Tales of Non-Fiction Timor-Leste

Timor-Leste is a land with a rich cultural tradition in storytelling. We interviewed men and women from different parts of the country to hear in their tales a collective consciousness and community. Their stories are only a part of their identity. To look at them going about their lives today, one might never know what stories those lives have weaved in the past. What pain they have witnessed. They are all linked as one people, as one community of survivors. We asked, 'what is your fondest memory,' to allow them to share from a place of hope if that is possible.  

Pedro

This is Pedro’s fondest memory.  We’ve changed his name on his request.  We are grateful to hear his story.  His was our last interview and due to his busy schedule, we were delighted when we were finally able to meet with him. His fond memory of his brother reminds us of the sibling bond, the influence of which lasts a lifetime.

I remember how my brother would tease me relentlessly, especially in front of his friends.  I would cry and call out to any adult in sight when we were at home.  This got me some sympathy but I soon learned that it only made things worse.  I’d hear my aunties and my mother laughing about it when they thought I wasn’t able to hear them.  This betrayal became infectious and suddenly it felt like my whole family was against me. Outside of home, I bore the teasing in silence or tears when I thought I was alone.  In Timor, one is never alone, not really. Community is tight.

It was hard growing up. My brother teased me because he said I was slow.  Slow to get ready for school, slow when we played with our friends and cousins, slow when I talked and walked. His teasing made me go even slower.  Not intentionally at first,  I began to pause too long between words. Then I tried to sputter words out quickly and I would get all choked up. I still stutter a bit today, but but, only when I am really anxious, wh which doesn’t happen ah all that often. I’m a little ne nervous now. I live an ordered life these days and I avoid conflict and situations and people that could potentially create a problem for me.  I avoid large events and I stick close to home and wi with my research ru ru routine at work at the University.  When I was young, though I had to learn to lean into the teasing,  I used my slowness to develop my thoughtfulness and contemplation.  But it took a while to get there.  Yes, growing up wa was hard for me.  Then something changed. It would be what you’d call a defining moment I guess. 

One day after Church my brother was shouting at me to catch up when we were leaving the chapel.  My shoulders slumped in shame at the snickers from everyone around me.  I turned my head to hide a tear that sprung to my eyes as if my own biology was there to taunt me further.  What additional damage would this lapse of personal strength and fortitude foretell?  I hung back wiped my fingers full palmed messily across my eyes and cheeks, hoping my brother and his friends would get a big enough le lead that I’d be out of ear and eyeshot for our long trek home.  I walked behind two grandmas who were gossiping, I hoped that they would shield me further.  Right at the church gates though, my brother popped out and playfully grabbed my arm.  “Come on” he said, “let’s go swimming.”  Recovering my footing at the surprise of him, I looked cautiously into his face the way children do when they are uncertain if the kindness directed at them is genuine or only a momentary pulse in mood seeking another avenue to control, manipulate and wound, selfishly.  I saw something I’d not seen before. Concern and love. 

From that day, every Sunday afternoon, my brother and I would go to our favorite swimming hole. He was different then and only then.  He was nice to me.  He was my big brother, but only there in private when no one else was around.  When we got back home that first time I was as happy as I’d ever been in my life. I belonged, I was whole, and then I wasn’t.  The familiar seething pain of shame and torment flared.  I was caught off guard.  But this time there was something under it. I caught his eye and he paused as we held each other’s gaze.  His eyes said be strong, we’re still brothers.  I learned that my brother was trying to harden me to face the world.  Though he ne never said it, that’s what he was doing.  The torment became bearable and I did grow strong.  I would survive. 

These were his gifts.  When so many of our peers were hard, tough and cruel to survive, just like he was, my brother taught me to endure and take life’s blows standing solidly on my own two feet.  

On those Sundays together we talked about family and friends the way everyone gossips about each other.  We talked about girls. Which are still a mystery to me.  We talked about our future and the future of our country. Those sixty or so precious days are etched in my brain.  I see him sitting on the water’s edge encouraging me to jump.  Playful and confident.  Reassuring.  Brotherly. The image of the two of us sitting side by side drying off in the sun.  Just talking. I think back on those moments and realize all the little things I learned about being a man that I didn’t even know at the time I was learning. 

