In one sense, the already widely unpopular Lobato could have been viewed at this time as Alkatiri’s “fall guy,” even though responsibility for the violence extended far beyond his personal reach. But what was most interesting here was that being held accountable when so many others escaped. Having a sometimes-strained relationship with Alkatiri, notably over Lobato being sidelined for his preference for the Defence Ministry, there was a real possibility that Lobato could discuss more freely what he knew about the events of 2006. To this end, it appeared that there was an arrangement that if Lobato went to prison and stayed quiet during the election period, his associates would help him manufacture an excuse to leave prison, whereafter he could be allowed to escape. Within weeks of being jailed, Lobato began a campaign to be assessed as having a heart problem that needed urgent attention overseas. Following the refusal of one doctor to sign a medical certificate saying that Lobato had a heart condition, and another saying that he had been asked for a medical certificate without even seeing Lobato, after a local judge allowed Lobato out of prison to seek medical a assessment, on August 9, another doctor was persuaded to sign a medical certificate saying that he required urgent medical attention. On receipt of this certificate, Lobato headed from the doctor’s surgery directly to the airport at Dili (named after his brother, Nicolau Lobato) and boarded a Lear Jet with his wife and two children bound for Malaysia. There was a standoff at the airport for twenty-four hours when prison guards refused to allow the plane to leave. However, under pressure from Fretilin to allow Lobato to have medical treatment or else it would boycott parliament, and with him promising to return, the then just sworn in Justice Minister, Lucio Lobato (Rogerio’s cousin), approved his departure and the plane left. He did not have medical treatment, did not stay in Malaysia and did not return to East Timor. Rogerio Lobato’s life of exile had resumed and impunity ruled once more. Prior to Lobato’s departure, but before the elections, there was considerable opportunity for East Timor’s opposition parties to make great political capital from Lobato’s conviction. This would also have been much smarter politics than letting politically aligned gangs come close to derailing the election process that, together, they increasingly looked like they had a chance of winning. But the Lobato conviction caused hardly a political ripple, while the gangs kept up a background of violence and destruction.

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The Presidential Elections Just ahead of the presidential elections, the political environment was being described as either “dynamic” or “fluid.” Those who viewed the situation as largely benign described the environment as “dynamic”; it was described as “fluid” by those who saw it somewhat more ominously. Either way, the outcome that had been expected as little as a few days previously had been thrown into doubt. Of the eight candidates for East Timor’s presidency, only three were believed to have any real chance of winning. They were Fretilin’s Francisco Guterres, Democratic Party leader Fernando de Araujo, and the then prime minister, Jose Ramos-Horta. Just a week previously, it seemed the contest would be between Guterres and Ramos-Horta. But within a few days de Araujo had moved up the list, for many observers, as a favorite. Each outcome would have distinctively shaped the political landscape. A former guerrilla fighter, parliamentary speaker Guterres was regarded as a palatable option for both Fretilin’s hardliners and many who had become concerned about the direction that Fretilin had gone in government, especially in relation to its expatriate leadership. But support for Fretilin had fallen since the civil conflict of 2006 for which the Fretilin government was held largely responsible. Complicating Fretilin’s position, the stymied push in 2006 against Fretilin leader and former prime minister, Mari Alkatiri, by the party’s mudanca faction led to an open split. Up to half of the party, largely identified as its youth wing, had by May 2007 lined up behind President Xanana Gusmao’s new CNRT party, which intended to contest the parliamentary elections, with Gusmao hoping to become prime minister. This split and likely additional protest vote seriously weakened Guterres’s chances of winning the presidency. If he was successful, however, this would have amounted to an endorsement of Fretilin’s conservative leadership and recalled the problems that led to the 2006 violence. Former foreign minister and perceived as untainted by the events of 2006, Ramos-Horta stood as an “independent,” although Gusmao and CNRT were openly backing him for the presidency. This should have put him in a prime political position. However, since assuming the prime ministership in 2006, Ramos-Horta had been constrained by a lack of parliamentary and organizational support. He was thus seen as somewhat ineffective. Further, RamosHorta’s comments at the trial of convicted former interior minister, Rogerio Lobato, that Lobato’s arming of civilians was intended to establish security, backfired. Although sentenced to seven years’ for manslaughter, Lobato had not yet gone to jail and was at that time living at home under “house arrest.” This angered many, especially those who already had little faith in the justice system. Ramos-Horta was also seen as responsible for authorizing the attack by

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Australian troops on Alfredo Reinado and his supporters in the town of Same. While Reinado faced charges of murder and escaping from prison, many East Timorese, particularly from the west, saw his actions within the context of the 2006 troubles and supported him accordingly. Opposition to Fretilin tended to be sympathetic to Reinado’s cause, and Ramos-Horta initially appeared to have lost much of that anti-Fretilin vote. With the Guterres and Ramos-Horta both mired in political troubles, the way was increasingly open for de Araujo to come from behind and take the lead. De Araujo had been a key leader of the underground student movement during Indonesia’s occupation of East Timor and was a political prisoner in Jakarta’s Cipinang Prison with Xanana Gusmao. De Araujo’s political standing was largely built on this foundation, what were perceived to be his reformist (if less well-articulated) policies, and his coalition with other non–Fretilin parties. De Araujo was also strongly identified with the “young generation” that grew up under Indonesian occupation, as opposed to the “1975 generation” of politicians that spent the occupation overseas or, in a few cases, in the mountains. Ramos-Horta’s political rallies also indicated the lack of depth of support for his candidacy, being relatively small. However, despite having spent time in prison together, a victory by de Araujo would have pitted him against Gusmao, given they were not only separated by political generation but also had differing policies. Further, Fretilin was already expected to view losing with considerable chagrin. If it restricted its loss to active opposition, it would have assisted the fledgling democracy. But Fretilin’s old guard had not to this point shown it was prepared to play a peaceful political game. The elections were thus a possible step forward for East Timor, but not a guaranteed one. As it transpired, on April 9, the people of East Timor took to the political process with both solemnity and enthusiasm. The night before the vote, parties were held across East Timor in celebration of the following day’s vote, yet at dawn many voters were already lined up, most dressed in their finest clothes, identification cards in hand, waiting for the polling stations to open at 7:00 a.m. Ballot monitoring showed that most polling stations opened at close to 7:00 a.m., which was the scheduled time, and in an overwhelming majority of polling stations voting also went smoothly, with most voting completed by midday. As in previous polls, villagers often walked several kilometers, in some cases overnight, to attend polling booths, after which they walked home again. Across the country there were seven hundred polling stations, some in locations so isolated or difficult to access that helicopters or, in some cases, even horses were used to distribute ballot papers and other electoral materials. In a preliminary report on the day’s polling based on the reports of twelve accredited electoral observers located in the districts of Aileu, Baucau, Viqueque,

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Dili, Bobonaro, and Ermera, the Victorian Local Governance Association (VLGA) noted that “the election was a learning experience for the people and official of Timor-Leste and is confident that many of the errors of this election process are unlikely to be repeated in the forthcoming elections. It also notes that based on an absolute scale of perfection, this electoral process was imperfect, but that it was conducted in a professional manner, ranked well against similar election processes in other developing countries with considerably more experience in conducting elections” (Kingsbury 2007c). Based on the polling centers that VLGA observers visited, despite minor irregularities in the vote and the counting procedure, the process of the presidential elections fulfilled the standard internationally recognized criteria for being free and fair. Given that they were conducting their first-ever election, the short lead-time before the election, and the logistical issues they faced, the East Timor Technical Secretariat for Election Administration (Secretariado Tecnico de Administracao Eleitoral—STAE) staff and the National Electoral Comission (Comissao Nacional de Eleicoes—CNE) performed relatively well. In this, the UNDP played an important supporting role. The VLGA did identify a number of logistical and procedural problems in the voting process, as well as a number of procedural issues with the election count, and with CNE commentary on the process. On balance, while there appeared to be some discrepancies in polling center procedures, which could be said to have favored one candidate, and comments by the CNE spokesman favored another, the VLGA noted that on balance this was not sufficient to meaningfully alter the outcome of the election, and that the results as posted were an accurate reflection of the preferences of the people of Timor-Leste (Kingsbury 2007c). Most of the polling centers observed by the VLGA opened late, due to delays in the arrival of electoral materials, lack of light (few polling stations had electricity) and the time required to organize the voting materials. On balance, most polling centers opened between ten and twenty minutes late. This was not regarded as meaningfully affecting the opportunity of voters to cast their votes. In keeping with the electoral rules, no candidate campaign material was found within the fenced areas of the polling centers. However, in some cases, poorly identified party representatives “assisted” some voters in ways that could be claimed to have influenced their vote, and in other cases (Viqueque) were seated in such a way as to be able to see which way a vote was cast. Appropriate electoral material on “how to vote” was displayed at the doorway of each polling center and in some cases inside polling centers. However, there were reports of insufficient polling materials at a number of centers, in particular where a larger than expected number of voters arrived to cast their votes. The main polling center in Gleno ran out of ballot papers by around

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midday, but was resupplied soon after. Some smaller and more remote polling centers were reported to have also run out of ballot papers, and while some were relieved with supplies, others were not able to be resupplied before voting concluded. One problem in terms of identifying who had already voted was there was confusion at some polling centers about which ink to use to dip voters index finger in, and in Bobonaro in some cases an insufficient supply of such ink. At all polling centers observed, however, polling staff called pregnant women, the aged and people with disabilities to the front to vote first, where appropriate support was provided by polling staff. In one instance, the vote of a blind person was announced by a polling official but, on balance, the conduct of polling officials was polite, helpful, and direct. Contrary to electoral regulations, in some cases, PNTL members were within twenty-five meters of the doors to polling centers, although this did not appear to act as dissuasion or intimidation of voters. All polling centers monitored had adequate UN Police or PNTL security. PNTL members did not appear to interfere in any part of the polling process and acted in an unobtrusive and quiet manner in all cases observed. All polling centers observed closed on time, and in all cases the number of voters was minimal from about 1:00 p.m., with most voters having cast their votes before midday. Perhaps one of the main issues that could have affected the outcome of the elections was the performance and behavior of accredited observers and party agents, who watched polling. In all cases observed, polling staff verified the credentials of observers and party agents. Observers and party agents had separate forms of identification, and there were concerns that the party “identification” did not contain individual details or photographic identification. There were limited reports of some party agents becoming vocal and in limited instances disruptive during the vote counting process, particularly over the disputed validity of votes. However, this did not interfere with the orderly count of the vote. Problematically, however, party agents were not always clearly identified with the party they represented. This was balanced, though, by there being a significant number of domestic observers at all polling stations visited, lending credibility both to the process and to the notion that the people of East Timor understood the importance of the vote not only being free and fair but being seen to be so. In most elections and in particular those in developing countries, where polling procedures are often less well developed and there is greater scope for the manipulation of results, the vote counting process is critical. In the case of the first round of East Timor’s presidential elections, the opening of ballot boxes was undertaken publicly and each ballot box was recorded. A similar process

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was undertaken with the closure of ballot boxes. There was a mixture of counting methods across polling centers observed. In some polling centers, the total number of ballot papers was first counted and then reclassified as valid or nonvalid, and then counted according to candidate. In other, the ballot papers were declared valid or invalid and then counted according to candidate, while in others counting, validity and counting according to candidate were undertaken at the same time. To help ensure validity and public acceptance, the vote counting process was transparent and public in all centers observed. It was also a slow process, with each vote being counted methodically and individually, although poor light in some polling centers made clarification of votes difficult. In some cases, there appeared some inconsistency between whether the public should be allowed into polling centers to watch the vote count or not. Large crowds attended many of the vote counts, and generally behaved quietly, with exceptions around the disputed validity of votes. There were a number of disputes in the counting process over what constituted a valid or invalid vote, and judgments on this were inconsistent. As a result of a high proportion of invalid votes, and some party agent complaints that polling center officials had made decisions on validity on a partisan basis, all invalid votes were reassessed and where necessary their count added to the total. The number of invalid votes was reduced by about half upon recount, and this process added to the sense of fairness and legitimacy of the counting process. This recount of invalid votes was not formally stipulated in the CNE/STAE regulations, but was approved by a court hearing and appeared consistent with transparency and accuracy confirming the vote’s legitimacy. There was a significant and close presence of police during this counting process, although this could be explained by the opportunities for members of the public or party agents upsetting the counting process. While the electoral process went relatively well, there were still a number of complaints, with seventy-nine complaints about specific aspects of the polling process, centering on four sets of allegations. These included inappropriate campaigning, bribery, intimidation, violence (especially around campaign rallies), logistical problems with voting materials, procedural problems with voting processes, fraudulent activity where it was claimed that some people had voted twice, voter manipulation, in particular by party observers, partisan vote counting, or validation, and, notably, partisan comments being made by a CNE spokesman. Ahead of the ballot, CNE spokesman Father Martinho Gusmao told a media briefing at the Hotel Timor on April 4, that he personally favored Fernando de Araujo to win the presidential election, “Perhaps if you ask me to chose I would put Lasama in the first.” When questioned about this (by the author), he said it was acceptable for him to express his personal political preferences, and

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would do so to his parishioners after the next Sunday’s church service. Following the ballot, Fr Gusmao continued to make what many regarded as inappropriate comments, and was eventually removed from his spokesperson position, and then from the CNE. There were numerous claims of irregularities in the ballot, which, briefly, looked as though they could throw the result into doubt. Five of the eight presidential candidates asked for a recount of the vote. There were also significant discrepancies between the registered number of voters and the number of valid votes, with a gap of around 25 percent. This raised fears of ballot manipulation and an invalidation of the result. However, and despite unconvincing explanations by members of East Timor’s electoral commission, it appeared that the outcome of the election, or something very close to it, accurately reflected the wishes of East Timorese voters. Of the 522,933 registered voters, 427,712 cast their votes, with 403,941 (94.56 percent) of those votes being considered valid. On the face of it, this meant a voter turnout of 81.79 percent. However, this still meant that 165,167 votes had to be accounted for. Part of the explanation for this otherwise worrying gap rested with the organizational chaos of the voter-registration process. The first part of the explanation was that voters who had died since the last registration, accounting for perhaps 5 to 6 percent of the voter base, were not been taken off the voter lists. This would be cause for concern, except that the largely standardized use of indelible ink to mark the index finger of voters limited the chances of double voting. Actual voter turnout was thought to be high, and in some polling stations was at record levels. However, other polling stations showed a larger gap between registered voters and actual votes cast. It transpired that around 7 percent of eligible voters did not vote. But perhaps the biggest contributing factor to the gap was that while there were many new, young, registered voters, many existing voters chose to obtain a new voter registration card. Because of the electoral commission’s organization problems, the registration of preexisting voters cards was left on the books, so many voters were recorded twice, even though they only voted once or, in some cases, not at all. Finally, the number of invalid votes—those that were either blank or incorrectly marked—was at around 10 percent. There were serious allegations that many ballot papers were in fact sufficiently clearly marked but were invalidated by partisan electoral workers. As a result, all invalid and blank ballot papers were checked again in Dili. This rechecking of invalidated ballot papers was technically outside the rules of the electoral counting process. But such a rechecking was a necessary and applaudable gesture toward transparency that helped ensure the legitimacy of the election result.

