Newsgroups: bit.listserv.seasia-l
Date:         Wed, 8 Apr 1992 15:11:22 PDT
From:         "Indonesia Publications/Task Force" <apakabar@IGC.ORG>
Subject:      'Touring' East Timor
X-To:         seasia-l@msu.edu

Forwarded from GreenNet reg.easttimor conference:
Topic 1172Indonesia's terror, by Schultz
gn:tapolreg.easttimor 9:22 pm  Apr  2, 1992

Source. The Bulletin, Australia. Date: 7 April 1992. Byline: Dennis
Schultz. Unabridged.

INDONESIA'S REIGN OF TERROR

Despite strict security, Dennis Schultz recently visited the
scene of last year's Dili massacre and was given evidence of
new atrocities. But Indonesian authorities were waiting to
grab the crucial film - and deport him.

--------------

The young Indonesian intelligence officer boasted "We know who
you are. We know you have been here before and we know what
you have written about us."

They did indeed know about my previous excursion to Dili and
the subsequent *Bulletin* article (Dec. 17 1991) revealing the
location of the mass graves of those killed at the Santa Cruz
massacre on November 12 and afterwards. Since then foreign
journalists have been banned in East Timor and, as they
searched my bags with clinical efficiency, I didn't need to be
told I was in serious trouble.

They were polite and professional. "You have been observed
photographing a military vessel," the officer said, throwing
down a snapshot of me taken an hour before by someone at the
dockside.

Warships
"We will confiscate any pictures you have taken that could
violate Indonesian security." I told him I thought the rusty
bucket with guns steaming out of Dili Harbour was a floating
World War II relic. He didn't laugh. We both knew it was one
of the warships that forced the untimely return to Darwin of
the Lusitania Expresso, the Portuguese peace ship.

I had not anticipated this shakedown. If I had, I would have
taken the film still in my Nikkon and hidden it, along with
the other -- more important -- roll slipped to me by a
courageous young East Timorese student.

I had come to Dili the hard way. For the past month, Europeans
had been selectively refused entry to the East Timorese
capital and turned back at their Indonesian airport of
embarkation. I waited until the Lusitania episode was over,
then made my way overland by bus from the West Timorese
capital of Kupang. I had come to investigate claims that the
Indonesian military was systematically moving large numbers of
East Timorese out of the capital and into detention camps.

There had been no military roadblocks when I left East Timor
by this road in December, shortly after the massacre. But now
travelling was restricted. Written permission, or a *surat*
was required from the army before you could travel in the
province. A tourist *surat* took me through three army
roadblocks an{_d some close scrutiny. I was also aware of the
plainclothes policeman sitting next to me in the crowded bus,
the butt of his .38 Special bulging from his polo shirt.

The bus arrived in Dili just after dusk. The East Timorese
dare not move around after dark because of the unofficial
curfew, the only movement coming from Javanese and other
immigrants brought to Timor under Indonesia's infamous Trans-
immigrasi Programme. Everybody is aware of the danger in going
out on the streets that are under army control. Last week, a
Timorese teacher found a plastic bag at the roadside
containing the bodies of two young people who did not make it
home before dark.

Solidarity
Still, things have relaxed since the Lusitania episode. The
peace ship was taken seriously by the Indonesian army
administration and the population at large. The generals
expected demonstrations of support by anti-integration
nationalists, while the East Timorese looked on the exercise
as an expression of solidarity from abroad. "We look to people
from other countries for help," one East Timorese youth said,
"because we know in our hearts that without them there can be
no hope for us. The Indonesians are trying to wipe us out one
by one."

During my only night in Dili, a situation only a few
kilometres away highlighted the young man's fears. At around
3am an estimated 80 members of the Indonesian army's crack red
beret unit surrounded a house in suburban Bairro Pite and
arrested the four teenagers sleeping inside. The crime of Jose
Montero, Estanislau Costa, Gil Montero and Jose Jalucho was to
have been present at the illegal demonstration at Santa Cruz
cemetery on November 12 last year, when the Indonesian army
allegedly killed more than 200 East Timorese. As the
youngsters were dragged from the house, eye witnesses said the
beatings had already begun.

