Chapter Four: Governance History of Timor-Leste 4.0 Introduction The governance history of Timor-Leste is a complicated one, encompassing almost five hundred years of foreign occupation, first by the Portuguese as a colonial territory, then by Indonesia as their '27th Province', and then through the UN transitional administration (UNTAET) until full independence was handed to the Timorese in 2002. However, underlying this history of external rule, traditional institutional structures and value systems have continued to guide the daily lives of the Timorese. Through the various stages of Timorese history, these traditional institutional structures ran in parallel with the governance structures of the external rulers, at various times being either reinforced or undermined by the imposed power structures. This has resulted in various forms of political hybridity that are now reflected in contemporary local governance arrangements, with the 'interface' between modern and traditional institutional structures existing most obviously at the suku level of governance. The interface that has developed between modern and traditional institutional structures is porous. As the overarching political structures have influenced these pre-existing traditional institutional structures in various ways, and as the Timorese people have alternately accommodated and opposed these influences, modern influences such as political parties have been incorporated into the local sphere. Examination of Timorese history shows that this interface is deeply entrenched, having existed in various forms throughout Portuguese, Indonesian and UNTAET rule, and can possibly even be traced to pre-colonial governance structures where there were two discernible 'layers' to local governance—one composed of essentially inward-looking family-based kinship structures, and the other composed of the warring petty kings (liurai) who competed for territory and tributory subjects. Throughout this time indigenous forms of governance continued to guide most social life within the suku, and primary loyalty was owed not to the overarching rulers but to the small kin-based groups within the suku. The centrality of these kin-based groups continued through Portuguese times as the power of the liurai was slowly replaced with Portuguese-recognised rulers, and continued throughout Indonesian occupation as the resistance networks were based largely on important social relationships defined within these same communities. These groups, bound together via lisan, therefore form the common thread throughout all of these stages of history, and as such can be recognised as a distinctively Timorese system of governance. However, during the UN interregnum the importance of these communities was not well understood. As other political disagreements took centre stage, considerations around the centrality of these communities were largely left out of the nation-building enterprise—effectively excluding the majority of ordinary Timorese living in the rural areas. This then provided the framework through which contemporary local governance is now being shaped within independent Timor-Leste, leaving the complicated questions surrounding policy development for hybrid local communities unanswered. Here, I consider the impact of these various forms of local government throughout the different periods of Timorese history, examining how they have interfaced with ongoing traditional institutional structures that exist within the suku of Timor-Leste.  Figure Two: Formally Recognised Local Government Figures: 1908 to 2010 TERRITORY (Changing names but similar borders) PORTUGUESE ERA 1908-1975 INDONESIAN ERA 1975-1999 UN INTERREGNUM 1999-2002 INDEPENDENCE 2002 to present Portuguese Indonesian Timorese Resistance CNRT UNTAET Timor-Leste Government DISTRICT Administrador Concelho Bupati Sekretari de Zona District Secretary District Administrator Administrador Distritu SUBDISTRICT Chefe de Posto Camat Sekretaris de Posto Chefe de Posto District Field Officer Administrador Subdistritu SUKU Liurai/Chefe de Suco Kepala Desa Nurep Chefe de Suco Konsellu de Suku ALDEIA Kepala Dusun Selcom Chefe d'Aldeia Xefe Aldeia TRADITIONAL AUTHORITY IMPORTANT THROUGHOUT: HIERARCHIES BETWEEN HOUSE GROUPS AND HIERARCHIES WITHIN HOUSE GROUPS NB. Authority figures who were popularly elected are highlighted.  