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Taking these factors into account, it appeared that the voter turnout was much higher than the less than 82 percent officially recognized, and probably in excess of 90 percent, in keeping with earlier election turnout, results and on a level with that in Australia where voting was compulsory. This level of voluntary voter turnout, often in difficult conditions and amid a climate if not of fear then of some uncertainty was a remarkable testament to the political will of the people of East Timor. Following challenges and appeals, which did not alter the result, Fretilin’s Guterres won 27.89 percent of the vote (with 112,666 votes) while RamosHorta came second with 21.81percent (88,102 votes), which meant that the two would face each other in a second round. De Araujo followed in third place with 19.18 percent (77,459 votes). On April, 26, de Araujo announced his party’s support for Ramos-Horta in the second round, with four of the five other candidates and their parties also supporting Ramos-Horta. Only Manuel Tilman from the tiny party KOTA endorsed Guterres. While Guterres went through to the second round of voting on May 8, given that Fretilin turned out supporters fairly mechanically, the absolute number of his voters was not expected to significantly change. The question then was whether the remaining 71 percent would vote for the opposing candidate, Jose Ramos-Horta. If voter turnout was high, and even accounting for some voters not liking Ramos-Horta, Lu-Olo was likely to lose. If voter turnout was very low, however, and voters stayed away because their preferred candidate was not available for election, then Guterres stood a much better chance of winning. Beyond this, it was possible to extrapolate from the party basis of the presidential vote into the coming parliamentary elections, where real power lay. If there were to be a similar distribution of votes in the parliamentary elections, Fretilin would see its formal voter base halved. The remaining vote would be distributed among two main voter blocs, one supporting Xanana Gusmao’s CNRT and the other supporting what at this time was thought to be a coalition of parties behind the Democratic Party. These two blocs could have been expected to come together in a “government of national unity,” possibly including some dissident mudanca Fretilin members. However, as a relatively loose structure, unless there was some clear agreements on the allocation of ministries ranked by importance against seats won, and the subsequent implementation of policy, such an arrangement could prove fragile. There was a general agreement within this group on economic policy, and more readily accessing oil funds currently invested in a long-term account. This was a populist palliative, but it would bring with it a host of unexplored economic problems, including inflation, waste, corruption, and a lack of longterm income. As such, its precise implementation was at best unclear. But the

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most divisive issues within such a grouping (“coalition” was a word all were choosing not to use, afterward settling on “alliance”), was whether Portuguese should remain an official language. This then would turn on the distribution of seats by the age of seat winners, younger members of the new parliament likely favoring a return of Indonesian (to be referred to as Bahasa Melayu, or Malay Language). For a small country, East Timor was and remains remarkably politically complex. There were even at this stage likely to be twists and turns of its political processes for some considerable time to come. The CNE reviewed all complaints received by the cutoff date of April 18, and decided that none of those that could be substantiated affected the number of votes cast. Approximately 120 complaints were also regarded as too vague to be assessed, while others provided insufficient information about times, places, or people involved. Based on the problems encountered by the election observers, a number of recommendations were put forward to improve the voting process. These included the following: • Party Agents should be more clearly and formally identified, and a limited number from each party allowed at any one polling center. • There should be a more formal separation of observers and party agents from voters, who should be able to vote without any possibility of being seen, assisted, or directed by any other person. • Party agents should not engage or “assist” in any aspect of the voting or counting process, and should be stopped from doing so by polling center staff with the support, if necessary, of police. • Electoral staff require further training to standardize voting and counting procedures. • Polling center hours should either be modified to account for lack of daylight, or else adequate lighting be provided with other polling materials. • Polling center materials should be delivered to remote centers earlier, to ensure their arrival, and in sufficient quantity to allow for variations in voting placement. • Handicapped and elderly voters should be respectfully assisted to vote in ways that guarantee the privacy of their votes. • The public should be guaranteed right of entry to polling/counting centers to observe counting, but this should be conditional on appropriate behavior being observed within the polling/counting center. • The procedures for determining valid and invalid votes requires further clarification and communication.

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• The CNE should ensure that the names of deceased voters are struck from the electoral roll. • The CNE should ensure that voters only have a single voter card and registration. • CNE staff must not announce their personal preferences at any time during the electoral process or while occupying an official, neutral position. Any staff who transgress this critical neutrality must be replaced in order to ensure the actual and perceived neutrality of the CNE. • Substantiated preballot allegations of bribery (e.g., bags of rice, motorbikes to village chiefs) should be investigated. • To ensure that the process is conducted in a transparent and nonpartisan manner, the responsible minister should not participate in any aspect of the electoral process after the appointment of the CNE and, in particular, should not intervene in or have power of veto over any aspect of the appointment of any staff or observers in relation to the electoral process. (Kingsbury 2007c). These recommendations addressed what the observers generally regarded as the weaknesses in the electoral process. As the period between the two rounds of presidential elections closed, political rallies became larger and more vocal and there were outbreaks of violence, including the murder of the son of a district administrator in Liquica during a violent protest by members of MUNJP. At one Fretilin rally, passing in front of the Australian embassy on the road to the airport, an attempt by a rally-goer to attack an Australian solider with a raja ambon resulted in the protester being shot in the leg. Meanwhile, Fretilin increasingly accused Australian troops of disrupting their rallies. Fretilin spokesman Jose Teixeira said, “The ISF should not be frightening and intimidating an entirely peaceful election gathering . . . We are not convinced that there is no connection between the troops’ behavior and the Australian Government’s apparent support for José Ramos-Horta” (ABC 2007). In fact, as witnessed at one Fretilin rally, Australian soldiers were present, along with Portuguese GNR, as they had been at other party rallies, but did not interfere with or disrupt proceedings. Such claims were all part of the heightening of tensions around the elections, which paradoxically Fretilin’s leadership believed would assist its electoral chances. As with the first presidential round, if under somewhat tighter security, the second vote that took place on May 9 saw voters come out early and in large numbers, with virtually all voting completed by midday. The day itself was peaceful, but it was soon revealed that there had been serious, if limited, voting irregularities, including a number of voting papers marked prior to the opening of the polling station and under-aged voters having voter registration cards.

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Voter turnout for the second round was very close to that of the first round of the presidential election, indicating that the East Timorese did indeed take voting seriously. As the polling booth results started to come in, any hope that Fretilin had of building its Round One results of the previous month into a victory were dashed. Fretilin was very much on the back political foot, and the real question was how this would translate into the following month’s parliamentary elections. Some analysts took the level of the vote for Fancisco Lu-Olo Guterres in the first round of voting as punishment by the voters. But they expected that, having delivered such punishment, some would recant and Fretilin’s vote would build. Additional support from two small parties also assisted Fretilin’s chances. But most importantly, many believed that if there had been a low voter turnout in the second round it would have favored Fretilin’s candidate, with Fretilin being able to deliver a consistent block. But what appeared to happen was the support by a majority of parties for Ramos-Horta translated into their supporters coming out in numbers that were consistent with Round One. They were also consistent in their opposition to Fretilin’s candidate, and thus supported Ramos-Horta—the “anyone but Fretilin” candidate. With an almost identical number of voters casting ballots in Round Two and Round One, the result was what could only be described as a route for Fretilin. Intimidation ahead of both rounds appeared to have had little effect on turnout or intentions, which, being ineffective, should have meant it would have had little impact on the coming ballot. Assuming the consistency of the first two rounds of voting continued, which appeared highly probable, Fretilin would see its parliamentary majority cut in half, being dumped unceremoniously from power. Recognizing this, Fretilin tried to construct coalitions with possible partners. All but two inconsequential parties rejected the advance. Based on the support of most failed first-round candidates for Ramos-Horta, despite him receiving a smaller vote than Guterres in the first round, he was expected to win the second round. As the votes were counted, it became clear very quickly that he had done so, although he waited until the announcement of the provisional result on May 11 before claiming victory, and being congratulated by Guterres on his win. The result showed that Ramos-Horta had received an overwhelming 69 percent of the vote, with Guterres’ vote of 31 percent closely matching his vote in the first round plus that of KOTA’s Tilman. It was by any assessment a devastating defeat for the Fretilin candidate, and it was not long before there were recriminations within the party about the reasons for this poor performance, with Alkatiri leveling blame at Guterres’ campaigning style. Ramos-Horta became president on May 20.

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On assuming the presidency, in his swearing in speech, Ramos-Horta immediately exceeded the authority of the presidency by proposing policies that were the prerogative of the parliament. In this, he showed that even as one of the country’s more experienced politicians, he was unaware of some of the constitutional distinctions between his office and that of the prime minister. In particular, Ramos-Horta made four promises. The first was to reduce poverty, if necessary through direct cash transfers to poor people; to mediate in the matter of Alfredo Reinado and the Petitioners; to build bridges between East Timor, Indonesia, Australia, and Portugal; and to maintain good relations with the UN, international and local NGOs, and religious organizations. The first promise, in particular, transgressed presidential authority and was later challenged by Fretilin in the High Court where Ramos-Horta’s plan to spend $25 million was defeated, while the second was to backfire very badly when he lost Reinado’s trust. As with the first round, the VLGA observer mission announced that the electoral process met the primary requirements to be considered free and fair. The electoral process and its result was thus an authentic expression of the will of the East Timorese people. Reports from district observers indicated a strong voter turnout, which from early indications appeared to be consistent with the turnout for the previous round of voting. The VLGA did note there were some minor problems with the second round of voting, which fell into three categories. There continued to be some intimidation of voters prior to the election, particularly in Ermera, Viqueque, and Bauacau. In some cases, this led to voters changing their place of voting, but it does not seem to have affected overall voting behavior. There were further minor technical problems with the day of the ballot, with many polling stations opening up to a half an hour late. Some party officials also sat too close to voting points, which could be viewed as intimidation. The third category of problems concerned the vote-counting process, with the exclusion of some monitors from some polling stations in the east, and a sole case of a ballot box having been stacked with voting papers. However, the problems were relatively minor, indicated a significant improvement on the first round of voting, and were not regarded as affecting the legitimacy of the outcome. What was more critical, of course, was the parliamentary elections. Having been through two rounds of presidential elections, and with the result showing a distinct “anyone but Fretilin” bias, the political rallies became larger and more desperate, with attendant higher levels of violence. The reasons for Fretilin’s rout could be traced directly to the problems that triggered the destructive internal conflict in 2006. Perhaps the main complaint, summarizing all others, was that the government appeared unconcerned about

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the plight of the people. Despite some sound policies, its style under Mari Alkatiri was needlessly confrontational and divisive. The people thus responded. With such voting consistency, short of some major scandal, it was all but inevitable that a coalition of non–Fretilin parties would take power. The real question here was whether Xanana Gusmao’s CNRT would achieve more votes than the Democratic Party (PD). PD’s Fernando de Araujo polled 19 percent in the first presidential round and was thought to be able to build on that, especially with the support of its existing coalition partners. If so, Gusmao might have had to accept second spot in a new ministerial hierarchy, upsetting his plan to effectively swap jobs with Ramos-Horta. De Araujo privately confirmed a coalition was planned, but the horse trading was not going to start until the relative strengths of the coalition partners was finalized. As it transpired, this was a mistake for de Araujo, whose personal standing was greater than that of his party. Meanwhile, Fretilin was licking its wounds and reconsidering the future of its bright but abrasive secretarygeneral, Mari Alkitiri. Fretilin was, however, far from a spent political force. The mudanca faction that deserted to join Ramos-Horta’s campaign could have returned to try to claim party leadership, giving it a new relevance in opposition. If this was to happen, it was not going to be soon, though, as Fretilin hardliners locked in their control of the party. And Fretilin was still expected to be working off a reduced base that would still likely leave it as the single biggest party. Added to this, a possible new coalition government would be prone to personality politics and, as a broad coalition, fracturing. There were also questions about the capacity of some cabinet ministers almost certain to be appointed not for competence but as political reward. A new government may, therefore, was not necessarily expected to last beyond its first term, or maybe even that far. But rather than this being seen as failure, it was more accurately a settling in of political processes. Fretilin may have been expected to come back sooner rather than later, if it performed well and the new government did not. But changes of government are the most visible manifestation of democracy. East Timor seemed set to see its first change of government and the democratic process appeared to be putting down roots, despite its sometimes very rough politics and what some might have otherwise seen as challenging structural odds. Given the proportional representation (d’Hondt)2 system adopted by East Timor for its parliamentary vote, replacing its earlier seat-based system, the vote counting process proved to be slow. The voter turnout was similar to the two rounds of the presidential elections, and despite there being an increasing level of violence in the lead-up to the elections, the day itself proved to be generally quiet, if under a high level of security. Even as the counting of votes dragged on, it became clear that the ruling Fretilin party would be likely to have its numbers

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cut by around half. While Fretilin appeared to have improved slightly from its showing in the presidential polls, the emerging outcome looked as though it would again represent a resounding defeat. When the people of East Timor went to the polls for the third time in 2007, they completed a political cycle that was remarkable in part because of its relative success, but in part because it had happened at all. Yet a little over a year previously, many people thought that East Timor’s fledgling democracy had failed. Had it done so, it would have been conforming to common post-colonial experience. More positively, the people of East Timor warmly embraced electoral politics. The official turnout for elections was officially above 80 percent but, allowing for out-of-date and doubled-up voter rolls, the actual turnout has been more than 90 percent. That put East Timor’s embrace of voluntary voting on a par with the most successful democracies in the world. With what was looking like a re-run of its devastating presidential vote, to just above 30 percent, Fretilin was still expected to be the largest single party in the new parliament. As such, it should have been (and was) the first invited to form a government. But its chances of doing so were limited, and there was widely expected to be a new coalition government, headed by former president Xanana Gusmao. Despite grumbling and a few accusations, the ruling Fretilin party gracefully conceded the presidency. Privately, some of its senior ministers later said it was ready to accept the loss of control of parliament, and would go into opposition where it would rebuild and challenge for government in the future. Having so badly failed to retain the confidence of the people, Fretilin needed to engage in some serious soul-searching. It was unlikely to change its policies, which were generally sound, but it did need to reconsider the leadership of Mari Alkatiri. As it was to transpire, Alkatiri only strengthened his grip on the reduced party. If acceptance of Fretilin’s parliamentary defeat was reflected in its graceful acceptance of its defeat in the presidential elections, the coming change of government would have boded very well for democratic deepening. Indeed, East Timor appeared to be making the critical step toward becoming a consolidated democracy. The return of the international community to East Timor helped this political process and acted as a guarantor for its outcome. But, in the final analysis, if the people of East Timor did not want it the international community would have little chance to impose such a democratic guarantee. Set against profound poverty, still very limited capacity, and a sometimes ambiguous international interest, East Timor’s elections will constitute proof in themselves of the young country’s progress. The elections alone could not ensure political stability, much less fulfill what had become now largely empty hopes for the future. But the elections did show that, despite problems, if the

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people are given a chance they will embrace making free decisions about their own future, and thus politically empower themselves. Even before the result was formally known and before there had been any formal announcement, it appeared that East Timor’s likely new government would be a coalition led by Xanana Gusmao, heading CNRT, along with the Timorese Social Democratic Association (ASDT), the Democratic Party (PD) and possibly other smaller parties. This coalition was expected to form a comfortable majority in parliament. Despite earlier localized incidents, the elections were very largely free of violence and intimidation, and marked an important step in East Timor’s political consolidation. Not only was a new “government of national unity” likely to return a greater sense of calm to East Timor following the 2006 breakdown of security, but also it signified an important step in the country’s evolving political life. Consistent with the two rounds of the presidential elections, formal voter turnout was just above 80 percent, and it appeared that party support remained similarly consistent with Round One of the presidential elections. This showed not just a remarkable degree of voter consistency and party discipline, it could also be taken to represent a distinct maturing of engagement by the people of East Timor with democratic, party-based politics. The results of the elections, based on working down party lists set against the percentage of the vote each party received, showed that Fretilin remained East Timor’s largest party, with just over 29 percent of the vote and twenty-one seats. This result, however, meant that Fretilin’s vote had been cut in half from its 2001 standing, and showed a high level of consistency with the results of the presidential electoral rounds. CNRT came second, with just over 24 percent of the vote and eighteen seats, while the ASDT-PSD coalition received almost 16 percent of the vote and eleven seats. The Democratic Party fared relatively poorly as compared to its first round presidential results, achieving just 11.3 percent of the vote but gaining eight seats. Had it entered into a coalition with CNRT prior to the ballot, as had been proposed by CNRT, it probably would have guaranteed itself greater representation in the Cabinet but, by waiting until the results were known, its positioned was relatively weakened. The National Unity Party received three seats, and the Democratic Alliance and Undertim two seats each. Seven parties that contested the elections did not receive the 3 percent minimum vote required to achieve representation. As a result of a gender-awareness campaign that had been run by the UN since arriving in East Timor and, in part, as a result of Fretilin’s progressive policies toward women, more than a quarter of the new parliament comprised women. The most women, both in numbers and as a proportion of representation,