My brother died in a motorcycle accident about a year after we started going to our secret swimming hole.  I’ve never taken anyone there, and never will.  It’s my place of solitude.  It’s where I go to feel my brother’s encouragement. Gain insight on a problem I have.  I always come out of the jungle refreshed and full of insight and promise.  Maybe it’s the place. Good spirits live there.  My brother lives there and he’s still encouraging me to be the best I can be and I stand taller in the memory of him.

Catrine

Catrine is one of those women who has a charming air about her.  She’s always happy and smiling.  She started an organization and a cooperative not long after the Independence. Today that organization is strong and vibrant. Her’s is one of the organizations we were lucky to find, that is making a difference in many people’s lives.  Everyone knows Catrine and everyone has a story about how she has supported their family in one way or another. From the time she was very young, she was always helping others.  Catrine’s fondest memory is bigger than one moment.  Some of our other profiles also shared not one memory but a group of memories around a particular theme.  One of our researchers reflected on this.  Is it possible that in remembering things from a wider more global perspective, our participants were better equipped to be more resilient given their exposure to the violence of the Indonesian occupation?  

My fondest memory isn’t one thing, place, or time, it’s a feeling and a smell. Yes, a smell. You know how certain places and smells bring up memories?  That’s what it is for me.  Don’t all people experience memories this way? I don’t know, but I will tell you about what I remember the most about growing up in rural Aileu. First, you’ll want to know about my family. I guess because as I said my memory isn’t one event it’s really all of it wrapped in a cocoon.  My mother is still living you know?  She will be happy to hear all this. 

We live on one of those crossing points where the trails going into the mountains take you over one ridge or the other or straight through the valley between them.  This spot is actually very fertile as you can imagine because the rain has brought rich soil down the mountain over time and deposited it where our house is and to those farms near my family’s home. Those farms are part of our cooperative too, did I mention that?  We have been very lucky, thanks to God and his mercy. 

My memory is the smell of smoke.  Yes, smoke.  My earliest memory of smoke was as a baby nursing at my mother’s breast.  Some say it isn’t possible to have a memory that far back but I do. As I lay suckling, my mother’s hair fell into my face and I could smell the aroma of the warm kitchen fire there.  She wrapped me close to ward off the chill of the morning.  I felt safe. As I grew up the smell was ever-present in our clothes and hair. When I sat in the schoolroom taking a test or in need of an answer when the teacher called on me, I would gain confidence in that smell in my hair.  I know that sounds funny but it’s as if my mother and God were, or are, in that smell for me and I am stronger for it.  Does that make sense to you or am I just a silly woman?

I am the oldest so as soon as I was big enough my mother tasked me with building the fire in the kitchen.  Soon my brother was old enough to carry wood in and he helped me.  We were always collecting wood in the forest in the foothills near our home back then.  God has given us fire so we may live more productive lives.  Isn’t that right?  I think so.  So we must treat smoke and fire with respect. 

Once when the Indonesian soldiers came to our house to look for and wait for rebels who were hiding in the mountains God intervened to protect us and those we were sheltering.  I’ll never forget this.  It was early morning before dawn.  Do you want to hear this?  It isn’t a fond memory, well except for the smell at the end, when everything cleared up.  The warm comforting smell of a smoldering fire. I’ll never forget the smell of burning flesh though, but not fondly. That’s when my father was killed by the soldiers.  I remember building the fire to cook the pig for his funeral. Tears streaming down my face.  I became more determined than ever to be strong.  If God could help us as he did, then I could use that strength to fight for my country and my people.  

We had to wait to hold the ceremony for my father because soldiers came to remove their dead and to do an investigation.  All the men in the village had already fled.  Including my young brothers.  We didn’t want to take any chances.  It is a miracle the soldiers didn’t kill us all.  My younger sisters were five and three I was nine.  We told the soldiers honestly that father was dead.  They saw we were no threat and believed the fire had been an accident.  It was an act of God.  That is what I believe.  The soldiers had been sleeping in a room next to our kitchen.  The fire spread rapidly due to all the cooking oil on the walls and ceiling, that had been used over the years.  The dry grass roof quickly caught fire.  The soldiers having locked themselves inside couldn’t get out in time.  All five of them perished. They had killed my father the night before.  His body lay in our house.  