Meeting Caesar
We swung into a quiet suburban street where a young man stood
laughing as he played with a group of children. After an
introduction by the driver in Portuguese, we exchanged
greetings. His English was excellent in a country where
communication is often impossible, and he showed a maturity
well beyond his years. Caesar asked why I wanted to go to
Santa Cruz. "To lay the wreath the people on the Lusitania
Expresso were unable to," I replied.

A big smile crept across his face. I told him I was an
Australian journalist and he began speaking freely about the
peace ship. "We were so happy about the Portuguese Lusitania.
It gave us great hope that there was someone who had not
abandoned us... someone who would help us and put pressure on
the Indonesians. So we decided to have a demonstration of
support when they landed."

But wouldn't that have almost certainly created a situation
not unlike the disastrous demonstration that led to the Santa
Cruz massacre? "No," Caesar said naively. "The Indonesians
would not have dared to attack us with so many foreigners
watching."

But in the end the Lusitania brought only disillusionment. "We
had many banners painted and we had plans for the
demonstration in place when we heard that they had been turned
back," the teenager said. "We were so sad. My father began
crying when he heard the news on the radio. He said we would
never be free. Then we all began crying."

As part of their preparations to deal with the Portuguese
peace ship, the Indonesian military had begun a systematic
removal of young East Timorese students and activists whom
they suspected would continue to embarrass them
internationally. "They have taken so many people," Caesar
said, "that everyone knows some people who have been taken.
They arrest them and take them without any belongings to two
towns in the southern Same district, Betano and Viqueque."

The Indonesians call these towns "strategic villages", a
concept conceived by the United States in Vietnam. But the
East Timorese call them *campo de concentracao* (concentration
camps). "After they go, we do not know what happens to them of
if they will ever be back," Caesar said. "The Indonesians do
not want the East Timorese in Dili."

At the Santa Cruz cemetery, Caesar said he and the driver
would return for me in 15 minutes. It was too dangerous to
wait. I passed the headstones to place a wreath on one grave
in remembrance of those killed in November.

When the taxi returned for me, Caesar's face was dark. "I am
going to give you something but if the Indonesians know it
comes from me, they will kill me. You understand? Please look
forward when we talk. Now take this and hide it until you get
back to Darwin. It will show Australian people what our life
is like with the Indonesians."

Film canister
I looked down at a roll of exposed film, with a note packed
into the canister. "These are pictures we have taken, along
with a coded letter," Caesar said. "Pictures of people after
their release from the military. People with their ears cut
off. People who have been burned and beaten all over their
body. People with slashes across their faces. Pictures to show
to Australian people." I took the canister, removed a new roll
from my bag and put Caesar's film into the Fuji box, sticking
down the lid so that it would appear a new, unused box of
slides.

"Keep us in your heart when you return to your country," he
said as the car stopped. As requested I did not turn round to
say goodbye.

My usually good contacts in Dili were not forthcoming because
of the fear gripping the city.  I tried one last avenue to
corroborate Caesar's charges. I tried to speak to Governor
Mario Carrascalao, the outspoken East Timorese civil head of
state, a man locked in battle with diabetes -- and the
Indonesian military.

Suspected
But first one must make an appointment with one of his
functionaries, an East Timorese suspected by some to be a
collaborator with the Indonesians. He remembered me from my
previous visit. However, he said an appointment was
impossible. His manner was cold and unwelcoming but I thought
nothing of it, deciding instead to leave my hotel and go to
the airport before anyone else recognised me.

It was at the New Resende Hotel that the youthful Indonesian
intelligence officer stopped me.

"You will come with me, Mr Schultz," he snapped. "You will be
searched and interrogated by intelligence and immigration
officials."

I cannot remember being angrier with myself. I knew exactly
who had betrayed me. Now they would get the films. They opened
all my boxes -- and confiscated Caesar's film. They could not read the
letter written in English but they would, no doubt, give it to
someone who could.

They said I must go to the airport and leave Dili without
delay. They followed me and stood by until I was on board. But
as I looked out the window, my thoughts remained with Caesar.
Surely the film and the letter could not be traced to him? But
I checked into a Kupang hotel and immediately phoned Caesar to
warn him.

"Caesar, the Indonesians detained me and found your film. They
took the film and your letter...do you understand? I'm sorry,
Caesar, I'm so sorry. You must be very careful."

"I understand, Dennis... yes, I understand," he said. A pause.

"Dennis... I love you."
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