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came from CNRT, with six in the new parliament. Fretilin followed with five, ASDT-PSD with four, two from PD and one from PUN (UNMIT 2007). At one level, such an outcome did not reflect gender equality. But, in a country in which male chauvinism had been deeply ingrained in the culture, this represented an important shift of focus. Moreover, it was better gender representation than in most of the parliaments of more “gender-enlightened” countries. One interesting aspect of the vote was that Fretilin performed more strongly in the eastern districts, especially Los Palos, Bauacau, and Viqueque, while the anti-Fretilin parties performed more strongly in the west, with the center largely going over to the head of ASDT and Fretilin’s first president, Xavier do Amaral, who as the descendent of a traditional liurai retained a strong personal following. Some observers at this time noted that the distribution of the vote confirmed that the country was in fact divided along east-west lines. However, even in Bauacau and Viqueque there remained a significant non-Fretilin vote, while a Fretilin vote continued across other parts of the country. There was an approximate party orientation by geography, but it was not sufficiently clear to show that the country had divided east and west along such lines. Ramos-Horta asked Alkatiri, as head of the party that had received the most votes, if he could form a government. Alkatiri asked other parties to come into an alliance with Fretilin, which they refused to do. He was therefore unable to form a majority in parliament. But based on discussions prior to the elections, Gusmao also set about forming an alliance, in this case between parties sufficient to form a parliamentary majority, including CNRT, ASDT-PSD, and PD, giving it an absolute majority of thirty-seven of the parliament’s sixty-five seats. However, on July 7, Alkatiri on behalf of Fretilin claimed that it was not necessary to have a majority to form government, and appealed to Ramos-Horta to be appointed as a minority government on the basis that it had received the single largest bloc of votes. His rationale was that it would be able to present a budget to parliament and that if the budget was approved it would have de facto majority support. Around this time, Ramos-Horta put forward the idea of a government of national unity, including representatives of all parties, which Alkatiri said he would consider. However, this proposal was rejected by the antiFretilin parties. As spokesman for the CNRT-led coalition, de Araujo said it would propose Gusmao as prime minister. On July 30, the new parliament was sworn in, with de Araujo being elected as “president” (speaker) of the parliament, rebuffing Fretilin’s proposed candidate for speaker, its failed presidential candidate, Fancisco Guterres. On August 1, Alkatiri said that he would be Fretilin’s candidate for prime minister and called for a government of national unity, saying this would provide East Timor with stability. Alkatiri tried on a number

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of occasions to persuade members of other parties to join Fretilin in a coalition, but was rebuffed on each occasion. He was therefore unable to form a majority in parliament. The coalition led by Guamao, however, held firm. On August 3, Ramos-Horta said that based on the parliamentary coalition constituting a majority that Gusmao led, Ramos-Horta would ask Gusmao to form a coalition government on August 6 unless an alternative arrangement could be proposed. No alternative proposal was forthcoming, and on August 6, Ramos-Horta confirmed he would swear in Gusmao as prime minister. Alkatiri claimed that this decision was unconstitutional and that he would fight it through the courts, but despite this threat on August 8 Gusmao was formally sworn in as East Timor’s new prime minister at the head of what was called the Parliamentary Majority Alliance (Alianca para Maioria Parlamentar [AMP]) government. Jose-Louis Guterres, the head of Fretilin’s mudanca faction, was sworn in as deputy prime minister. Fretilin’s response was for Alkatiri saying that Fretilin would engage in a campaign of civil disobedience and that there would be a “people power” revolt. With that, Fretilin supporters went on a rampage throughout East Timor, burning around six hundred houses, many at Uatolari near Viqueque, which had been the site of social and political divisions dating back to the 1950s. On August 10, a convent at Baucau was attacked, with female students claiming to have been raped. On August 11, a UN convoy between Baucau and Viqueque was attacked, allegedly in response to UN personnel removing Fretilin flags and banners. Fretilin initially boycotted the parliament, but began attending in late August. On August 23, however, there were fresh outbreaks of violence at Metinaro near Dili, and at Ermera, with at least two people being killed and several houses being burned. Fretilin withdrew its proposed legal challenge to the formation of the government, instead claiming it would fight the government through political means. Sporadic violence continued thereafter. As a still recently independent, postcolonial state, East Timor was very much in the process of making what many still saw as a remarkable transition toward becoming a consolidated democracy, despite the problems of 2006 and the violence and intimidation around the 2007 elections. The history of most other postcolonial states was that, with the expectations of independence so high and the capacity to deliver on them so low, to quell political unrest, governments have generally turned authoritarian and, at least initially, abandoned the democratic process. In the lead up to the events of 2006, it appeared that East Timor was beginning to take a turn toward authoritarianism under the leadership of the ruling Fretilin party. East Timor continued to face many serious challenges, including being one of the world’s poorest and least-developed countries, a

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legacy of traumatic violence and colonial neglect, and the sometimes ambivalent contributions of the international community, not least including Australia. However, with the success of these elections, unlike most other postcolonial states, East Timor was proving that consolidating democracy was not determined by its other circumstances.


CHAPTER 8


O

verwhelmingly, the most critical event following the appointment of Xanana Gusmao as prime minister of the AMP government was the attack on himself and the President, Jose Ramos-Horta, early in 2008. As noted in the Introduction to this book, on the morning of February 11, 2008, Alfredo Reinado and his men launched an attack against Ramos-Horta and Gusmao at their homes. Reinado and another of his men were shot dead in the confrontation while Ramos-Horta was critically wounded and Gusmao escaped unharmed. This event was to be a watershed in East Timorese political life. The question that many asked of this event was, after so much disturbance, did it mark East Timor as a failed state? Many had asked that question following the events of 2006, when much state authority simply collapsed. It was not quite anarchy, but for a moment it was very close to it. The elections of 2007, too, were marred by violence, even if they did function as a genuine participatory political process. With the shooting of the president and the attempt against the prime minister, it appeared that East Timor could well be doomed to a repetitive cycle of violence and collapse. The attack did not bode well. Failed state status is generally defined as being when a state is so weak or incompetent that it cannot control affairs within its own sovereign territory. That is, the state as the institutional manifestation of the political will of the people is unable to order affairs in the territory over which it claims as its own. The state has, in this sense, failed to fulfill its basic functions. This was particularly the case if employing the Weberian sense of state authority that, in the final analysis, it is supposed to have a monopoly on the use of force (or violence). It could be said in 2006 that state institutions, notably the army, had a dominant role in the use of force, but that they did not control it. When Reinado’s gang shot the president, it again appeared as though a nonstate actor—in this case a military renegade who was by any definition a criminal—was able to act at will, implying that the state was not able to assert its control of the use of force.

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However, state failure can also have a broader meaning, including being unable to provide basic developmentalist functions, such as providing education and health care, that it is unable to control its borders or that, at the most basic level, it can no longer reproduce conditions for its own existence. Many developing countries were failed states by the first two definitions, given the abject levels of education and health care in perhaps a third of the world’s countries and the porousness of and legal ambiguity around borders in many others. However, if reproducing conditions for its own existence was the basic criteria, few states failed on that criterion alone. East Timor had actually improved education and health care, even if still at relatively basic levels, and while its border with Indonesia was porous, this condition applied from both sides and was not considered a criterion for Indonesia’s own state failure. And in that East Timor had the capacity for the state to replicate itself, that is, to continue to exist as a state, it had shown that it could do so, even if in part held together from the outside, as indeed many states were and remain. As an indication of border porousness, prior to the attack on the president and prime minister in February 2008, Alfredo Reinado had visited Indonesia, giving an interview in Jakarta to Metro TV, and possessing an Indonesian identification card (as noted in the Introduction). The question was raised at that time, how could Reinado enter Indonesia so easily and who was paying for his travel, as well as funding his ability to remain on the run in East Timor. Reinado had entered Indonesia via the island of Batam near Singapore on a false passport, under the name of Simlisio de la Crus—the same name as his Indonesian identification card. Reinado had also been in contact, on January 19, with East Timor born Jakarta gangster “Hercules” Rosario Marcal, and had twenty-one Indonesian telephone numbers listed in his mobile phone when he was killed (Murdoch 2008a). Hercules was known to have close associations with the TNI in Jakarta. Two of Reinado’s men were later arrested at Hercules’ house in Jakarta (Murdoch 2008b). Reinado also had $800,000 in a Commonwealth Bank account in Australia, held jointly with his lover Angelita Pires, at his time of death, from which around $200,000 had been withdrawn. He had $30,000 is cash on him when he was killed, and had been well resourced with weapons and communications equipment, which had helped him evade capture. There was considerable speculation about the origins of these funds, with an intelligence source1 saying that mobile telephone intercepts had identified the funding agent as being an East Timorese politician.2 After the attacks against the president and prime minister, two of Reinado’s men were arrested in Atambua, West Timor, where they were staying at the home of former East Timor PPI militia head, Joao Tavarres. Indonesian President Susilo Bambang Yudhoyono told President Ramos-Horta that he would


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not tolerate any support for the East Timorese rebels in Indonesia and had Indonesian authorities quickly supply information about telephone intercepts between Reinado’s men and their supporters. However, he also warned East Timor’s leaders against making public comments about Indonesian involvement in support for the rebels, saying that there was no official support for them. However, Tavarres had a long and close association with the Indonesian army, including organizing the East Timor militias, in business and in crossborder smuggling following East Timor’s independence. Reinado, too, had close links to border patrol police, including receiving weapons from them, who had been involved in cross-border smuggling in concert with former militia and TNI members. The indication was, therefore, that if the attack against Horta and Gusmao had not been directed by TNI officers in West Timor, they were at least active in supporting Reinado and his men, even if that meant destabilizing East Timor. One of those arrested at Tavarres’ house, Ismail Moniz Soares (known as Asanco), had telephoned one of the security guards at Ramos-Horta’s home at 6:04 a.m. on the morning of the attack, the concern being that Reinado’s team had inside help in occupying the house. Soares was among those who, after the attack on Ramos-Horta, ambushed Gusmao as he left his own home. Two of the other rebels arrested at Tavarres’s house were Jose Gomez and Egidio Carvalho, who had been involved in the attack on Ramos-Horta’s house. Over a series of days, Reinado’s second in command, Lieutenant Gastao Salsinha, surrendered to East Timorese and UN police in the Emera district capital of Gleno, along with the remaining eleven of his armed supporters, finally being transferred into formal custody in Dili on April 29, 2008. In a ceremonial surrender, the twelve men handed over their weapons at the government offices in Dili, where President Ramos-Horta shook their hands and offered his personal forgiveness. The rebels formally surrendered to Deputy Prime Minister Jose Luis Guterres, who said the surrender offered a new beginning for East Timor, “It’s a historic moment for the country and historic moment for the people of East Timor. We believe that from now on the Timorese development will start and we will have a better future” (Barker 2008). Importantly, however, the death of Reinado broke a deadlock in East Timorese politics. It allowed the government to begin its program of relocating IDPs from the camps back to their homes, it removed a key bargaining chip from the Petitioners and hence allowed a resolution of their claims, with them agreeing to come out of the mountains to be relocated in a camp in Dili while talks continued. It also distanced both the prime minister and the president from the taint of association with Reinado, and it enhanced their legitimacy, particularly that of Ramos-Horta who was, in an all too real sense, “blooded3.”

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Unfortunately for Ramos-Horta, this event also marked what some regarded as deterioration in his judgment. Jose Ramos-Horta had always been a relatively ebullient man. For example, when upon achieving the presidency in 2007, the unmarried Ramos-Horta was asked who would be East Timor’s first lady; he replied that all the women of East Timor would be his first lady, in a thinly veiled reference to his reputation for “playing the field.” Ramos-Horta was also well known for his views on reconciliation and forgiveness in relation to atrocities and other human rights abuses by Indonesia’s military and proxy militias in East Timor, as well as pardoning Rogerio Lobato and former militia members. But in these matters, Ramos-Horta increasingly spoke of such matters and sometimes made decisions on them in ways that left others wondering if these were views that reflected the values of other East Timorese, if not criticizing his decisions outright. East Timor’s Judicial System Monitoring Program (JSMP) noted, “The singling out of Rogerio Lobato as worthy of clemency may make it hard to avoid the implication that there is little political will to see him face justice. In fact, few of those who perpetrated criminal acts during the breakdown of law and order in 2006 have yet been held responsible in the courts. The reports of the CAVR and Commission of Inquiry processes have strongly warned against neglecting the public need for legal redress of past wrongs” (JSMP 2008). The JSMP also said that East Timorese civil society groups, including JSMP, had earlier successfully lobbied the president to veto a proposed amnesty law that would excuse serious offences. Despite this, the President has spoken about building a culture of forgiveness in East Timor Timor-Leste, which the JSMP warned “must not lead to the further entrenching of a culture of impunity” (JSMP 2008). Ramos-Horta’s comments upon achieving the presidency also reflected this ebullience, if in excess of the post he actually held. His decision to pardon eighty criminals, including former Tim Alfa militia leader Joni Marques, and Lobato, was widely criticized. Marques had been jailed for thirty-three years for, among other things, leading an attack in which seven people, including nuns, priests, and laypeople were murdered in gruesome circumstances (Lusa 2008; Robinson 2003, 244). But in the months after being shot, Ramos-Horta judgment seemed to slip a little and his commentary, which had always been on the more public side of diplomatic, began to waver. Ramos-Horta almost died, and the massive impact being shot had upon his physical well-being, it was to be expected that he would also be psychologically affected. However, in June 2008, Ramos-Horta began to openly speculate about quitting the presidency to take up the position of UN High Commissioner for Human Rights. The position itself could have suited Ramos-Horta, as a coNobel Peace Prize winner and who had extensive experience in working at and


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with the UN. However, it would have also tested his commitment to forgiveness and reconciliation rather than justice, and could have pitted him directly against the Indonesian military following the release of the joint Indonesia-East Timor Commission on Truth and Friendship report that explicitly identified the Indonesian military as being responsible for the mayhem of 1999. He was therefore, a reasonable candidate for the job, if not a perfect one. The problem was that in considering this role, he did not keep his thoughts on it to himself, but rather implied to the media that he had been offered the job. Indeed, Ramos-Horta had been talking in Dili publicly in about the job for weeks. He also told a journalist from an Australian newspaper that he had enough of being president and wanted a quieter life (Australian 2008). However, the UN secretary-general, Ban Ki-Moon, not only denied that Ramos-Horta had been offered the job, but said that he was still in the process of interviewing other candidates for it, and that the process of appointment would be transparent. Regardless of whether or not Ramos-Horta had been unofficially offered the job (and it seemed he had not), his public comments on it were profoundly undiplomatic and by discussing the matter in public he effectively ruled himself out of contention (Hyland 2008). He acknowledged this when he withdrew his candidature for the position the day after it appeared on the front page of an Australian newspaper. This gaffe was out of keeping with his previously more skillful commentary and, along with a series of other if much more minor inappropriate or misjudged comments, indicated that all was not well with the president. That he had taken the services of a (young and attractive female) “faith healer” raised further questions about Ramos-Horta’s judgment. Towards the end of 2008, however, Ramos-Horta appeared to be returning to more of his former, still ebullient but somewhat more diplomatic self. On the “failed state” index issued in 2008 (FP 2008), East Timor was listed as 25th from the worst, putting it in the second ‘most failed’ group of countries. In particular, East Timor scored poorly on criteria including demographic pressures through very high population growth, group grievance, underdevelopment and poor economic performance, human rights, security apparatus, and factionalized elites. However, as with all such surveys, this was based on earlier events and by the time it was published, in mid-2008, it was already out of date in East Timor. It did, however, reflect some underlying problems. The Dutch military intelligence service, which conducted its own “failing state” survey in which “the central authority is missing or no longer functions,” added East Timor to its list (MIVD 2008). Again, however, this was based on a 2007 analysis and also appeared to be dated. East Timor was, however, without doubt, still a “fragile state,” characterized by weak state capacity or weak state legitimacy

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and which was commonly ascribed to states that had recently come out of an extended period of conflict (OECD 2007). Restoring Legitimacy? When the Majority Parliamentary Alliance government of Xanana Gusmao was sworn in by President Ramos-Horta on August 8, 2007, it was a logical and democratic outcome of the result of the June elections. Appointed as prime minister, Gusmao had formed a majority coalition and was able to command a majority in parliament, which remained conventional democratic requirements. Yet Fretilin was deeply opposed to the formation of this government, and launched a campaign intended to discredit it. At one level, this could have been regarded as conventional oppositional parliamentary politics, except that Fretilin did not accept the legal status of the AMP government, consistently referring to it as “de facto.” Fretilin’s reluctance to accept the AMP government’s legitimacy was a major factor in a continuing sense of instability in East Timor following the 2007 elections, yet there was a sense that, particularly after October 2007, matters were returning to normal. The question was, of course, in the East Timorese context, what exactly “normal” was. Yet there was a sense of normality, in so far as the streets of Dili returned to life, after more than a year and a half remaining deserted after dark. Previously, around dusk, people would have scurried to the relative security of their homes. But by late 2007 they again came out, often walking along the foreshore or, for those who could afford it, eating at the restaurants and cafes that remained open. To be sure, there remained a relatively high security presence on the streets and most UN vehicles out after dark had steel mesh window protectors to deflect the rocks that continued to be thrown from time to time. The camps, too, that continued to house tens of thousands of people remained sources of insecurity and instability, while Reinado and his gang remained on the loose in the mountains, primarily located in the Ermera area but appearing at different times across the west of the country. But the AMP government embarked on a series of civil works projects, mostly initiated by the previous government, including road works and simple street “beautification” (or repair) by lining gutters and planting trees. Construction projects that had been on hold or that had slowed began or resumed at full speed, not least being the construction of the new Chinese-built government building where the old heliport had been on Avenida dos Martires da Patria (the main road to the airport), while the Chinese government had also gifted to East Timor a new and, by Dili standards, absolutely huge, and alarmingly fluorescent red roofed Department of Foreign Affairs and Defense buildings (which looked suspiciously like standard Chinese