I ran back to the house and immediately helped mother move father knowing there would be more soldiers coming.  We carried him to the field out of sight.  A short time later the rebels we were hiding came out at great risk to themselves, to help move my father to an even more hidden place. We couldn’t take chances and had no idea what could happen actually. 

Oh, forgive me, here I am going on about very depressing things and not making any sense. 

When our house was burned to the ground my mother and I stared stone-faced, shaking with fear at what lay ahead of us when the soldiers would arrive.  Many villagers had come and we stayed with family after that. I walked back to the house and built a fire for my father’s spirit to keep warm by.  It was then that I smelled the familiar comforting smell of smoke when I crouched close to the fire.  It’s smell drowned out the stench of burnt flesh and melted plastic and I knew everything would be alright, eventually.  Due to God’s grace and mercy, it is.

Armando 

This is Armando’s memory.  It typifies what we believe is one of the things that sets Timor Leste apart from other cultures.  Armando is a rural farmer living in Ermera.  He grows coffee as part of a collective.  He also grows crops for his family to earn enough to take care of his family until the coffee harvest. He is a happy guy and very typical of the Timorese we met all over the country. 

My fondest memory from when I was a child is my favorite thing today too.   I remember getting together with my friends and just halimar with them.  [Halimar means hanging out or playing].  We would play ball in the field next to the church every chance we got.  Like I said it is the thing I still like most in life.  When we were very little we would goof around and make fun at soldiers.  Well, when we knew they couldn’t see us that is. Gesturing with our arms and sticking our butts out.  Ah we took chances playing fun at them. Many times I or one of my friends got clocked on the side of the head by soldiers. Pretty badly too.  So we steered clear of them as much as possible.  You would too. There was no reason to cross their paths I’ll tell you that.

Once one of my friends got caught joking around.  The soldier beat him to death.  Nothing happened to the soldier.  Some of the older kids traveled to Dili after that to take part in protests against the occupation.  I didn’t go. Sometimes I wonder what would have happened if I had.  I wanted to, but then I heard many of those kids were killed in Dili.  There was a lot of killing then.  You know that.  I know you wanted good memories but this is the truth about our past.  We had the good too, in the times we could, in just being together. Just halimar together. 

Sometimes one of our fathers would be going on a long walk in the dark and we were asked to watch for soldiers.  We had to be sure not to be seen.  I’d climb up in a tree in the dark and keep watch for my dad to come back.  The fear that I’d never see him again kept me awake, I’ll tell you that.  When I saw the barest movement on the ridge I trained my eyes there until I was sure it was my dad.  I would climb down and tie the dogs up quietly so they wouldn’t run over to greet him when they heard his soft footsteps approaching. My father and I would greet each other in silence and he would go in to sleep.  I’d let the dogs loose again and go to bed myself.  We never talked about where he went or what he was doing.  But all us kids knew our fathers and uncles (those that were left in the villages that is) and our grandfathers too, were going to take messages to the rebels who were hiding from the soldiers. 

Yeah, for the most part, life was tough for everyone and we just made the best of it.  We would play for hours then sit and just talk and laugh.  When we got older we talked about girls of course.  That’s the only difference.  Today I gather with my friends. Some of those same friends. We talk about our kids and changes in our country and on our farms. We still laugh.  I think this is the one thing that makes us stronger.  Our friends and family I mean. 

We went through a lot as you know.  But we’re here and we’re happy for the most part.  Sure life is hard and we’re poor, but we’re happy.  I’m happy.  My children’s bellies are full and they are all in school.   And I have time and I make time to just halimar with my friends.  We, all of us of my generation, have lived through a lot.  We’ve seen many things I won’t tell you about, but you don’t want to know.  We have each other and we have our friends.  Those that are still alive. 

That is my favorite memory.  Is that what you meant?  Is that what you wanted to hear?  Maybe it is too simple.  For that, I am sorry, if it is.  I wish we had more time just to sit and be together with our friends.  It’s what I wanted more than anything back then and it’s what I still want today.