Five Years and Counting in Timor

Five years ago, on May 20, 2002, the streets of Dili rejoiced with singing and dancing, and praise of freedom. After centuries of Portuguese colonization, 24 years of Indonesian occupation, a brutal war, massacres and mass graves, and the deaths of 200,000 people (more than a quarter of the population), the sovereign nation of Timor-Leste was born. It was the world's newest democracy and the first new nation of this century. I fell in love with Timor-Leste that summer. I fell in love with its people, who were friendly but steadfast, and often willing to die for a cause. I fell in love with the country's craggy mountains and fish-rich seas. I fell in love with the view from my balcony at the Hotel Turismo, which overlooked a beach where old cars and kitchen tiles lay in the detritus of war. Every night families gathered in the shallow waters, hunting for small fish and collecting sea vegetables for dinner. I used to sit on that balcony with a glass of port (one good thing remains of the Portuguese past) and a wedge of Australian cheese, watching dusk fall across the Wetar Strait. But Timor-Leste has suffered in its infancy, as most nations do.

The grocery store where I bought that cheese no longer exists—burned to the ground in political riots. From machetes and guns to gangs and murders, this democracy treads a precarious line. Timor-Leste was and is one of the world's poorest and most fractured countries. It's also one of the proudest. I remember attending a funeral one afternoon in 2002, shortly after the country's birthday celebrations. We gathered at the family's home on the edge of the mountains, where the air was cool and quiet. I talked with a young man named Sezinando, who was 15 when the Timorese people voted for independence in a 1999 referendum that led to vast bloodshed. Sezinando and his mother stayed while Dili burned around them. He collected water and rice from stores on fire, "so we had enough to eat." He distributed the goods to people everywhere. Refugees lined the shore for miles--no homes, no food, few options. I asked Sezinando if he was scared. After all, he was only a teenager. But he surprised me with his answer. He had thought only of the moment, of his family, of what needed to be done. "No," he said, "I was ready to die." Ready to die, but ready to see his country free.