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public building architecture), as well as the presidential palace. China’s interest in East Timor also extended to other “soft power” programs, including selling patrol boats. In exchange, China had asked for exclusive rights to East Timor’s oil and gas deposits, which was refused; East Timor did not allow exclusivity to any country. While there was some material progress in East Timor, notably in Dili, the country still faced many challenges. The biggest problem faced by the government was Fretilin’s continued insistence that it was not legally constituted, and the political instability and occasional violence that engendered. As outlined in a public statement on September 6, 2007, Fretilin spokespersons Sahe da Silva and Jose Teixeira, both of whom had an Australian bachelor’s degree in law, quoted part of section 106.1 of the East Timorese Constitution to support their claim that the appointment of Gusmao as prime minister was unconstitutional, which they claimed had arisen from an incorrect translation of the original Portuguese text into English. The pair said that the constitution read, accurately translated, that “The Prime Minister shall be designated by the most voted political party or alliance of political parties with a parliamentary majority and shall be appointed by the president of the republic.” They then went on to declare that Fretilin was declared by the CNE as the “most voted party,” based on its largest single plurality of votes. “This means that it is only Fretilin that can appoint the Prime Minister as it is the most voted political party, i.e., the party with the most seats in the National Parliament,” they said, even though this extrapolation did not necessarily follow, given that this section of the constitution also allowed for an alliance of political parties with a parliamentary majority. The pair continued, confusing a “majority” with a “plurality,” that a “parliamentary majority” in this section did not refer to an absolute majority. They noted that section 88.2 referred to an “absolute majority” in relation to promulgating laws and section 109 in relation to rejecting a government’s program, but not in relation to the designation of a prime minister. As a result, they inferred that an absolute majority was not necessary for the designation of a prime minister, and that a “majority” could allow for a minority o long as it was larger than other disaggregated minorities. Given that section 106.1 referred to a “most voted party,” this would imply a party with the single largest bloc of vote, which would have been Fretilin. However, the “or” which led into the second clause of section 106.1 offered an alternative method of designation of a prime minister, based on “an alliance of political parties with a parliamentary majority.” The inference drawn by da Silva and Teizera distinguishing between a “majority” and an “absolute majority” was that, somehow, a “majority” actually meant a “plurality,” which

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could be less than an absolute minority of seats in parliament but more than others, hence referring back to the first clause of the subsection around “most voted.” It was of course possible to have a minority government, assuming no majority government was available. But this was not the case. The “or” in the clause clearly came into play in determining the meaning of this section of the constitution. The alternative interpretation, and that which was accepted by President Ramos-Horta as well as the Portuguese government, on whose constitution the East Timor constitution was based, was that the second clause—the “or” part of the section—actually referred to an alliance of parties forming a simple parliamentary majority. This was consistent not only with widespread democratic practice but was a and probably the only workable political model. In contrast to Fretilin’s interpretation, the meaning of Section 106.1 would have been better understood as a party that held a majority in its own right, although allowing for a minority government if an alliance of other parties was unable to form a majority, with the second clause remaining as is. Not only did Fretilin object to not being able to form a minority government, it also objected to the fact that the AMP government alliance was formed after the election, rather than before, even though there was no constitutional requirement for it to do so. There was an option, under Article 20 of the Law 6/2006 on the Election of the National Parliament, for parties to form coalitions for the purpose of presenting a single list for election to National Parliament. But, unlike Fretilin’s supposition, this “may” option was not a requirement, nor did it preclude the formation of an alliance after an election. “The real test of the strength of the Government,” Fretilin claimed, “is whether it can gather the support to pass its budget and programme by absolute majority in the National Parliament.” It could, yet prima facie, Fretilin could not have done this, as it was explicitly opposed by a majority of members in alliance. Similarly, the Fretilin spokespersons noted that there was no specific provision in the constitution “which says that a post election coalition with an absolute majority in the National parliament has the right to form government.” They were correct in this; it simply said the alliance of parties was required to have a majority, and the AMP government had this majority. Having the largest plurality (largest party but without a majority) in parliament but without a majority only guarantees that, under convention, the president will ask the leader of that party if he or she is able to form a government which, as noted, must enjoy the confidence of the majority of the parliament. If the leader of that party cannot form such a government, the task then devolves to the next biggest party and so. If no party can form a government, fresh elections are held.


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Translating section 106.1 of the constitution, it reads in Portuguese: “O Primeiro-Ministro é indigitado pelo partido mais votado ou pela aliança de partidos com maioria parlamentar e nomeado pelo Presidente da República, ouvidos os partidos políticos representados no Parlamento Nacional.” Although the translation required some minor adjustment between the languages, it should read as follows: The Prime-Minister is designated by the party with more votes or the alliance of parties with a parliamentary majority and nominated by the President of the Republic, listening to the political parties represented in the National Parliament.” This meant that the prime minister represents either the party with the most votes, assuming no simple majority and no “alliance” (coalition) or, explicitly, an alliance of parties with a parliamentary majority. It is possible within a parliamentary democracy for a prime minister to lead a minority government, and this is in principle allowed for under Section 106:1. However, a minority government is conditional upon majority support for the budget, hence any majority alliance automatically trumps an attempted minority government. Interestingly, the draftees of the Portuguese version of the Constitution neglected to mention in Section 106:1 the option of a simple single-party majority of the type that allowed Fretilin to form the first government, which would be assumed to be the first option as a preferred form of government, raising the question if this was not what was originally intended in the Portuguese version of the Constitution. This issue was “corrected” in the official English version of the Constitution. Further, “Mais” in Portuguese translates as “more” or “most” in English. But “most” in English translates as “maioria” in Portuguese, which in turn translates into English as “majority”! That is, the party which may form government in the first clause of Section 106.1 of the constitution could be understood not to be just the “most voted” party, but the party with a majority. Fretilin did not have this. In simple terms, Fretilin did not have a majority in its own right, was unable to forma an alliance of parties and its leader did not enjoy the confidence of the majority of members of the parliament. Claiming to rule on this basis was to either not understand the very basic meaning of the term “democracy,” or to not regard democracy as the foundational method of selecting the government of East Timor. Fretilin continued its campaign of sniping and political harassment, regardless of the fact of it being relegated to opposition. But in a substantive sense, and especially given that it did return to sit in the parliament, this was more or less the activity of a conventional if not entirely “loyal” opposition. Most of Fretilin’s criticisms of the government were quite strident, which was unhelpful to the broader state of affairs given a continuing sense of fragility and deep-seated

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uncertainty that permeated much of society. And while some of the criticisms were legitimate and well founded, some of the criticisms were inaccurate, even if they did score short-term political points. But as the political game continued, the “opposition” attacked and the government responded, it appeared that East Timor was beginning to settle into a pattern of behavior familiar in many more developed and historically embedded parliamentary democracies. There was no doubt that East Timor remained vulnerable to fracturing as a political society. But the longer it did not do so, the better chance it had of not doing so. Even when the ASDT-PSD partner in the AMP coalition said, in May 2008, that it would quit the coalition because of alleged government corruption, this appeared more as an internal party matter over the allocation of ministries rather than any other issue. This sense was compounded, too, when soon after the threat, it said that it would not leave the coalition for another twelve months. One might have thought that if the issues over which it was concerned were so pressing that it had to announce its departure from the government then it would have done so immediately. But regardless of how this issue resolved, it lacked a sense of sincerity of intention, and was more a part of a political game. It might have been that the ASDT contemplated being in opposition, not in government, with Fretilin, as it was quickly deduced that the ASDT’s coalition with PSD had fractured and that the AMP government could survive without ASDT support. Moreover, ASDT and Fretilin were not comfortable political bedfellows, and the thought of working together as a coherent opposition was less attractive than the reality of access to government. Better on the inside of the tent, to use the metaphor, with the perspective being outward, than to be outside the tent. In any case, the concern that this fairly clearly Fretilin-inspired maneuver was supposed to have caused the AMP government was quashed when it was realized that not only could the AMP government maintain a majority without ASDT but that it had quickly done a deal with Undertim to shore up its parliamentary numbers. There is a view that it is not what politicians say that counts, but what they do. ASDT had said much and done little, and appeared to be paying the price of its disloyalty on one hand and its incapacity on the other. Fretilin, meanwhile, was reduced to returning to its tactics of sniping, if with less effect. It remained true that the AMP government remained vulnerable to internal dissent and collapse, as all coalitions are. And it was likely that at some point in the future it would have its majority challenged or even defeated, either through defections, a forced election through loss of a parliamentary majority, or in elections. But this was not at issue in a substantive sense. It did not matter whether the AMP government survived or not if its demise was as a


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consequence of losing its parliamentary majority. What mattered was that East Timor’s political parties were beginning to play the political game by democratic parliamentary rules, including both winning and losing office. The elections of 2007 marked a significant point of democratic deepening, and the transfer of power, if troubled, marked a democratic transition. As the political game settled into a more or less conventional parliamentary pattern, East Timor showed, if inadvertently, that it had in a few short years made the transition from traumatized, fledgling postcolonial state to a rough but still functional parliamentary democracy. While the future always retained an element of uncertainty about it, very few other postcolonial states could claim as much. Policy Options for the AMP Government When the AMP government took office, it recognized that unemployment and poverty were the greatest sources of political instability in the country and, after establishing itself in goovernment, began to deal with a series of key related issues. The first of these issues was how to deal with the matter of Reinado and the petitioners who constituted a potential point of political instability. The second was returning IDPs to their homes, or helping them rebuild homes to return to. Many IDPs claimed they could not return home with any security until the Reinado problem was resolved. Beyond this, the government recognized that it needed to decentralize official spending and the allocation of funds on local projects. The purpose of this was to ensure that district projects began and were ultimately completed to enhance the conditions of nonurban East Timorese, and to ensure the provision of financial liquidity into the districts and subdistrict areas to help alleviate some of the hardship that ordinary people faced. In turn, the government needed to establish a mechanism by which funds could be distributed, including an oversight mechanism to ensure that such funds were not squandered or used for corrupt or nepotistic purposes. The allocation of government funds was limited by the “absorptive capacity” of the state, in that it had not yet put in place mechanisms to ensure the adequate flow of funds in a supervised manner. One of the key problems with a lack of absorptive capacity, and the bottlenecks that cause it, is that as fund flows increase, the opportunities for corruption and the siphoning off of funds also increase. It was also clear that the AMP government wanted to increase the level of government spending in order to more directly and immediately assist ordinary East Timorese. This included tapping into the capital of the national Petroleum Fund. In outlining his economic policy for East Timor ahead of the 2007 elections, Xanana Gusmao told an allegory of a dying man and his family in a

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traditional East Timorese setting. The man was sick and his family was unable to help as medicine was expensive and all they had was some cows. Had they sold some cows, the family would have had enough cash to afford the medicine the man needed and he would have lived. But in East Timor, one never sells one’s cows. So, the cows were not sold, the medicine was not bought and the man died. Then the family killed the cows to hold a feast to mark the man’s death.4 Gusmao then explained that it was better to invest in the present, to feed hungry people and to educate the uneducated, than to wait for a time that might not come. By investing in the present, he said, East Timor would build a base for the future. The problems with the allegory, and the policy, however, were considerable. In the first instance, unlike cattle, which reproduce, the petroleum fund was drawing on a finite resource, and by using the interest from it rather than the capital there would be a sustainable source of income for the indefinite future. The second problem was that by tapping into the capital, East Timor risked facing what was known as the “oil curse” (or “resource curse”), where the income from oil and gas led to a high level of income over a relatively short period creating a bubble economy, potentially increasing corruption through limited oversight of expenditure, and unbalancing sources of income and hence restricting other methods of economic development. The projects earmarked for the expenditure included road development, an oil power plant, and electricity grid, patrol boats, and a $240 million economic stabilization fund to subsidize food, fuel, and construction costs (see CGT 2008; La’o Hamutuk 2008; RDTL 2008). Finally, given that the government had not been able to spend even close to all the money it had available due to the above-mentioned restricted absorptive capacity, there was some doubt as to whether increasing the available funds would actually increase public access to those funds. The IMF and the World Bank in particular advised against modifying access to the Petroleum Fund for similar reasons, adding that East Timor had developed a good reputation for its handling of resource income through the Petroleum Fund and that modification of it would enhance risk and damage that reputation (IMF/WB 2008). Having noted these problems, alternative sources of economic development were very limited and with the U.S. dollar as East Timor’s currency, its competitive capacity linked to its very small and poor domestic market meant that it would be very unlikely to develop other export industries in the foreseeable future. Moreover, the U.S. dollar was unlikely to significantly appreciate as a consequence of East Timor’s resource income and thus make uncompetitive other sources of economic development. The U.S. currency moved, but more so by economic events in the United States’ vastly greater domestic economy. With malnutrition, absolute poverty, and illiteracy remaining as chronic problems, there


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was also a strong argument in favor of increasing access to cash by pumping funds into development programs. The price of not accelerating development programs was likely to be further political instability, or at least the conditions in which political instability could flourish. Given the relatively high rate of return on the oil fund, East Timor could have borrowed funds for such development programs from the World Bank at a lower rate of interest than that being paid by the Petroleum Fund and hence invested in development programs while reducing the capital cost of such programs. This was especially the case given both the escalating price of oil (at least through most of 2008, and in the longer term) and the likely further development of oil and gas fields within East Timor’s territorial waters. However, this policy option was not pursued, and accessing capital from the Petroleum Fund became a key policy distinction between what had become the Fretilin Opposition and the AMP government. East Timor’s Energy Minister, Alfredo Pires, said that the windfall from rapidly increasing oil prices in 2008 had raised expectations of government assistance. However, he also noted that the country now had available funds to deal with such issues. One of the government’s plans for its increased oil revenues was to send 100 students overseas to study geology and engineering, increasing this to 1,000 students across all disciplines in 2009 (Grigg 2008). Based on June 2008 prices, East Timor’s oil revenue had doubled over the previous year, to $200 million a month, or boosting the Petroleum Fund from $2 billion in 2007 to $5 billion in 2008. This pushed East Timor’s per capita GDP to a nominal $4,500, meaning that it was quickly approaching the status of a “middle income” country (usually assessed at a per capita GDP of $6,000). The increased revenue was expected, based on oil remaining at $120 a barrel5 and 5 percent interest rates6, to increase the Petroleum Fund to $10 billion in 2009 and $47 billion by 2018, pushing per capita GDP to $38,000. Yet in mid2008, most East Timorese were unaware, or at least were not recipients, of their country’s increasing economic status, and overwhelmingly relying on a single source of income was likely to provide inconsistent returns. There was concern, too, that having access to large amounts of direct income, rather than using earned interest, could lead to fiscal irresponsibility, with money being thrown at programs that produced little if any concrete outcomes. However, there was a sense that, should the political and economic situation remain fairly stable, East Timor’s economic future looked much brighter than its economic past. This in turn boded well for retaining political stability. It was easy, therefore, to be optimistic. It was wiser, though, to retain a strong sense of circumspection about such rose-tinted optimism, especially given that,

