Pride and Loathing in Timor-Leste

Bardia Rahmani
Aug 31, 2018 · 6 min read

Recently, I published a long-form piece profiling the growing LGBTI rights movement in Timor-Leste and its connection to the struggle against Indonesian occupation between 1975 and 2002. Inevitably the article had to leave out a lot of photographs and interview material. I’m posting some of that here for those who are interested.

Juvinal Dias on the difference between then and now

“During resistance, the good thing was that people were united. We recognized a common enemy. We knew which side we were on. The difference today is that it’s you against your own government. And most of the leaders of Timor today are former fighters or leaders of the movement against Indonesian occupation. The difficulty we face today is how we can convince people to criticize their own leaders. In the Indonesian period it was easy to convince people, but since independence it’s very difficult to get someone to oppose the government’s policy, because leaders come from resistance and people still feel loyal to them.”

An alternative pic of Juvinal Dias at Haburas, a local activist hangout.

Bella Galhos’ full story

While the article summarizes LGBTI activist Bella Galhos’ account of the 1991 Santa Cruz Massacre, I think it deserves to be presented in its entirety:

“I was just like young Timorese at the time. I was involved in the clandestine movement and we organized a demonstration to coincide with the visit of the Portuguese parliament. Two weeks before that, one of our friends, Sebastian Gomes, was killed by the Indonesians in Motael Church. We took that opportunity, because there was no other way to gather in that large of numbers. We wanted to grab the opportunity to get international attention, and we thought that because there were foreign journalists visiting here, it was impossible they were going to shoot at us. We were wrong.

Sebastiao Gomes’ grave in Santa Cruz Cemetery, the site of the 1991 massacre.

“We woke up early. We took traditional medicine that we thought would make it so that if the Indonesians shot you, the bullet wouldn’t go through you. We started at Montael Church, where we were part of a prayer group. We marched down the road shouting slogans. And when we reached the cemetery, we were waiting outside because we were waiting for the rest of the group to come. And as we were waiting, we saw the military come up in two trucks. They came down from the truck and lined up along the road. They kneeled down and started to point their guns at us. Still, we thought they were not going to shoot, that they just wanted to scare us.

“Then they started shooting. People started falling down dead in front of us. People tried to run away but they had already surrounded the cemetery. It was well-planned. There was a small gate into the cemetery and everyone was trying to run through. I was stuck there for a long time. I fell and every time I tried to get up, someone stepped on me again. I think I was there for twenty minutes before I got through.

“When you get to the cemetery there is a house that, before you bury somebody, you put them there. So we all go in there. Too many. Too crowded. I was scared, I said if it’s crowded like this and they come in, we’re all done. So I run out and follow everyone escaping from the back.

“But my brother was left behind. He was captured and imprisoned for two weeks. When he came home we couldn’t even recognize him. He went through a lot of torture. They even put a pen inside his penis. His face was swollen, closed shut.

“The impact of that is that, for the longest time, even today, I’m scared of loud noises. My daughter likes to pop balloons and I was scared of the sound. When I studied in Hawaii, I didn’t know that every Friday they have firecrackers. I almost jumped out from the window of the sixth floor. I ran straight to the window and nearly jumped out and my friends had to stop me. I don’t like crowds. I always put myself in areas where I can see how to escape. Even parties or family weddings, it’s too crowded. Even leaving Timor, I wonder if I’m going to come back. If I’m gone more than a week or two I start to feel anxious, paranoid.

“So I say to our leaders [who fought the Indonesians], don’t tell me you’re the only ones who suffered for this country. We did it too.

“I didn’t have my childhood. My generation, we gave it all to the struggle. I didn’t go through all this, and after all that they treat me like this. I didn’t fight to liberate my country and then be treated like this.”

Photos from the Pride march

Local university students prepare for the march.
“This day means freedom,” says Domingos Gonsalves Barros as he waves a rainbow flag high above his head. “We can finally express ourselves without feeling intimidated by those people who bully us.”
Natalino Guterres pumps up the crowd from atop a truck.
Natalino (far left) and his fellow activists release doves to commemorate the occasion.
“A lot of the people on the street were just staring at us, like ‘what the hell is this,’” says Berta Antonieta.

Some fantastic photos taken by Carolina Silva:

In Tetun: “Promote diversity in the life of society.”
“The [trans] leader of the marching band hoists herself onto a drum and, balancing admirably in her high-heeled boots, rattles the gates of Parliament.”

Behind-the-scenes

Some color on Natalino’s interview. When we first go to meet, his car breaks down so we end up doing the interview in a Chinese restaurant on the side of the road. About thirty minutes in, he’s talking about the common criticism that LGBTI don’t face “real,” i.e. state-supported, discrimination in Timor-Leste. “A lot of people say we’re not persecuted by the government in this country, so what do we want?” he says. “It’s not criminalized, so what do we want? But there are a lot of issues.” At that moment, as if to prove his point, his phone rings and he picks up. I can hear wailing on the other side of the line. “Our transgender program assistant is being harassed,” he says. “I have to go.” We agree to pick up the interview later that night and part ways.

When we meet up again, it’s in the parking lot of a Burger King (one of the few Western chains to penetrate Timor) around midnight — all the more impressive given that Natalino has a flight to the US in the morning. Natalino hitches a ride there with his brother, Max. Unlike the brother who shunned him, Max had no hesitation accepting Natalino’s sexual orientation. According to Natalino, when he came back to Timor after studying in the US, he told Max that he was dating someone. “Is it a he or a she?” Max asked. When Natalino responded that it was a he, Max said, “Well as long as you’re happy, I don’t care.”

After my interview with Natalino, I sit down with Max. “Why do you think it was so easy for you to accept your brother’s sexual orientation compared to everyone else,” I ask him. He doesn’t seem to know how to respond. He’s quiet for a while. Then he shrugs and smiles. “He is my brother,” he says. “I love him.”

Bardia Rahmani

Written by

I work in the security sector in East Timor, freelance for The Diplomat, and blog on politics, travel and culture.

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