Tokyo Twins Chapter 23 - The roots of terrorism, part one.

a serialized online story

by Tommy Schmitz


"I am from East Timor..." 'A" continued her story...

"...or Timor Leste as we say in Portuguese, a free nation since May of 2002, saved from 27 years of relentless slaughter of US backed armed forces from Indonesia.

And yet today we have become something we never were before... a troubled and divided people. And why? Because of politics? Religion? Ethnic background?

No.

Because of this, Mr. and Mrs. O'Brien." and 'A' pulled more dollar bills from her vest pocket and lifted slightly the hoods of Henry and Mieko, and placed the them against their lips.

"Open your mouths." she said. "Now bite down. Thank you."

"This is the taste of money - an irresistible taste, wouldn't you say? And make no mistake about it, it's the taste of the US dollar, today, the formal currency of our free nation." 'A'-san spat at the knees of Henry and Mieko.

She removed the bills from their mouths, and grabbed a rifle from 'B' holding now one in each hand. And lifted up the rifles and placed them on the lips of the half hooded couple.

"Open your mouths." she said. "And this is the taste of a gun barrel.

Now let's do a little survey, shall we?

Which one, given the choice - the gun barrel or the money - would you rather consume right now?

"I'm awaiting your answers, please!" 'A' demanded.

"The money." Henry and Mieko said, mouths dry and voices cracked and shaking.

"Very good. Then you understand completely the two weapons used insidiously against our people for almost three decades in a rather well known imperial strategy called "life or death", "feast or famine", "divide and conquer".

"Many of our villages took the money. But more than many did not. The ones that took the money took up arms for Indonesia as militia. The ones that didn't were either killed in genocide, or somehow stayed alive. Yes I am using the word genocide. But I'm getting ahead of myself a bit.

The survivors secretly organized. Even after sixteen years, any hint of public criticism of the militia or the Indonesian regime meant instant death.

And it was indeed after sixteen years of this vicious domination, in the year 1991, that our old Imperial landlords announced with the United Nations a delegation to be sent to our land to investigate the possibility of infractions of human rights.

We the people of East Timor, the resistance, got word of this visit, and secretly, out of a hope that could not be slaughtered, began making banners to announce to this delegation our nightmare for an entire generation.

At the last minute, the delegation canceled their trip. And our hopes were trampled upon. There was no one in this world who would ever notice us, or the agony we endure.

A few hundred of these organizers, boys and young men mostly, were found out, and chased by secret police and Indonesian military and local militia into a Catholic church. Oh... I didn't mention? I am, like most of my people, and like you, Mr. O'Brien, a Roman Catholic.

But this was not the sanctuary they thought it would be. The Indonesian forces entered the church and after much chaos and many beatings of these boys, brought forth two young men. One, the informer - the plant - who identified our youth. Two, Sebastião Gomes, the leader of these young men.

Both were executed right there, inside the church, with gun shots to their bellies. A rather painful way to die, wouldn't you say, Mrs. O'Brien - your own courageous samurai would commit suicide by stabbing themselves in the gut, but usually accompanied by "a second" standing over them with a sword for quickly decapitating and ending the unimaginable pain of such a slow and deadly wound. No such mercy was granted in this case.

There was a funeral mass held for Sebastião , with burial in Santa Cruz cemetery. I was there with my constant companion, my one-year-old infant daughter. Two weeks later, a traditional mourning was held for Sebastião. It began with a small number in the center of town, but, gradually grew. This was a traditional mourning, not a public gathering, not a protest. But it gradually became one. Office workers, day laborers, old people and students began joining the procession in this beautiful sharing of the pain and suffering we had all endured for so so many years. The procession was peaceful and cleansing, and there was a healing sadness and joy among us. Some of the students brought forth the banners made for the canceled UN-Portuguese delegation announcing the unthinkable abuses put upon us.

And I stood with my baby girl wrapped snug on my back with hundreds of people at the cemetery wall outside the gates, waiting to enter. We hadn't realized until it was too late that hundreds of Indonesian soldiers, each carrying an American made automatic rifle, were marching in slow and deliberate progress, behind us, along the route we had just walked.

When they were so close, as you might say Mr. O'Brien, that we could see the whites of their eyes, they raised their rifles and began to fire upon us all. I was immediately hit in the left shoulder and my baby was on my back, and I twisted her around to my chest going to the ground to lie upon her, to protect her from being shot.

But it was too late. The bullet that pierced my shoulder, pierced her little heart and I knew at once that she was dead in my cradled body that was still trying to protect her.

I was trampled by people trying to flee. But there was no where for anyone to go. I was then trampled by soldiers who picked off at point blank those who dared to raise their heads or even cry out loud. I played dead... and prayed I soon would be. This slaughter went on for an hour, the soldiers streaming through the cemetery gate, jumping the walls, taking cover behind tomb stones to pick off at random any man, woman or child that moved.

Were it not for the presence of a couple courageous American reporters - who actually confronted the front line of this firing squad - and a cameraman inside the cemetery who got it all on tape - the world would have been, as in the prior sixteen years, oblivious to this carnage.

You know what? I forgot to finish making tea. Would you pardon me a moment?"