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as this was being written, malnutrition remained a serious and in some parts of the country a seemingly intractable problem. Fretilin was highly critical of the AMP government over its pursuit of its policy of tapping into the capital of the Petroleum Fund (Fretilin 2008), while the Petroleum Fund Consultative Council and the Economy, Finance and Anticorruption parliamentary committee also opposed the government’s plan to withdraw $290 million from the Petroleum Fund in excess of the benchmark for sustainable income ($396.1 million in 2008) on the grounds that it had not justified the need for the additional funds. The AMP government’s proposal was to more than double its income, from $347.7 million to $773.3 million, or an increase of 122 percent, even though between January and March it had only spent 10 percent of the proposed budget total. The amount of the budget being spent was predicted to increase soon after, however, to 45 percent by the middle of the year and to rise to 55 percent by the end of the year, with an end of year flurry to expend remains funds. Fretilin was also highly critical of the AMP government replacing the Timor Sea Designated Authority (TSDA) with a National Petroleum Authority (NPA). The NPA was responsible for regulating all petroleum exploration, production, processing and sales both onshore and offshore in East Timor. The creation of the NPA was under a decree passed by the Council of Ministers, which Fretilin criticized for lacking in public consultation and transparency. Along with increased revenue from interest on oil and gas receipts, and access to the capital of the Petroleum Fund, the AMP Government introduced sweeping tax changes, including no income tax for income below $500 a year and at a flat 10 percent a year for income above $500 a year. Services tax was capped at 5 percent, while withholding taxes were at between two and 10 percent. Import duty and sales tax was capped at 2.5 percent, while excise tax was increased on alcohol and tobacco but reduced on petrol. Interestingly, the tax on guns and ammunition was set at 200 percent, even though the parliament had rejected a proposal put by Xanana Gusmao that would have made it possible for private individuals to register and own guns. There were a range of other policy options that the government could and perhaps should have explored, but did so if at all only slowly. These included accelerating road repair projects, rebuilding markets or building new markets, increasing access to health care (a policy invigorated under the Fretilin government by accepting 100 volunteer Cuban doctors), and establishing in all districts moderate interest local microcredit facilities for small enterprises (this was developed at a central level). The idea of developing district and subdistrict level microcredit facilities was intended to do two things. The first was to make capital available for small business ventures, and to be able to modestly invest


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in existing activities, such as farming. A boost to farming, associated with new markets and better roads, would lead to a direct benefit to local people and stimulate East Timor’s non–Dili economy. The second benefit of developing locally based microcredit programs was simply to promote the supply of financial liquidity in the districts and subdistricts. Given the relative wealth available in Dili and the lack of wealth outside of Dili, some redistribution to “kick-start” local economies seemed to a wise investment in economic activity and hence greater political stability. On the question of the distribution of wealth, perhaps the greatest failure of the Fretilin government was to not adequately distribute wealth to the districts and subdistricts. The AMP government appeared aware of this problem, but its plan for resolving this problem was, at best, vague. The intention was to have district elections, after which elected local representatives could either receive direct funding for discretionary local use or could apply for funds for specific uses. By the end of 2008, Cabinet had accepted a proposal to implement a political and economic decentralization model by holding District, SubDistrict, and Suco (village) elections, in which administrative authority would be devolved. The plan called for elections in four districts in the first half of 2009 (Dili, Baucau, Bobonaro, and Oecussi), then five further sets of elections towards the end of 2009, and a final four sets of elections in 2010. In the short term, however, it would have been quite possible for the AMP government to put out a notification via district administrators for private bids for local project funding, to establish a handful of teams to visit the districts and subdistricts to discuss viable proposals, and then to return within a short period to receive bids. These bids could then be assessed by an independent panel and directly funded, with a performance checklist in place to ensure that the funded projects met timelines and accountability procedures. It may have been that not all such projects would lead to direct economic development, say through funding local business ventures. But there was a good likelihood that such projects would produce some tangible social benefits while at the same time ensuring the increased flow of financial liquidity in local economies. Projects that failed to meet timelines or accountabilities would, of course, be less likely to receive future funding, while more successful projects would be better so positioned. But the main benefit would be that there would be the twin activities of developing capacity around timelines and accountabilities and, more importantly, ensuring a degree of local economic stimulation. This broad proposal was in the process of being discussed within the AMP government, but it was lamentably slow to act on it. The government also began to look at and to some extent implement a policy of government employment being solely based on merit, in which the

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capacity of individuals to undertake the job for which they have been employed was the sole criterion for employment. However, many government employees who had been employed under the previous government were retained, in large part because of a lack of suitable alternatives. However, a number of District Administrators were replaced, especially where (as Fretilin members) they focused on party politics rather than the job of administering their districts. In this, it would have been useful for the government to establish key performance indicators (KPIs) for all public servants, although this policy might have resulted in too many public servants not meeting such KPIs and hence creating an unresolvable problem. The government was more proactive, however, in streamlining investment procedures to encourage foreign direct investment, and through reducing taxation, given the capacity to rely for government expenditure on the Petroleum Fund. Importantly, recognizing that corruption had been a major source of people’s grievances and that corruption as hampered the efficient operation of government and the judiciary, the AMP government enhanced the powers of the inspector-general’s office and established an anticorruption commission. Despite widespread allegations of corruption within the AMP government, no doubt some of which were accurate, the government promoted its anticorruption drive by stringing anti-corruption banners across main roads. It was at least a publically acknowledged problem. In part, East Timor’s problems with corruption stemmed from the culture of corruption that had been a legacy of Indonesia’s rule. Within Indonesia, corruption was and remains a principle means of greasing the wheels of government and business, and was particularly prevalent within the army and police services. In part, too, East Timor’s problems with corruption was a legacy of more traditional cultural forms of patron-client relations, in which following an older pattern of the wealthy and powerful looking after the poor and weak, there was an expectation that those with access to the distribution of wealth, such as government officials or district administrators, would pass on that benefit to family and friends. But probably most importantly, in a society in which few people earned enough money to live adequately, there was always a very real temptation and indeed pressure to increase income by charging a nonofficial “fee-for-service,” taking a kickback from a contract or engaging in others forms of corruption and collusion. Having noted this, there were a number of allegations of corruption leveled against the AMP government, most notable of which were those in relation to the government purchase of cars and the letting of an emergency food aid rice contract. In the first instance, Fretilin had been highly critical of the government for pursuing what it claimed was a policy of buying sixty-five new


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“luxury” cars for parliamentarians. Fretilin claimed the cars would be allocated individually and used for private purposes In June 2008, this led to student demonstrations at the University of Timor-Leste opposite the parliament building (AFP 2008). A law enacted by the previous government on demonstrations being at least 100 meters from parliament, allowed the use of tear gas by police and the arrests of more than three dozen protesters. For a moment, it appeared as though the AMP government was heading down the same authoritarian path as the previous Fretilin government. However, the protesters were released and the government went to some lengths to explain that it was not buying “luxury” cars for the private use of parliamentarians. Rather, the Finance Minister, Emilia Pires, said that the purchase order was for twenty-six four-wheel-drive base model Toyota Prado cars to be allocated for parliamentary committee work, particularly involving travel to the districts. A twenty-seventh car was to be given to the government by Toyota as part of the package. Pires said that the cost of maintaining older vehicles and renting cars had amounted to just over $13 million in the four years to 2008, which was the equivalent of buying 389 new Toyota Prado cars. She added that of all the cars allocated to government departments, the number requiring high maintenance was 1,736, a further 707 were not working and not repairable, 109 were “lost” at handover, 21 were not registered to the government, and 69 cars were under dispute. She also noted that of vehicles donated to the previous government, many had not been registered with the government assets department. In particular, she noted that of fifty Land Cruisers donated by one aid agency, only five were registered to the government (Pires 2008), (the assumption being that the rest were being used for private purposes only). At one level this was a relatively trivial issue, but the energy that was put into it by Fretilin, and the way the student demonstrations could have turned more serious, indicated that the political environment remained fraught, and that Fretilin in particular was not shy about pushing to the limit issues that, upon examination, often lacked substance or upon which itself might have been found wanting. At around this time, and somewhat surprisingly given their respective histories, former Fretilin Defence Minister signed a contract to advise the government on security sector reform. Roriguez’ appointment was on the recommendation of Gusmao, Ramos-Horta and Alkatiri. Yet just a few weeks later, on June 12, UNMIT chief Atul Khare sacked Rodriguez following a flurry of high-level e-mails between UNMIT and the UN headquarters in New York (Fitzpatrick 2008). While not charged, Rodriguez had been implicated in the distribution of weapons in 2006, and while his knowledge of the security sector was significant, he was widely regarded as far too tainted to be considered appropriate for

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a position intended to reform an organization the increasing dysfunction of which he had presided over. As a part of East Timor’s much needed security sector reform, perhaps the institution most in need of reform in East Timor, and still so well into the first year of the AMP government, was the police force. In short, despite having been reformed and, to come extent, retrained, the PNTL remained largely unreconstructed. Its reputation for corruption and brutality persisted (e.g., see Mali and Menodonca 2008) and it continued to be viewed with little respect by many ordinary East Timorese. Such was the standing of the PNTL that in April 2008, East Timor’s ombudsman, Sebastiao Dias Ximenes compared the PNTL unfavorably with the earlier occupying Indonesian police (March 2008). These comments were quickly supported by the head of the parliamentary committee on human rights, Fernanda Borges. Within context, it was not possible to compare the actions of the Indonesian occupation police with the PNTL, given that the former had been identified as being involved in widespread and systematic rape, torture, and murder, and that corruption was its modus vivendi. However, it did reflect poorly on the PNTL that they should have been so compared, even if in exaggeration. And the problem was, when the PNTL was reconstructed following its institutional collapse in 2006, it was not a significantly different organization from that which had existed previously. Similarly, although East Timor’s people had a long history of malnutrition and chronic food shortages, this problem continued unabated and, indeed, worsened by the continuing drought that affected the region, becoming critical in the “hungry season” of 2007 to 2008. In response to this, Gusmao authorized the increased government purchase of rice, doubling its quantity from 8,000 tonnes to 16,000 tonnes, but at a time of escalating world food prices, increasing the purchase order price from US$4 million to US$12 million. The contract was let to Tres Amigos, a company directed by CNRT member Germano da Silva, apparently without an open tender process. Gusmao was immediately attacked by Fretilin for corruption, with even some media raising similar concerns. However, Gusmao responded by saying that the country only held 7,900 tonnes of rice in reserve and that its required balance for food security for a three-month period was 24,000 tonnes. He added that the process of tendering for the bid had gone to a selective tender on February 1, 2008, in which seven companies were asked if they could meet the government’s requirements of purchasing the rice and warehousing it. Only Tres Amigos was able to comply with both aspects of the requirements and so received the contract (Gusmao 2008). More positively, the gang problem, which had appeared to become endemic in East Timor, and in particular in Dili, was slowly brought under control. In


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late 2007, a number of gang leaders were arrested on various charges, and in 2008, with the support of UNMIT and the government, international and local NGOs engaged in peace-building training for martial arts leaders (UNMIT 2008b). Based on a survey undertaken by Alex Gusmao in early 2008, there were at least ten local NGOs and five NGOs engaged in peace or reconciliation programs in East Timor (see Gusmao in Kingsbury 2008). Further, a visit to East Timor by popular martial arts practitioner and actor Jackie Chan in June promoted the peaceful resolution of local disputes. The visit, sponsored by UNICEF, was a popular success, and promoted an antigang culture message. While these outcomes were positive reinforcement for East Timor’s martial arts clubs, they were largely not responsible for the violence and destruction that had affected East Timor. Breaking a Deadlock If the shooting of Ramos-Horta was the most important political event of 2008, it was so because not only did it almost end the life of the president but, because as noted, it broke a political deadlock. The process of relocating the IDPs and closing down their camps occurred over several months, and in cases where the IDPs had a more overt political agenda there was some resistance. However, the government paid families up to $4,000 to return to their places of origin, which was enough to rebuild or otherwise start afresh. For most East Timorese, this amount of money was the equivalent of around nine or ten years’ average income, and represented a significant incentive to most of the IDPs. Similarly, negotiations with the petitioners continued well into the year and there was eventually progress in resolving their claims, if not through returning them to the military. Indeed, while these negotiations were continuing, the F-FDTL went through a new round of recruitment, indicating that the Petitioners were beginning to slip into history. That they wore orange jumpsuits and were confined to barracks indicated to others, if not to them, that their status, while not that of prisoners, was also not that of free civilians or of soldiers with a grievance. In July, the petitioners were declared to be civilians and hence no longer members of the F-FDTL (UNMIT 2008c). They then accepted what appeared to be a generous payout offer of US$8,000 each and began their lives anew. (One immediate outcome of this pay-out was that every new motorbike available in Dili was almost immediately sold.) The resolution of the threat from Reinado was completed with the surrender or arrest of his gang. Two of Reinado’s men were arrested by Indonesian antiterrorist police (Gegana D88) at the home of former PPI militia leader Jaoa Tavarres in Atambua on April 18, with another being captured near Jakarta two days earlier. That Tavarres had the men at his home would have been known

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by the local TNI commander. The TNI and the militias mutual interest in cross-border smuggling and that the PPI was a creation of the TNI meant that the TNI would have known and had to approve of the three men being there, despite TNI army chief General Agustadi Sasongko claiming there was no link (Antara 2008a). This then raised the specter of TNI involvement in support for Reinado, and a quiet campaign of continuing destabilization from across the border. A local TNI commander, Lieutenant-Colonel Muhammad Kusdaryanto, said that it was easy to cross the 239-kilometer border and that he did not have sufficient personnel or equipment to stop illegal border crossings (AAP 2008, Antara 2008b). However, the arrest in Indonesia of a further nineteen supporters of Reinado in Jakarta did indicate there was an organised escape route to Indonesia (Timor Post 2008). The state of emergency that had been declared after the shooting of RamosHorta and the attempt against Xanana Gusmao was lifted on April 22, ten weeks after its imposition and two days after Ramos-Horta returned to East Timor, although it was retained in Ermera, where Reinado had been based. If there was one benefit from the state of emergency, it was that as the F-FDTL took primary responsibility for security, the relationship between it and the PNTL appeared to markedly improve (Virgo 2008). More negatively, however, it had directly inserted the F-FDTL into the issue of internal security, which, under the constitution, was the purview of the PNTL. Ramos-Horta returned to Dili to a hero’s welcome, with crowds several deep lining the roads between the airport and his home. In assessing why Reinado and his gang had attacked Ramos-Horta and Gusmao, it became clear that the attack was originally intended as a kidnapping or an attempt to force a final decision in Reinado’s favor, but which went wrong. The motivation for the kidnapping was that Reinado believed that his discussions with Ramos-Horta aimed at finding a resolution to the issue were being undermined by the government’s dealings with the Petitioners and that he was, in effect, being double-crossed. After the shooting, it became clear that RamosHorta had help out to Reinado the proposal of accepting being convicted and jailed, but then released under a general amnesty for all parties convicted of offences during the 2006 troubles. However, as noted by one observer, few involved in the 2006 violence had been prosecuted and after Lobato’s release and escape, no one was actually in custody, which only reaffirmed a culture of impunity (Virgoe 2008). The sense of impunity was compounded in July, with the long-awaited release of the report of the Commission on Truth and Friendship. When Indonesia told the United Nations that it would assume responsibility for the prosecution of those involved in the killing of more than 1,500 people in East


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Timor in 1999, most observers understood this meant that few if any of those responsible for the crimes would spend time in jail. Few events could have been as predictable. The Indonesian legal system had a long history of protecting the military from meaningful sentencing, especially given that the military must be tried in its own, usually very sympathetic courts. Further, the “nationalist” fervor whipped up by the military over the “loss” of East Timor meant that any negative decision against the army or police would be construed as tantamount to subversion. In this environment, the outcome of the few trials that were held never did not bode well for an independent judgment. As events transpired, some five years later, none of the twenty-five originally charged with offences in relation to 1999 spent time in jail. Of these twenty-five, observers noted that none of the senior generals who sanctioned or organized the violence were among those charged. Just two East Timorese, who claimed Indonesian citizenship, have been jailed with one, militia leader Eurico Guterres, having his sentence reduced by half. The rationale for his reduced sentence was that it compensated for the “loss” of his homeland. Former East Timor Governor Abilio Soares was sentenced to three years imprisonment. He claimed that his own sentence reflected him being used as a scapegoat for the Indonesian military. “Someone has to be sacrificed and I was chosen to be the scapegoat,” he said. “Justice in this country [Indonesia] is reserved for powerful people and people who have money.” Of the original eighteen defendants who appeared before a Jakarta ad hoc human rights tribunal, just six were found guilty of abuses in East Timor, sparking international claims the tribunal was a sham. Three of them were active military officers: the former military commander in East Timor, Major-General Adam Damiri, his then deputy Noer Muis, and the former Dili district commander Soedjarwo. The fourth Indonesian to be acquitted, Hulman Gultom, was the head of the Dili police at the time. They remained free pending the outcome of their appeals, which were upheld by the High Court and the convictions overturned. The decision confirmed belief by numerous human rights organizations and other observers that Indonesia’s senior military personnel remain largely immune from being punished for gross human rights abuses. The UN had initially wanted to try those responsible for the 1999 killings in East Timor. However, pressure from the Indonesian military, the TNI, on the government of Abdurrahman Wahid, meant that no Indonesian officer would be returned to East Timor to face charges there. In an arrangement that appeared fatally flawed from the outset, the UN agreed not to pursue sanctions against Indonesia if it agreed to prosecute the offenders under Indonesian law. President Megawati Sukarnoputri only established the court in July 2001 under international pressure and then imposed tight restrictions on its scope. One of