4.1 Formation of Political Hybridity The political structures that were in place on the island of Timor, prior to Portuguese arrival, consisted of small head-hunting kingdoms that were regularly at war with each other. Many of these kingdoms were bound to the ritual centre of Wehali, located in what is now West Timor (Nixon, 2008: 61-62, Farram, 1999, Fox, 1982). While relations between the smaller kingdoms were often characterised by conflict and shifting alliances, Wehali which was ruled by the Maromak Oan Maromak Oan: ‘Child of God’ or ‘Child of the Luminous’. gave overall stability (Farram, 1999: 41, Hägerdal, 2009: 47). This political system of smaller kingdoms bound to a ritual centre appears to be the most centralised form of governance that the island of Timor had experienced, prior to Portuguese colonial consolidation (Gunn, 1999: 47). The power of the Maromak Oan rested on his ritual significance and tributes from other liurai, who were all regarded as 'sons' of the Maromak Oan and responsible for ruling the land and the people (Farram, 2004: 37). In contrast to the other liurai who controlled extensive tracts of territory (Ramos-Horta, 1987: 18, Capell, 1944: 199, Hicks, 1983: 21), the Maromak Oan was deemed to have immense powers over the weather, defeat or victory in war, and the spread of disease. Real power was seen to come not from the material control over population and land but rather from the ritual significance of Wehali (Fox, 1982, Farram, 2004). The liurai ruled via a class system that separated the Timorese into liurai, datu Datu: aristocracy, ema-reino Ema-reinu: commoners, and ata Ata: slaves (Capell, 1944: 196, Hicks, 1972: 101). Individuals belonged to their uma lulik (sacred houses) which were both physical constructs and a symbolic focus through which to regulate social relations and systems of mutual obligation among house members (McWilliam, 2005). The houses were hierarchically ordered, and the uma lulik of the liurai and datu held the right to rule other houses by virtue of their possession of sacred objects and knowledge (Traube, 1987: 99, Davidson, 1994: 117). These objects were commonly warlike in nature, including swords and breastplates, and used throughout Timor to symbolise how the right to rule was obtained. However, there is strong evidence that this hierarchical political system headed by the liurai does not represent the 'original' political system of the island of Timor. Linguistic and anthropological studies indicate that prior to Portuguese arrival, Timor had been subject to various 'waves of invaders' that over time were incorporated into existing social structures through conquest and inter-marriage (Capell, 1944: 194-195, Davidson, 1994: 111, Saldanha, 1994: 71). By unravelling oral history, origin myths and linguistic clues, historians argue that the liurai and datu classes appear to have been a later addition to Timorese social structures, whose hierarchical rule was layered over the indigenous political systems of the descent groups that were mediated via relations within and between uma lulik (Davidson, 1994: 111-113, Capell, 1944: 197). This stratification of Timorese society over time is indicated by variations on the Tetun terms 'liurai' and 'datu' that are used throughout the language groups of Timor, instead of different terms for different language groups, suggesting that these classes were introduced at a later date (Davidson, 1994: 111-13). There are different theories on when and how the liurai and datu consolidated their presence within Timor. Together with the difficulties in unravelling unwritten history, it is likely that these regional variations reflect the unique circumstances of different clans. Forman (1977: 107-109), for example, argues that the liurai classes for the Makassae language group were descended from the Topass conquerors Topasses: the ‘Black’ Portuguese, an independent mixed race community that grew up around the Portuguese settlement., and it was only through political and military alignments with the Portuguese Government that they were able to establish their right to rule. Davidson (1994: 112) by contrast argues that the liurai became a force in Timor much earlier, when the ancestors of the Tetun tribes forced the indigenous inhabitants to less fertile parts of the island and through conquest and intermarriage established their rule. As the control that the liurai had over their tributary subjects varied significantly from one kingdom to the next, it is possible that both accounts are true for different parts of Timor. While the rule of the liurai was incorporated into existing social structures, Davidson notes that they still retained an 'otherness' from the ema-reinu. She describes the original house-based institutional structures as qualitatively different from the focus of the liurai who were regularly at war with each other, seeking to expand their territories and tributary subjects. Institutional structures mediated via uma lulik, in contrast with the expansionist impulse of the liurai, were "independent and inward-looking" (Davidson, 1994: 112). Relationships within and between kin groups in this context were largely maintained and reproduced through barlake and other related traditional obligations. The 