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those restrictions was that no one could be investigated for any offences committed before April 1999, which precluded any hope of justice for the deaths of at least 180,000 of a population of around 650,000 people in the tiny territory since 1975. Another restriction limited charges to offences committed in just three of East Timor’s thirteen provinces. The specific attacks investigated include the killing of at least twenty-two people in a church in Liquica, twelve at the home of independence supporter Manuel Carrascalao, forty-six in the diocese of Dili, ten at the residence of Bishop Carlos Belo, and a further twenty-five at a church in Suai. In each case, many more were known to have been killed, and hundreds had been involved in these killings. Not surprisingly, after the murder, violence, and intimidation perpetrated by the Indonesian military and its proxy militias, most East Timorese who were witnesses to the atrocities in 1999 were too scared to come to Jakarta for the trials, many fearing for their lives. Indonesia’s senior military officers deliberately set out to heighten those fears by appearing in the courtroom when the trials began on March 14 and publicly supporting the accused. The Indonesian government has further discouraged witnesses from East Timor by refusing to pay their costs. A number of witnesses, however, defied these attempts to block them and gave evidence. Even before the proceedings began, however, it was clear that the trial was being staged largely for show rather than to bring those responsible for the rampages in East Timor to justice. None of the senior military officers, including former armed forces chief (and 2004 and 2009 presidential aspirant) General Wiranto, were charged, even though there was considerable evidence of their direct involvement. Wiranto was later indicted for war crimes by a UNsupervised court in East Timor, which at the time of writing he had not faced, nor was likely to face. As a result, it was not surprising that while the long-awaited CTF report noted that crimes against humanity committed by the military and their proxy militias were an all of state affair, there was no prospect of charges being laid. The CTF had been widely criticized as being a toothless tiger, with the UN refusing to participate in it. From the outset, the CTF did not have any power to lay or recommend charges and, being held in Jakarta, did not have access to many of the witnesses. Yet the CTF report confirmed that the violence and destruction of 1999 was orchestrated by the TNI, with the support of other government departments. As Indonesia traveled further down its sometimes bumpy road of democratization, one might have expected it to pursue judicial redress. However, the outcome was as though, according to the Indonesian courts, the violence and destruction had not happened.


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Despite the facts of 1999 being clear that the TNI recruited, financed, trained, and armed militias, and led them against the people of East Timor when they were finally allowed to determine their own future under international law, many in Indonesian still believed that East Timor was “stolen” from them by the United Nations, with the connivance of Australia. So, attempting to reopen judicial proceedings was on one hand met with the response that this avenue had already been pursued while on the other hand that anyone who supported such a proposal was bent on dismembering the Indonesian state. The CTF report was intended to allow Indonesia and East Timor to get on with their bilateral relationship, which is what the CTF was always designed to promote and protect. The emphasis was always on “friendship” over “truth” (Hirst 2008; Yudhoyono/Ramos-Horta 2008). As Hirst noted in her comprehensive report on the CTF, its process had numerous fundamental failings, including the motivation for its establishment, the lack of genuine consultation, failure to respond to criticism, the lack of witnesses (especially from among victims), an absence of focus on victims, that a notorious militia leader was identified as a victim, that the terms of reference were flawed and excluded individual responsibility, that it lacked sufficient legal powers, that its mandate was ambiguous, and that the location of the hearings excluded participation. In all, the CTF “provided an unbalanced platform for the denials of high-level accused persons. This may have reinforced claims that legitimate doubts remain about the source and nature of the crimes committed in East Timor in 1999, or indeed about whether crimes were committed at all. Ironically then, despite the Commission’s mandate to ‘establish the conclusive truth,’ its public hearings have instead served to render some already conclusive truths inconclusive” (Hirst 2008, 37). The “very deep regret,” not an apology, expressed by Indonesian President Susilo Bambang Yudhoyono over the events of 1999 were little compensation for the human and material loss of that time, much less before. And the parallel “regret” expressed by Ramos-Horta at the same time (Rondonuwu 2008), implying some sort of equivalence, was bizarre. In keeping with his increasing odd comments, Ramos-Horta said: “expecting a security force (the TNI) to behave with absolute neutrality and without emotions in providing security for the popular consultations was unrealistic given that these forces lost many of their men in East Timor.” This was despite the May 5 agreement that agreed to the ballot saying, “The Government of Indonesia will be responsible for maintaining peace and security in East Timor in order to ensure that the popular consultation is carried out in a fair and peaceful way in an atmosphere free of intimidation, violence or interference from any side” (Alatas/Anan 1999). Or perhaps Ramos-Horta could have said, with a significant degree more frankness, that

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expecting the TNI to do other than try to intimidate and brutalize the people of East Timor into submission was unrealistic and that it was a terrible mistake on the part of all parties to that agreement and the subsequent ballot, including the United States, Australia, the UN, and Portugal, not to insist on an armed international security presence. But then, in a world that was never going to push this issue very far or very hard, much less expect an outcome that reflected rule of international law, as with some other of Ramos-Horta’s comments, an observation of that type might not have been “diplomatic.” Or, Ramos-Horta might have said, “That was the price we had to pay for our liberty.”

Epilogue

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any questions remained about East Timor and its prospects. There was, of course, no simple answer to any of the many questions that could be asked about East Timor’s future. Most who knew the place would reply that it was slowly improving, that it was not especially more dangerous than any other developing country or, indeed, the big cities of many developed countries. And while it had suffered some setbacks, it appeared that its future was a little brighter than it had been, if perhaps not constructing it as a tropical paradise. The reality was, and remains, that East Timor had and would continue to face many significant challenges, that these would be greater than those of many other countries, and that if it simply survived and built slowly, that alone would be a significant achievement. As noted at the outset, East Timor’s visually stunning natural environment has never been kind to its people, and as East Timor’s population has grown there has been real stress on both the environment and on related food security. The “hungry season,” approximating to January to March, that had been a feature of East Timor since time immemorial had, in recent years, become worse due to drought and population pressure. With the highest fertility rate in the world, at around eight live births per female, and a reluctance by the Catholic church to endorse contraception, it seemed that East Timor’s population pressures would not decrease any time soon. Infant mortality, which is perhaps the starkest indicator of absolute poverty, was very high at 6.6 per thousand live births. By 2015, East Timor’s population was expected to hit 1.5 million, which was perhaps two to three times what the land could actually support. As a result of food scarcity and population pressure, East Timor was unable to feed itself, and became reliant on imported food, especially rice. Indeed, East Timor had become reliant on importing almost everything, other than some basic, locally grown foodstuffs and fish. There were a few small cottage-type industries, such as manufacturing, but these survived because of local preferential trading arrangements more than any competitive advantage. They were simply too small to register internationally as unfair trade, or in many cases functioned as a form of charity through the effective subsidies built into price structures.

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In this respect, East Timor’s hopes of developing a nonoil economy were very limited. Its domestic market, which is usually the base for developing a competitive industry, was too small, especially given its relative poverty reducing its effective purchasing power. That local costs were denominated in U.S. dollars and that even at relatively low levels of income East Timor was still a relatively expensive state in which to produce goods also did not augur well for competing with cheap imports. And the skills base from which to develop industry was also at a low level. Of course, training could alleviate much of that, but even then it would still be around the creation of skilled people with few prospects for other than localized employment. Coffee, of course, remained a backup industry and still provided a livelihood to many East Timorese, yet with world coffee production in oversupply, prices to growers and pickers was low. At least, like oil, the price of coffee was denominated in U.S. dollars. But even then, there were so few of them and the cost of living in East Timor was, relative to its region, very high, that this did not produce any particular advantage. There was an element, though, of whether the glass was half empty or half full; the real, lived situation for most East Timorese was materially bad, but it was improving, if slowly. In 2006 (based on 2004 data), of 177 countries, East Timor’s human development standing was rated at 142, one below Sudan. Average life expectancy from birth was fifty-six years, although there was a one in four chance of not surviving to forty, rising to over 40 percent for the age of sixty. Overall literacy was 58.6 percent (reflecting higher literacy among the young), and combined educational enrolment was 71.7 percent, at least this statistic placed it in the top rather than the bottom half of all countries (UNDP 2006). Where East Timor suffered most, not surprisingly, was in its income rankings, with per capita GDP locating it at just 0.39 on an index of 1.0 but the purchasing parity power of that income significantly lower, at almost half of the nominal purchasing power. In 2004, per capita GDP was $367, which did not take into account the disparities in income that were available. This did not, however, account for the massive price increase (and later slump) in oil exports, and the theoretical per capita GDP this implied. Yet within two years, some of these statistics had begun to improve, and East Timor was listed as among the “medium” human development countries (better than the twenty-one states that registered as having “low human development”). This was not just a change in the numbers, as at least for some East Timorese, there were real improvements in their day-to-day lives. Adult literacy had improved to just below half, absolute poverty had decreased slightly, and other indicators had also improved, although again only slightly (UNDP 2006, 4). However, food insecurity affected two-thirds of the population and malnutrition remained a serious problem, while poverty beyond the main towns was

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much greater than within them, adding to pressure for those without a sustainable livelihood to move to towns and especially to Dili, exacerbating existing problems with overcrowding, unemployment, and, for young men, potential gang participation. Yet there were few viable alternatives. Subsistence agriculture remained the mainstay of the lives for most East Timorese, although this was very often not enough to produce a varied or often even nutritionally sufficient diet. And as East Timor became increasingly enmeshed with the wider world, as much of it had been with the influx of aid agencies, the aspirations of many East Timorese changed and developed beyond that which the country could deliver. One of the paradoxes of developing countries, it has been observed, is that greater education is needed in order to facilitate development (and as a social good in its own right), but that greater education also produces greater expectations, which very often cannot be met. These expectations built on, but were more sophisticated than, those that arose as a consequence of independence and the “freedom” that was believed to deliver. All of these led to growing impatience and frustration, none of which was helpful to a fragile political climate. As the main economic driver of the state, the government was the principle source of employment and revenue. The government, in turn, relied on receipts from the Petroleum Fund and grants of aid to function. It was then incumbent upon the government to ensure that, as the main economic driver, it did this job well and across the whole of the country. This then came back to the related issues of the absorptive capacity of the state and its related capacity to distribute wealth (via projects, purchase orders, etc.) to the districts and subdistrict areas. As a separate issue, it seemed that East Timor would continue to have a longer-term problem with its security sector: the army and the police. These two institutions were both in need of significant reform and this issue remained pressing. It is almost a truism that the security sector of developing countries is almost universally among their biggest problems, in terms of discipline, corruption, and a propensity to engage with civilian politics. Security sector jobs provide consistent employment in countries that often suffer from high unemployment rates, as does East Timor, and a degree of status from an otherwise commonly low-status life. It also provides public authority and an element of power, both of which are easy to abuse and, related to these, all too often provide opportunities for corruption. In East Timor, as noted, the necessity of the F-FDTL was a moot point, and there was a real sense that it was much more trouble maintaining than it was worth. Of course, East Timor needed to protect its border, but this role had already devolved to a (admittedly corrupt) branch of the police, while protecting its territorial waters could similarly have been devolved to a seagoing branch

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of the same organization. In reality, the F-FDTL was maintained because much of the resistance had been built on Falintil and it occupied an important place in how many East Timorese understood their wider society. Yet this raised two further problems, the first of which was that it tended to idealize the military wing of the resistance. The military wing of the resistance was critical for its success, but that time had since passed, and it now existed as a kind of badge of its own honor. As with many other militaries that had their origins in an independence struggle, there remained a sense within F-FDTL that it continued to oversee the internal security of the state. This became evident during the “state of emergency” declared after the shooting of Ramos-Horta in February 2008, in which the PNTL formally became subservient to the F-FDTL. In another sense, the F-FDTL retained a quasi-political role, not least through the chief of the F-FDTL also being a member of Cabinet. East Timor had developed a political model in which some Cabinet members were unelected officials, and this raised questions about the nature of their representation and their capacity to make decisions on behalf of the citizens. But having an unelected military leader in Cabinet reminded one of nothing more than the Indonesian political system under which the chief of the armed forces was, in a very real sense, more powerful than the defense minister, which had implications for how and what political decisions were made. In terms of international threats, East Timor remained a small country in a big region, with one very large and sometimes malignant neighbor (Indonesia) on one side, and another large and sometimes unhelpful neighbor (Australia) on the other side. Yet for all of that, East Timor’s status as a child of the UN ensured that its territorial integrity would remain inviolable in ways that it could not hope to achieve by itself. Similarly, in the post-Cold War global environment, interstate conflict was very much reduced, and intrastate conflict was, in East Timor’s case, a police matter rather than a military one. East Timor’s best defense, should it need any, was through diplomacy, which it had become relatively adept at playing. The PNTL, meanwhile, appeared to require reform from the outset, and throughout its relatively brief and functionally interrupted life. The PNTL were, largely, poorly trained and had even less discipline, tended to use force in excess of the circumstances, were all too prone to corruption, and, in the border areas, involved in smuggling, and, perhaps worst of all, very often owed their first loyalty to a nonstate organization: one of East Timor’s larger gangs. In all of the assessments on security sector reform in East Timor, reform of the PNTL was highlighted. Until or unless this occurred, this institution not just remained

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as a blight upon East Timor’s development but actually diminished the chances of that successful development. The more conventional political environment could reasonably have been expected to gradually settle, if with occasional interruptions to that process. Perhaps the biggest problem in this respect was that there remained a profound division within the political elite around how the state should conduct itself and what was and was not a legitimate form of political expression. This was particularly problematic as, unlike some other states where the citizens would ignore political elites if they veered too far from convention, the political society in transition in East Timor was much more vulnerable to elite manipulation. This then led to the type of violence that wracked the state in 2006 and which, had it not been for international intervention (acknowledging the prescience of the political leaders at that time to request it), could have led to functional state failure. A significant element of the elite manipulation of a transitional political society reflected a continuing division between such elites and the maubere people; the ordinary East Timorese. This, in turn, reflected elements of traditional tribal culture and the historic roles if liurai, the less than enlightened elements of Portuguese colonial administration in which the distinctly hierarchical structure of the colonizer was imposed on the colonized, the authoritarian structures of the Indonesian occupation, and the pronounced economic inequalities of the UN/international period. The saving grace here, however, was in the political awareness of the people. In 2006, it became clear that whatever credibility the Fretilin government possessed, under the leadership of Mari Alkatiri it had lost a very large proportion of it, and there was an almost palpable sense that, should the people be given the opportunity to make their political views felt, they would do so. In 2007, they were given just such an opportunity, and exercised it in ways that were notable for two reasons. The first reason was that the allocation of the vote across three separate rounds of voting was remarkably consistent, indicating a clear political will on the part of those who voted, and knowledge about what their vote meant. In a related sense but perhaps more importantly, allowing for discrepancies in the tabulation of the number of registered voters and the actual turnout for the vote, the people of East Timor went to the polls in numbers that would embarrass most politically savvy developed countries. That they did so in a voluntary system was almost incredible, and that very many of them did so in difficult circumstances, walking for hours on dirt—or mud—tracks over mountainous terrain to attend a polling station, was a testament to the faith they placed in their participation in choosing their political representatives. That they did so

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by showing up early, usually wearing their best clothing, in most cases before the polling stations opened, and in almost all cases completing all voting by midday, indicated a commitment to this process that for foreign observers was deeply moving and an object lesson in democratic ownership. That their voting was also often preceded by parties and often followed by celebrations showed, more than anything else, that the people of East Timor did not vote because they felt compelled to do so. They voted because in a life in which they had been so much at the mercy of circumstances beyond their control, this was something that they could take a clear and legitimate possession of, to make decisions that would have a direct outcome on how they and their fellows led their lives. Regardless of the wealth that might or might not have flowed from oil wells, the people of East Timor had taken control of this part of their lives. In this, they showed that they wanted a political leadership that responded to their needs and wishes, and, if it was not always possible to immediately translate that into reality, there would need to be at least a genuine effort in that direction. If the political leadership failed to make that effort, it would be held accountable in the finest political sense of the term, come the next ballot. The people of East Timor had suffered enormously, through the hardships of their natural environment, through the effects of colonial trade and occupation, through the ravages of a war upon them that, as a proportion of population, in modern times has few equivalents for the extent of its devastation or the depths of its horror. Yet the people had survived, they had the chance to control their own destiny and they took it with both hands. East Timor’s future would continue to be difficult, there would continue to be serious problems, and onlookers would continue, from time to time, to doubt the viability of the state. But if the people of East Timor had in their favor one thing more important and more critical to the success of their future than any other, it was their commitment to and faith in voting as the surest, most peaceful, and most equitable means of resolving political differences and charting their own future. More than oil, more than international aid, it was upon this that would be built the future of East Timor.