'otherness' of the liurai and datu classes is an important point to understand, Davidson (1994: 11) argues, as it explains some of the complexities of Timorese social life, where primary allegiance was owed not to the liurai but to the clan or kin group. In fact, Davidson argues that while the ruling classes were often regarded as the 'natural' rulers and revered by the commoners, with relations formalised through tributary arrangements, the fundamental social units on which survival of the community depended were these small, largely autonomous self-governing family units revolving around individual uma lulik. Requests by liurai for tributes and warriors had to maintain a degree of fairness in order to be seen as legitimate, and there were numerous cases cited by the Portuguese administration where the people had effectively removed themselves from a liurai's rulership and offered their loyalty to another ruler in situations where this fairness had not been maintained (Davidson, 1994: 124). Perhaps because of this practice there were a few suku that were independent and unaligned with any reino Reino: Kingdom (Sherlock, 1983: 4). While not everyone lived within a reino under a liurai, everyone lived within a suku and knew their place within that tribe, governed by the institutional structures that were mediated through their uma lulik. It appears that the existence of the liurai and datu classes provided a kind of 'buffer' to the impact of Portuguese conquest and manipulation of indigenous leadership as they consolidated their rule. As Hägerdal (2009: 49) notes, even the most powerful liurai lacked the means to exercise absolute power over their territories or subjects. If these historical analyses are correct, it appears that within pre-colonial governance structures there was a political hybridity that was already formed where clan or kin groups were structured to maintain themselves separately while simultaneously recognising through tributary exchange the rulership of the liurai. This suited both the liurai and the kin groups. Portuguese colonisation, while highly oppressive and violent in some areas, had most impact on the hierarchical rulership exercised by the liurai and datu classes, with less impact on the small family groups that continued to govern themselves. Even when they consolidated their rule in the early 20th century, the Portuguese operated via indirect rule, replacing rebellious liurai with Portuguese-appointed liurai (Dunn, 1983: 4-5, Thomaz, 1981: 63). While there was deep sadness in many areas where the liurai were removed and the Portuguese re-interpreted existing tributary relationships in ways that no longer respected the mutual obligation that had previously underpinned these relationships (Traube, 1987: 121-122), the tightening of colonial control did not have a substantial impact on the underlying traditional systems of governance. This is not to argue that Portuguese colonisation did not have an impact on these 'lower order' institutional structures. Traube (1987), in her study of the Mambai people, relates how the Portuguese administrative definition of suku in the early 20th century had serious negative impacts on existing governance systems. While the Portuguese continued to follow their strategy of indirect rule and attempted to build on existing understandings of community, they defined suku territorially. This failed to reflect Mambai understandings of community, based around uma lulik that were often territorially distant from each other. This in turn had the effect of administratively excluding numerous people from their traditionally-defined community because they now lived outside the new, territorially-defined suku (Traube, 1987: 100-101). Similarly, during my fieldwork in 2008, it was evident that the impact of Portuguese colonisation on traditional understandings of community was still important within contemporary local politics. According to one elder I spoke to in Venilale, two aldeia had been split from their suku for the sake of administrative convenience "without justice or consideration by the white foreigner (Portuguese)", and there are many people who still feel a strong desire for the ancestral community to be rejoined. But as local politics have changed since colonial times, there are now many new issues to consider before this can occur. Despite situations such as these, Portuguese colonisation left lower-order institutional structures, mediated by uma lulik, largely intact. Even towards the end of Portuguese rule, there was very little administrative 'reach' within the suku, except to extract taxes and labour (Dunn, 2003: 4). The everyday politics of mutual recognition within which political hybridity is negotiated continued at the local level, but in a different form: wider political power was held by the Portuguese and their appointed liurai, ritual power was often still held by the traditional liurai and datu houses, and the small, largely autonomous self-governing units mediated via uma lulik continued to command primary allegiance and regulate everyday activities. 