Notes Introduction 1. The term “declaracao de estado de sitio” (Gusmao 2008; Guterres 2008) means “state of place,” but translated as “state of siege or emergency, or martial law,” involving a night curfew, increased powers of arrest and detention, and the inclusion of the F-FDTL as part of the active security forces. 2. It was widely believed that the attack against Ramos-Horta and Gusmao was intended as a kidnapping but that it went wrong.

Chapter 1 1. East Timor’s postinvasion independence movement was multifaceted and included the principal proindependence party (Fretilin), the armed resistance (Falintil), the urban underground (Internal Political Front), and the student underground (Renetil). The resistance came together under the banner of the Council of National Maubere Resistance (CNRM) and later the Council of Timorese National Resistance (CNRT). 2. Precolonial regional ruler or local “king,” lit. liu rai or “earth lord.” This term originally referred to the suzerain king of Wehali in southern central Timor, acknowledged by small, local chiefs, but later devalued in status to apply to all local chiefs or “kings.” 3. The formal and actual percentages of registered voters who have voted in East Timor’s ballots will be discussed later in detail. 4. This system of regulating the relationship between people and land and hence between people is generally known as tara bandu and also lobu and kerok, depending on location, and in some cases having categories distinguishing fields from forests (e.g., in Oecussi). The lulik nain (guardian of the pole symbolizing tara bandu) is regarded by others as being close to the souls of his ancestors. Most villages (sucu) that have been able to retain them have a “tradition house” in which the souls of ancestors gather, all of whom are under the protection of the rai nain, or kind of overarching spirit, which both symbolizes and protects the land. 5. Natural law has strongly influenced English common law; its proponents have included, for example, Airstotle and Thomas Aquinas. It also deeply influenced thinkers such as Thomas Hobbes and John Locke. 6. This reflects the system of top-down orders and the limited options for debate or refusal.

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Chapter 2 1. Tais is a traditional cloth woven in Timor and closely related to the ikat of the southeastern islands of Indonesia, reflects colors and patterns, and in some cases, weaving techniques of each of the regions, and is primarily worn or presented at ceremonial occasions (e.g., birth, hunting initiation, marriage, funeral, and so on). 2. The Indonesian term “transmigrant” refers to government assisted internal migration. 3. Canto 14 of the Nagarakertagama refers to Timor, along with many others, as being a vassal territory of the Javanese Majapahit empire, although as there is no evidence of Javanese rule this may more accurately refer to a territory that had trading relations with Majapahit. Given that “timor” translates as “east” in Malay, it could have had a more generic meaning, referring to islands east of those within the regular Majapahit orbit, such as Sumbawa, which is also named. 4. Also known as Mau Kiak (Poor Mau) or Tat Felis (Poor Fellow). 5. When asked about her Catholic faith, a well-educated, Dili-based woman described herself as believing in a blend of Roman Catholicism and the traditional belief system, termed fatu lulic (spiritual stone), she described herself as “Catholulic.” 6. There was an element of the church’s self-assumed political role that reflected its origins in Timor under its dispensation from the then Pope, in dividing the world between the Spanish and the Portuguese, to extend the church’s writ globally. 7. “Traditional” figurines from the East Timorese island of Atauro, just north of Dili, continue to wear stylized hats, while hat wearing among inland East Timorese continues as a symbol of status or, perhaps as devolved status, as fashion. An alternative explanation for the name Topasses derives from the Portuguese adoption of the Malayalam word for a bilingual person; topashe (Hindi: dobashi). 8. From which, as an historical reminder, derives the name Pantai Makssar (Makassar Beach) at Oecussi. 9. Based on various discussions with Timorese from Viqueque in the east and Maliana in the west. 10. The Tetum word funu is generally translated as “war” or “warring,” but has a deeper and wider symbolic meaning to include a range of rituals around conflict. 11. Traditional social and power relations were commonly understood to be inwardly focused toward a center rather than focused as a complete territory defined by its external relationships. Examples of this were common in precolonial Africa, pre– Westphalian Europe, and throughout much of precolonial Asia (exceptions being the imperial Confucian states of China, Japan, Korea, and Vietnam). 12. This was according to that political figure, a head of one of the parties contesting the elections of 2007 (personal discussion, May 2007). 13. Not including the Topasses. 14. Mubyarto and Soetrisno describe “ficaro” as simply meaning “easterner,” while “keladi” means rustic. 15. The precise meanings of these terms is not fully agreed upon, reflecting their vague origins. Other terms, even less accurate descriptive terms applied to East Timor’s “easterners” and “westerners” have been lorosai and loromonu, which are Tetum words meaning “land where the sun rises” and “land where the sun sets,” but which

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were applied, up until 2006, to denote East Timor and West Timor. As James Fox noted in discussion, the idea of what constitutes the “lorosai” has been increasingly moving eastward, from the broad area east of the Wehale “center” to the border with West Timor to Dili and then to Manatutu, so that one might imagine soon only occupants of Tutuala at East Timor’s eastern tip would qualify under the term (Fox 2008). 16. Coffee plantations had been started in the early nineteenth century, but were largely unsuccessful until toward the end of that century. 17. Sandalwood continues to have a small market. Coffee is the world’s second most traded commodity, after oil, but along with other agricultural produce, its prices have remained at historic lows into the twenty-first century, even further reduced as a consequence of the methods of harvesting, sorting, and drying the beans. 18. In the late 1950s, Indonesia’s President Sukarno was attempting to reassert his own authority over that of a fractious parliament and involvement in overseas adventures came to characterize a tactic of his for diverting attention away from domestic problems. By 1963, Sukarno was openly engaged in Konfrontasi (Confrontation) with Malaysia. Both issues complied with his 1945 plan for an Indonesia Raya (Greater Indonesia), incorporating all of Timor, Malaysia, and even the Philippines. However, the distraction of what amounted to an illegal activity in Portuguese Timor would only have complicated his plans at that time for the incorporation of West Papua.

Chapter 3 1. In June 2008, Sagrada familia’s political manifestation as the party Undertim formed an alliance with Xanana Gusmao’s AMP government. 2. Its head of international relations was former translator for Indonesian military commander-in-chief General Wiranto, Christiano da Costa. Private UN Political Section files held in Dili and seen by the author said that CPD-RDTL had been established by former Indonesian military intelligence chief Major-General Zacky Anwar Makarim. Makarim was Wiranto’s representative to the UN in East Timor until August 30, 1999. 3. “Maubere” is a common Mambai name that was employed during the Poruguese period as a synonym for illiterate, uneducated and ‘uncivilised’ Timorese. It was employed by Gusmao and others as signifying the common East Timorese people. 4. A less-powerful position than C-in-C, and part of Suharto’s plan to ease Murdani from power. 5. This view was widely shared by East Timor solidarity activists, and was noted in discussion by one leading activist, Charles Schiener, formerly of the East Timor Action Network, Dili, February 4, 2008. 6. Perhaps the most unfortunate aspect of this publication is that it was published by an Australian-based international organization focusing more honestly on Indonesia and East Timor to the rest of the world, including having a focus on human rights issues and including a number of human rights activists and journalists. 7. The UN had been trying to achieve a discussion toward a resolution of the East Timor issue since 1997, when Jamsheed Marker was appointed by the UN Secretary-General

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11. 12. 13. 14.

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Kofi Annan, as his representative with a brief to pursue negotiations in February 1997 (Marker 2003, 7). Noted in various districts by the author as an accredited observer to the ballot. As seen by the author in Maliana, Balibo, Maubara and Liquica in August 1999, and as noted by Bartu 2000, and McDonald et al. 2002. Former president of UDT, former East Timor governor, ambassador-at-large for East Timorese Affairs, senior adviser to President Suharto, head of the ballot-period pro-Indonesia Barisan Rakyat Timor Timur (East Timor Peoples’ Front—BRTT), a political front for the militias. Based on off the record discussion with CNRT representatives, Dili, August 1999. The author was an observer and participant in these events. The author retained this sign after it was left when “Fort Maliana” was abandoned and just before it was burned. See the personal account of being a UN police officer in Maliana at this time, in David Savage’s emminently readable Dancing With the Devil (Monash Asia Institute, Melbourne 2002), the cover of which is a photograph of the official UN police vehicle set against a backdrop of the UN police house in flames. Reliable sources told the author that the number was much higher, but that around 1,400 was the number of bodies found, with many dumped at sea or allegedly buried in West Timor, or not subsequently destroyed by the Australian army intent on reducing the perceived extent of the killings. This was also stated, in Tetum, on blue UN posters promoting the ballot: “Rezultadu sa de’it maka hetan iha Agostu 30, UNAMET sei LA sai bainhira konsulta ne’e remata” (“No matter what the outcome on August 30th, UNAMET will NOT leave after the consultation,” author trans.). As noted by the author, as an accredited UN election observer, in Bobonaro district during the 1999 ballot.

Chapter 4 1. This term has been generically used to refer to the Australian and New Zealand military forces in joint operations, originating from the allocation of such forces in the Great War under the title “Australia and New Zealand Army Corps” (ANZAC). 2. The U.S. Navy provided sea lift logistical support and, in October 2001, about 1,000 Marines and sailors landed for “training,” in which they took supplies along the border region as a show of allied force to the TNI. 3. East Timor’s official languages are Portuguese and Tetum Praca, with Bahasa Indonesia and English being “working languages.” By mid-2005, teaching Portuguese in primary schools remained largely superficial, and sometimes only existed when Portuguese officials visited. 4. There has been some debate as to whether East Timor constitutes a ‘semi-presidential’ political system, given that the president has a public role and retains some higher functions. In short, it does not. A semi-presidential system is one where the president and the prime minister share executive authority in day to day matters; in the East Timorese system, the president does not enjoy executive authority on day to day matters,

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5. Some of this text was published by the author under the heading “The new Timor: A Xanana republic?” in The Jakarta Post December 16, 2000. 6. A legal adviser to UNTAET later said that the helicopter flights were necessary because Gusmao had a bad back and had difficulty in travelling long distances by car. However, senior UNTAET figures did appear to regard Gusmao as a viable political leader and seemed less concerned with the longer-term or antidemocratic consequences of their preferential support. 7. Not to be confused with the later CNRT.

Chapter 5 1. Da Silva was Australia-based, but had close relations with China and was perceived to be a Marxist-Leninist and hence close to Fretilin’s other ideological hard-liners. 2. There is a wide variety of interpretations of Marxism, of which Leninism was that popularized by the Russian Revolution and which took root in China and elsewhere. Its appeal lay not just in its critique of colonialism, but its organizational structure, which following its Chinese (Maoist) interpretation, was particularly favored for both its institutional efficiency and the power it handed directly to political leaders. 3. At this time, the Hotel Turismo further along the shoreline was as popular, if not as central and hence not as obvious a target. The Turismo similarly had its own Graham Greene-esque charm, especially its lush, central, mosquito-ridden courtyard, while the then concrete structures of the Hotel Dili were almost impervious to assault. 4. So named after the seemingly incessant call of East Timorese children to malae both male and female, “Hello mister!” 5. Other qualities of statehood conventionally include functioning state institutions and a means by which they can be maintained (e.g., taxation), a capacity to compel compliance with state laws, a monopoly on the use of violence and, not least, international recognition. 6. It is worth noting that the Indonesian ambassador to East Timor was formerly the second most senior official in the overtly “nationalist” Indonesian State Intelligence Agency (Badan Intelijen Negara, or BIN). 7. See, for example, the UNDP’s Human Development Index. 8. Australia official expresses concern over such matters, notably through its official aid program. However, Australia’s historic neglect of East Timor and its ungenerous position over determining the future of the Timor gap gas and oil reserves would tend to indicate that this is not a major concern. 9. UNMOs were sent to the border area by the UN following a clash between Australian troops and Indonesian troops and police at the northern coastal border village of Motaain, in which one Indonesian police officer was killed, and one policeman and one TNI soldier wounded. The UNMOs role was to liaise between the two sides to ensure there were no further such clashes, or to investigate them if they did occur. 10. Interview by the author, Dili, June 26, 2005.

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11. A clarification of land borders for Oecussi in October 2005 led to rioting and attacks by local West Timorese who claimed to have lost access to farming land. 12. Based on personal conversations June 28–29, 2005. 13. Kostrad is the Indonesian army’s “Strategic Reserve Command,” which are its frontline troops (as opposed to the less well-trained Territorial troops of each Kodam (Military Command Area). Linud 721 is Kostrad’s airborne battalion, based at Makassar, South Sulawesi. 14. A small number had been murdered upon their return. 15. The TNI’s Territorial commands (Kodam) are largely comprised of local (“organic”) troops and others, but usually only to a very basic level of military competence. They are supplemented by the more highly trained Kostrad troops and Kopassus troops for special operations in matters of pressing military concern. 16. It was along this road that members of the forerunner of Kopassus, the army Parachute Regiment Command (RPKAD) launched their attack on Balibo on October 16, 1975, in which they murdered five Australian resident journalists. 17. These houses have a twin-peaked thatched roof and are raised on high stilts that have flat circular stone rings around the stilts about midway up from the ground. 18. The source of this information is confidential. 19. The Bobonaro district MTAG commanding officer, Lieutenant-Colonel Ahmed, suggested the obvious solution of establishing a safe perimeter around the grenades until a bomb disposal team could be sent from Dili the following day. The bomb disposal team subsequently found that the grenades were not primed and were safe to be removed.

Chapter 6 1. Discussions with East Timorese in East Timor in January 1995, July to September 1999, and January 2000. 2. Discussions with East Timorese in Dili and Bobonaro district between 2002 and 2005. 3. According to Fernando “Lasama” de Araujo, Dili, June 2005, and further personal communication, April 2006. 4. Discussion with senior East Timorese bureaucrats, Dili, June 2005. 5. These observations are based on numerous discussions with East Timorese both in Australia and in East Timor between 1999 and 2006. 6. Discussions with Fernando “Lasama” de Araujo, Dili, June 2005, and others in 2003 to 2005. 7. According to his wife, Jacqueline Siapno, personal communication, June 12, 2006. 8. Discussion with senior East Timorese bureaucrats, Dili, June 2005.

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Chapter 7 1. Much of the text of this chapter is redrafted from a series of articles written by the author and originally published in the online news bulletin Crikey.com. 2. This system is based on party lists and slightly favors larger parties than some other PR systems. It is also known as the High Average Method, or Method of Quotients.

Chapter 8 1. In personal communication with the author, Dili, June 12, 2008. 2. The name of the funding agent remains confidential until or unless charges are laid. It was not, however, either the president or the prime minister. 3. To “blood” someone is to initiate them into a group or fold. 4. Gusmao told this story at a CNE media conference ahead of the first round of the presidential elections, at the Hotel Timor on April 4, 2007. 5. Following this estimate, oil rose to over US$160 per barrel, but soon declined thereafter to a little more than US$100 per barrel, eventually falling to around US$40 per barrel at the beginning of 2009. 6. This assumption was challenged by declining interest rates towards the end of 2008.