4.2 Early Colonisation: Sixteenth to Nineteenth Century The Portuguese arrived in Timor between 1511 and 1515 after the conquest of Malacca (Capell, 1944: 196). While it is often claimed that Timor was subject to colonisation for 480 years, such statements are misleading as the Portuguese exerted very little control over the territory or the people until colonial consolidation in the early 20th century. The focus of the early colonisers was quite simple: harvesting sandalwood and converting the people to Roman Catholicism (Saldanha, 1994: 35). Beyond these enterprises, they left the Timorese to govern themselves, via lisan. The Dominican priests were the first to establish a permanent presence on the island in 1557 when they built a fort in Lifau, in what is now the enclave of Oecussi (Capell, 1944: 193). The Dutch and the Portuguese were not the only colonial forces on the island of Timor. A third significant force were the Topasses, or 'Black' Portuguese. While the Topasses retained some identity with the Portuguese from whom they were descended, they were an independent power group who varied allegiances to suit their own agendas (Davidson, 1994: 57, Boxer, 1947). In 1642, the Portuguese and Topasses joined forces to march across the island to Wehali and burnt the settlement to the ground. The Maromak-Oan was converted to Christianity and the great political and spiritual centre of Timor was defeated (Fox, 1982: 22, Farram, 1999: 41). These three groups continued to struggle for control, at various times forming alliances with each other or with the indigenous liurai. In 1702 the first official governor of Portuguese Timor was appointed in Lifau. The governor entered into and formalised alliances with the surrounding liurai by recognising their right to rule their own people, and bringing them under colonial authority by bestowing military rank (Davidson, 1994: 61). This practice of militarily recognising traditional rulers was very effective in cementing colonial rule and continued well into the 20th century (Boxer, 1960: 353). This is partly reflective of Timorese culture being a warrior culture, and partly reflective of practical politics, as indigenous rulers who also had access to Portuguese forces were in a better position to subdue local rebellions. In 1769, the Portuguese moved their centre to Dili in response to military aggression by the Topasses, who allied with local liurai. Lifau was then captured by the Dutch (Davidson, 1994: 60, Capell, 1944: 193, Boxer, 1947). Rather than colonisation by direct conquest, the Portuguese strengthened their presence within Portuguese Timor through indirect rule. As the Portuguese forces did not have sufficient numbers to conquer all of the liurai across Timor directly, many of the conflicts with rebellious liurai were actually waged by other liurai who were sympathetic to, and benefited from, the Portuguese colonial support (Davidson, 1994: 61, Dunn, 1983: 54). This also applied with the ongoing contests for power between the Portuguese, the Dutch and the Topasses, and alliances regularly shifted between these three groups and the liurai (Hägerdal, 2009: 53-59). As such, the impact of the colonisers during this period is best described as ongoing power struggles between four elite groups: the Dutch, Topasses, Portuguese, and the indigenous elites, the liurai (Davidson, 1994: 276). Just as the liurai had regularly waged war on each other for land and tributary subjects, the newcomers also sought to expand their influence across the island through conflict and alliances. During this time, there was no administrative control exercised by the Dutch or the Portuguese beyond their immediate territories, and the liurai continued to engage with each other and rule their respective territories via lisan. While the alliances that were entered into were reported by the colonisers as gaining 'vassals' for the kingdoms back in Europe, this was seen somewhat differently by the liurai. They continued to form alliances and politically engage with the colonisers for their own purposes, while also maintaining alliances and relationships with other liurai. Lisan relationships continued to be highly significant in this context, trumping colonial claims of vassalage and the artificial creation of boundaries established by colonial wars. Farram (1999: 43) relates a case in which the Dutch vassals of Alor and Pantar (islands in what is now West Timor) habitually went to the ruler of Oecusse with whom they had an lisan relationship whenever there was a