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Index Aceh, 20, 67, 75, 125 ADB (Asian Development Bank), 87 Aditla, 46 accountability, 110 Africa, 30 Sub-Saharan, 8 agriculture, 27, 28 Aileu, 143, 172 Ainaro, 45, 47, 143 aid agencies. See NGOs Alkatiri, Mari, 43, 45, 49, 55, 57, 94, 100, 106, 107–8, 120, 138, 141, 147, 148–49, 153, 158, 163, 164, 167, 170, 180, 183, 185, 217 claims of coup, 134, 154 corruption, 139 Amaral, Francisco Xavier do, 45, 54, 59, 103, 107, 167, 185 arrested for treason, 53 AMP government (Parliamentary Majority Alliance), 186, 194 alleged corruption, 205–7 disputed legitimacy, 195–98 policies, 199–207 Angola, 43, 105 ANP (Popular National Association), 43 Apodeti, 44, 47 alliance with UDT, 49 Araujo Abilio, 43, 55 Arnaldo dos Reia, 44 Fernando “Lasama,” 140, 143, 145, 168, 171, 172, 175, 177, 182 Ariea Branca, 1, 5 ASDT (Timorese Social Democratic Association), 45, 46 reconstituted as Fretilin, 46, 52 Asia, 8, 30 Assimilados, 38 Atauro Island, 64

Atsabe, 44 Australia, 105, 212 acquiescence of, 48 Alkatiri, criticism of, 147 battallion, 79, 82, 91, 92, 120, 122, 123 carpetbaggers, 94 concern, 122 deal with, 132 exploitation by, 90, 132 Howard, John, letter to Habibie, 68 Interfet, 74 intervention planning, 74 opposition to/criticism of, 39, 91, 94, 107 Portuguese rivalry, 94 pressure from, 108 recognition of Indonesia incorporation, 51 troops, 152, 153, 165–66, 179 Whitlam Labor government, 47 Austronesian, 28 authoritarianism, 7, 8, 23 Balibo declaration, 49 murder of Australian journalists, 49 Batu Gade, 40, 49 Baucau, 55, 89, 143, 172, 181, 185 Belo, Carlos, 16 Belu, 29, 33 Boaventura, Dom, 33 Bobonaro, 75, 124, 125, 144, 173 cabinet, 96 transitional, 95, 97 Cambodia, 47, 78, 80, 82, 86 capacity, 8, 78, 130, 131 building, 134–35 Carascalao Joao, 42, 43, 45 Mario, 43, 45

242

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Carascalao (continued) Manual, 43, 45 Manual Viegas, 43 Catholic church birth control, 29 Catholicism (Roman), 16, 30, 106 church, 16, 29, 30, 34–35, 38, 56 government dispute with, 114, 154 education, 40, 42, 114 identity, 16, 29 CAVR, 192 China, 47 Chinese, 84 Christo Rei, 1 CMATS (Certain Maritime Arrangements in the Timor Sea), 91 CNRM (Council of Maubere National Resistance), 58–59, 67, 110 CNRT (Council of Timorese National Resistance), 22, 67–68, 71, 84, 90, 93, 102, 110 CNRT (Congress of Timorese National Reconstruction), 163, 164, 169, 171, 184 Colimau 2000, 89–90, 114–15, 136, 140, 142, 153, 156 colonialism, 25 manipulation, 25 European, 26 Commission for Truth and Friendship (CTF), 119–20 Constituent Assembly, 100, 101, 102 corruption, 11, 107, 110, 114, 133, 139–40 coup alleged, 2, 8 culture, 13 Cova Lima, 49, 75, 79, 124, 125, 129, 144 CPD-RDTL (Committee for the Popular Defence of the Democratic Republic of East Timor), 89, 111, 114–15, 116, 117–18, 136, 140, 153, 156 CRRN, 55 crisis, 138–53, 141 CSIS (Center for Strategic and International Studies), 48 Dare Seminary, 43 Darwin, 2, 94 death toll/population, 50, 55, 73 democratisation, 3 consolidation, 190

transition, 133, 137 democracy, 9, 108–9, 133–34, 135, 141, 183, 187, 218 deportados, 42 devastation, 79–80 development/developing country, 4, 81, 87–88, 108, 121–22, 124, 132, 138–39, 141, 157, 159, 161–62, 190, 194, 200–202, 213–15 Dili, 1, 72, 73, 74, 92, 108, 143, 143, 146, 149, 152, 153, 162, 173, 191 airport, 152, 170 centric, 5, 38 destroyed, 39 founded, 33 riots, 112, 142, 166 Dili wharf, 1 districts administrators, 115, 204 Dutch, 30, 32 colonial empire, 15 East India Company, 32, 34 eastern districts, 33, 34 economy/economic activity/viability, 47, 50, 78, 85–89, 113, 117, 201–2, 213–15 Indonesian, 65–66 education, 38, 40, 41 elections, 161–87 discrepancies, 176, 178–79, 181 district, 203 enclave, 44 Ermera, 44, 143, 173, 181 ethnicity, 8, 9, 12, 13, 21, 22, 26 ETTA (East Timor Transitional Authority), 95 expatriates, 1 failed state, 3 Falintil, 49, 51, 52, 55, 56 split, 57–58 veterans, 89 F-FDTL (Falintil-East Timor Defence Force), 1, 98–99, 111,118, 120, 124, 131, 135, 143, 145–46, 147, 150, 155, 158, 165, 207, 208, 215–16 split, 135, 142 Firaku, 33, 55, 143 Flores, 30 FPI (Internal Political Front), 60–61

Index Free Aceh Movement (Gerakan Acheh Merdeka—GAM), 20 Fretilin, 22, 42, 47, 64, 94, 107, 115, 117, 141, 149, 161, 163, 164, 169, 171, 172, 179, 180, 182, 195 alliance with UDT, 48 anti-groups, 114, 181 armed wing, 49 conflict with UDT, 49 competing internal values, 53 established, 46 external committee, 106 government, 133, 134, 136, 138, 147, 154 Maputo/Mazambique Group/clique, 105–7, 141, 164, 165 purge, 53–54 split, 57–58, 107 vote, 100–101 gangs, 114, 144–45, 151, 152–53, 164 fighting, 8, 32, 161 martial arts clubs, 114 geology, 26 Gleno, 174 globalization, 4 GNR (Republican National Guard), 2, 148, 150, 179 Goa, 30 Goncalves, Guilherme, 44 governance, 28 Gusmao, Kirsty Sword, 2 Gusmao, Xanana, 2, 10, 42, 48, 49, 56–57, 100, 102, 114, 115, 139, 141, 150, 154, 167, 177, 182, 199 captured, 63–64, 172 ideological shift, 54 elected president CNRT, 68 elected president, 103 new party, 163, 169, 177 presidency, 101, 120, 151, 162 prime minister, 140, 183, 186 Guterres, Eurico, 119 Guterres, Francisco (“Lu-Olo”), 58, 100, 171, 177, 180 Guterres, Jose-Louis, 106, 148, 186, 191 Habibie, B. J., 66, 67, 121 announcement of “popular consultation,” 68 human rights, 117 civil and political, 20

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243

hungry season, 161 ideology, 3, 13, 41 bureaucratic centralism, 107 debate, 57, 141 fascist, 42, 47 front organization, 46 impurity, 54 leftist, 42, 43, 45–46 Marxist, 52, 105 Marxist-Leninist, 53, 55, 107, 132 “organic”/organicism, 10, 37, 47, 110 revolutionary idealism, 22 social democracy, 46 IDPs (Internally Displaced Persons), 146, 191, 199 IMF (International Monetary Fund), 87 independence, 2, 7, 8, 49, 105, 105 struggle, 51–76 Indonesia Bakin, 48 Majapahit Empire, 13 Fomenting revolt, 40 incursions, 123 independence, 39 invasion, 7, 17, 49, 50 incorporation, 7, 20, 26, 110 Java, 28 Kopassus, 55, 91, 122, 125 Kopkamtib, 48 Kostrad, 125 militia, 29, 68–70, 71, 75, 82, 89, 123, 145, 156, 190 New Order, 13, 14, 21, 44, 47, 65, 66, 110, 116 negative propaganda, 47 Operation Komodo, 48 police, 70, 72 rule, 7, 158 settlement, 161 Special Operations, 48 talks, 67 Timor Sea Treaty, 90 TNI, 67, 68, 69, 70, 71–72, 74–76, 79, 82, 124–30, 208, 211, 212 influences Portuguese, 13 Malay, 13 institutions, 110, 112, 121–22, 134–35, 137, 158

244

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Index

Interfet (International Force in East Timor), 74–75, 79 international community, 4, 5, 51 Jakarta, 2 Japan, 38–39 John-Paul, Pope, 59–60 JPDA (Joint Petroleum Development Area), 90 judiciary, 11 Kaladi, 33, 143 Kosovo, 78, 81 Kota, 46 Kraras massacre, 56 Kupang, 32 labor, forced, 36, 39 Laclubar, 45 land Patria, 15 spiritual connection, 17 language, 13, 14, 16, 26, 133, 137, 156, 157 Atoni, 28, 29 Austronesian/Malay, 28, 29 Bahasa Indonesia/Indonesian, 13, 83, 157 Bunak, 28, 29, 33, 45, 89, 153 English, 91, 92 Fataluco, 29 Kemak, 28, 29, 44 Malay, 157 Mambai, 28, 29, 31, 33, 34 Makassae, 28, 144, 153 Portuguese, 59, 91, 93–94, 100, 116, 133, 157 skills, 92–93 Tetum/Tetum Praca/Dili, 13, 30, 33, 34, 45, 59, 133, 157 Tetum Los, 29 Tetum Terik, 29 Trans New Guinea phylum, 28 Laos, 47, 86 Larantuka Bay, 30 Latin America, 8, 30 law claims, 20 colonial, 167 rule of, 9, 10, 11, 14, 21, 94, 99–100, 111, 115, 116, 133, 167–68 Lautem, 143

Lene Hara caves, 27 legitimacy, 8–12, 18, 19–23, 115, 116, 121, 194 Liquica, 45, 143 massacre, 69 Liurai, 10, 36, 40, 44, 45, 46, 47, 217 Lobato Nicolau dos Reis, 42, 43, 45, 49, 107 killed, 55 as president, 54 Rogerio, 55, 57–58, 106, 128, 139, 148, 149, 169–71 Lopez da Cruz, Francsico Xavier, 45 Los Palos, 55, 185 Lulik, 37 majoritarianism, 9 Makassar, 30 Malacca, 28 Malae, 31 Malay, 31 Malaysia, 20, 47 Maliana, 49, 72, 73, 75, 123 Manatuto, 42, 45, 143 Maputo. See Mozambique Martins, Hermenegildo, 44 Matabean, Mount, 55 Maubara, 35, 45, 69 Maubere, 35, 217 Maubisse, 45 Mestico, 30, 38, 43 Meti-Hau, 1 Metro TV, 2, 190 migration, 26–28 Chinese, 36–37 minority, 9 Mozambique, 42, 53, 105, 141 Frelimo, 105–6 Mudanca, 141, 148, 169, 171, 186 MUNJ/P (Movement for National Unity and Justice/and Peace), 90, 169, 179 Murdani, Benny, 56, 60, 62, 63 Mutis, Mount, 30 nation, 13, 14, 18 building/formation, 13, 14, 15–17, 133 civic, 21 state, 20 national/ist approach, 107 identity, 7, 8, 11–16 incoherence, 26

Index will, 20 representation, 21 National Consultative Council, 84, 95 National Petroleum Fund, 199, 202. See also oil neoliberalism, 10 New Zealand, 79, 82 battalion, 122, 123, 129 NGOs (nongovernment organizations), 81, 83, 84, 97 Norway, 107 Oecussi/Ambeno/Lifau, 15, 30, 32, 34, 79, 124, 125, 144 oil, 132, 139, 157, 201, 218 Oliveira, Domingos de, 45, 45 opposition, 107 Orsnaco, 153 parliament, 95 Partido Trabalhista, 46 patron-client relations, 10, 32 Philippines, 20 PKF (Peace Keeping Force), 75, 79, 82, 113–14, 118, 153 PNTL (East Timor National Police), 111, 116, 118, 120, 135, 144, 147, 150–51, 153, 155, 158, 174, 191, 206, 216 collapse, 135, 151 corruption and brutality, 134–35 distribute weapons, 149 tension/conflict with F-FDTL, 116, 131, 135, 142, 143, 150, 158, 208 UIR (Rapid Intervention Unit), 116, 144 politics/political alliances, 23, 26, 32, 34, 44, 182, 184–85, 198 closure, 108, 115 correctness, 4, 5 fragility, 2 gender, 184–85 orientation, 137 parties, 102, 163, 184 rivalry, 94, 162 popular consultation/vote for independence, 7, 14, 22, 71–75 Portugal, 74, 91, 105, 212 administrative division, 36 association with, 45 Australian rivalry, 94

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245

battalion, 92 Caetano dictatorship, 43 Carnation Revolution, 41, 43 colonialism/decolonization, 30, 31, 32, 33, 37, 38, 41, 43, 46–47, 96–97, 156,158 decline, 36, 37, 41 departs, 49, 64 division of Timor, 33, 34 education, 93 Estado Novo, 37 language, 91 neutrality, 38 rebellion/anti-colonialism against, 36, 39–40, 42–43 rule, 33, 35, 36, 43 Salazar, Antonio de Oliveira, 37, 41 talks, 67 taxation, 36 trade, 8, 35–36 sovereignty, 30 post-colonial, 2, 3, 8, 12, 23 prehistory, 27 Ramos-Horta, Jose, 45, 47, 49, 55, 57, 68, 107, 114, 138, 148, 150, 152, 153, 154–55, 162, 167, 192–93 ideology, 53–54, 149 Nobel Peace Prize, 16 president, 168, 171, 177, 179, 180–81, 182, 186, 189, 196, 211–12 Reinado, 166, 172, 191, 208 shot, 1, 189, 216 regime change, 3 Reinado, Alfredo, 1, 143, 151–52, 166–67, 172, 181, 190–92, 208 relativism, 10 Remedios, Paulo Dos, 1 resistance, 22, 51, 112 rice, price, 4 Rodrigues, Roque, 49, 55, 106, 149 Sagrada Familia, 89, 114–15, 136, 140, 153, 156 Salsinha, Gastao, 2 Same/Manufahi, 33, 37, 143 Santa Cruz Cemetary/Massacre, 60–63, 70 self-determination, 8, 18–21 separatism, 22 Sjafrie Samsuddin, 63 Soares, Jose Orsario, 44 Soares, Abilio, 119

246

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Index

SDP (Social Democratic Party), 101 smuggling, 123–24 Soibada, 42 Solor, 30 Sonba’i/Serviao, 30, 31, 33 Stahl, Max, 61 state, the, 18–21 disintegration, 19, 121 failure/collapse, 3, 21, 22, 117, 121, 134–35, 154, 156, 167, 189–90, 193 (il)legitimacy, 20 nation-state, 20 “state of seige,” 2 Suharto, 62, 63, 65–66, 67, 101 Sutrisno, Tri, 62, 63 Tais, 25 territory, 15 Topasses, 30, 31, 32–33, 34, 46 trade, 32 coffee, 35–36, 88 copra, 35 imports, 87, 88 sandalwood, 28, 30, 31, 32 traders Chinese, 26, 28 Indian, 26 Portuguese, 30 Topasses, 30 tradition, 10, 11, 25, 28 ritualized violence, 25, 31, 32 Transitional Council, 95 trauma, 5, 51 Truth and Reconciliation Commission, 103 TFC (Truth and Friendship Commission), 131–32, 208–11 Uato Lari, 39 UDT (Timorese Democratic Union), 42, 45, 46, 47, 101, 114 alliance with Fretilin, 48 conflict with Fretilin, 49 UN, 2, 19, 40, 57, 67, 75, 79–92, 97, 98, 119, 130, 133, 150, 153, 155, 167, 212, 216 bureaucracy, 83

civilian police, 76, 79–92, 113, 138, 174, 191 DPA (Department of Political Affairs), 82 DPKO (Department of Peace-Keeping Operations), 82–83 failure, 83 general assembly, 51 military observers, 123, 124 secretary-general, 70, 193 Special Representative of the SecretaryGeneral, 70, 79, 95 Security Council, 49, 71, 74, 78, 118, 124 UNAMET, 68, 70, 71 UNHCR, 91 UNMISET, 103, 105, 118 UNMIT, 207 UNOTIL, 124 UNTAET, 75, 78–92, 93–97, 105 Uni Republique Dili Timor, 40 UPF (Border Patrol Unit), 124, 127–30, 191 USA (United States of America), 74, 79, 212 dollar/currency, 85–89, 200 Vietnam, 47 Vinilale, 27 Viqueque, 33, 39–40, 42, 43, 129, 143, 172, 181, 185 VLGA (Victorian Local Governance Association), 173, 181 Voz de Timor, A, 42 Wehale, 29, 30, 31, 33, 45 western districts, 11, 34 West Papua, 20, 39, 71, 75 West Timor, 30, 33, 38, 39, 82, 91, 92, 190 border, 29, 35, 37, 79,120–24, 126–28, 131 Wetar Straight, 1 Wiranto, 68, 70, 74 World Bank, 87 World War II, 26, 38–39 Zones, I, II, III, 56

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