problem that needed external support. The fact that Oecusse was a vassal of the Portuguese and that they had made alliances with the Dutch held no significance for them. This balance of power between warring elites began to shift during the nineteenth century, when the Portuguese moved their economic focus from the extraction of sandalwood to the harvesting of various crops for export (Dunn, 1983: 19). One of the most important of these exports was coffee, which required much greater control over land and access to indigenous forced labour to work the large, state-owned plantations (Davidson, 1994: 19). During this time the Portuguese also introduced the capitação (head tax) that was eventually to replace the existing tribute system between the ema-reino and the liurai. These greater colonial demands were opposed by many liurai whose rule was being undermined, and also by many ema-reino for whom the tribute system was one of exchange between ema-reino and liurai for spiritual protection, something the Portuguese system of head-tax did not recognise (Traube, 1987: 112, 120, Davidson, 1994: 19). Because of changing colonial policy and subsequent resistance by the Timorese, by the end of the 19th century, the liurai were regarded by the Portuguese as an obstacle in achieving colonial control and their rule was progressively undermined through various decrees. In 1860, the governor divided Portuguese Timor into ten administrative districts, each of which was headed by a Portuguese officer (Saldanha, 1994: 49). To strengthen their rule against the liurai they took an incremental approach, sometimes tightening control through removing 'rebellious' liurai from power and incorporating them into allies' kingdoms (Davidson, 1994: 98). At other times, the Portuguese would 'appoint' a new, loyal liurai to replace one who had been rebellious. These practices had a profound effect on communities, which still reverberate within contemporary local politics. While local histories vary, in many places where new people were appointed as liurai, often the traditional liurai continued to be recognised within the community as the 'real' liurai, effectively creating two liurai families where before there was only one. In 1893, the Portuguese incorporated all remaining rebellious territories into military districts, provoking another series of uprisings (Davidson, 1994: 183, 278, Dunn, 1983: 19). Control was further tightened in 1906 when the Portuguese declared the tribute system unlawful in an effort to cut off the liurais' independent resource supply (Davidson, 1994: 103-104). The series of rebellions over these measures gained momentum in the 1890s and culminated in the major rebellion of 1911-12, led by the liurai of Manufahi, Dom Boaventura. Dom Boaventura gained the support of many kingdoms throughout Portuguese Timor and his rebellion is popularly characterised as 'the' major anti-colonial rebellion; to claim lineage to these warriors is a mark of great pride (Niner, 2009: 4). It was certainly the largest and longest revolt during Portuguese colonisation, resulting in around 90,000 Timorese deaths, extensive devastation of land, and finally concluding with the collapse of the independent authority of the liurai (Capell, 1944: 193, Ramos-Horta, 1987: 18, Saldanha, 1994: 43). Following the rebellion, the boundaries of the 47 kingdoms that existed in 1880 no longer played any role in the colonial administration (Nixon, 2008: 71). 4.3 Portuguese Colonial Consolidation: 1912 to 1974 Following the defeat of Dom Boaventura, the liurais' authority was largely divided among the datu who ruled beneath them (Capell, 1944: 198). This move was not simply a matter of transferring power from the liurai to the datu, however. The Portuguese rewarded those who had been faithful to them, and removed those who were not from power. By 1916, the Portuguese had consolidated control over Portuguese Timor and extended their reach into the rural areas, and people were now required to pay taxes and were recruited for forced labour (Farram, 1999: 51). However, the Portuguese rarely extracted the taxes and labour from the people themselves; these unpleasant tasks were given to the Timorese who they had recognised and empowered through their policy of indirect rule (Dunn, 2003: 4). This did not make life any easier for the ema-reino, however, as the liurai were often more brutal in their treatment of their people than the Portuguese ever were (Dunn, 2003: 19, Niner, 2009: 10). The Portuguese policy of indirect rule meant that the liurai who ruled on their behalf had full authority over the people, and ruled them based on 'traditional' institutional structures and worldviews (Thomaz, 1981: 63, Dunn, 1983: 4-5). However, as noted by Capell (1944: 198), the new liurai often represented a broken line of succession, and as a result, much of the ritual exchange underpinning the liurai's rule was lost. Indirect rule had a very direct impact in that it corrupted the checks and balances that existed within traditional rule (Farram, 2006: 72-73). However, this point was rarely recognised by the Portuguese who administered the system and argued that they were respecting tradition and custom (de Sousa, 2001: 185-91). In 1914, a dual legal system was implemented by the Portuguese administration, separating 'unassimilated' indigenous people, to be ruled according to customary law unless it was deemed 'contrary to natural law', from 'assimilated' people who were subject to Portuguese civil law (Davidson, 1994: 49, Saldanha, 1994: 76). The authorities within each colony were given the power to codify what lay within and outside customary law and who was to be considered unassimilated, and those who were assimilated enjoyed various privileges associated with being considered Portuguese (Saldanha, 1994: 76-77). In 1950, the social system operated according to six classes: European, Mestiço (mixed blood), Chinese, other non-indigenous (for example Goan or Angolan), Civilizado (assimilated Timorese), and unassimilated Timorese. All but the unassimilated Timorese were considered Portuguese (Saldanha, 1994: 77). What this framework meant in practice was that the administration in Portuguese Timor could continue to demand forced labour from unassimilated Timorese, who comprised the majority of the population, on the grounds that this reflected an aspect of customary obligations to the liurai (Davidson, 1994: 49). The consolidation of colonial rule did not translate into improved economic development in Portuguese Timor. While in some parts there was increased emphasis on coffee production, these were Portuguese enterprises designed to pay for the upkeep of the colonial presence in Timor. The years that followed the suppression of the 1912 rebellion and leading up to the outbreak of World War II saw Timor described by Dunn as "undoubtedly the most economically backward colony in Southeast Asia, its living conditions often a subject of derision to the few who ventured to it" (1983: 20), as the increasing demands of head tax and forced labour took their toll. Meanwhile, the Portuguese ran their colony with a bloated bureaucracy and little regard for the human or economic development of their colony—or even of upkeep of existing infrastructure (Nixon, 2008: 72). This lack of investment continued such that by World War II, Dili still did not have an electricity or water supply, no telephone (except for senior officials) and no paved roads (Dunn, 1983: 20). It was not until 1970 that electricity was provided to Dili (Ramos-Horta, 1987: 22). Portuguese colonisation was interrupted by World War II, with the intrusion first of the Allied forces in 1942 defying Portugal's position of neutrality, and the subsequent invasion of Japanese forces (Dunn, 2003: 19). The decision of the Allied forces to invade had a devastating impact on the Timorese, with official estimates placing the Timorese deaths from 1942 to 1945 at around 40,000 people. The savagery of the occupation left the territory devastated, but unlike the Dutch East Indies it did not create the legacy of a challenge to the colonial order. Following Japanese surrender, the Portuguese colonisers picked up where they had left off, reasserting their authority ruthlessly (Dunn, 2003: 24). Meanwhile, however, there were powerful decolonisation movements gaining momentum across the world and Portugal came under increasing international pressure to deal with its colonies. In 1960, there was reform to Portuguese colonial practice and the colonies were given a new status with greater autonomy. To complement these changes, Timor was divided into various administrative concelhos (districts) which in turn were divided into postos (subdistricts) (Saldanha, 1994: 50-53). Beneath the subdistrict continued the traditional communities of suco Suco: Portuguese spelling of suku. and the povoação Povoação: Portuguese for aldeia., although as noted earlier the Portuguese definitions of sucos did not necessarily correlate with indigenous understandings of community. In 1964, a provincial Legislative Council was set up whereby the Timorese were actively involved for the first time in the administration of the colony. These Timorese Council members were appointed by the provincial governor, but slowly seats were included that allowed limited direct suffrage by the Timorese people. However, the Timorese representatives tended to be liurai—the same people who relied on Portuguese rule to prop up their own power and had little to gain by pushing for independence (Dunn, 1983: 35-36). It was not until 1974 and the overthrow of the Salazarist regime in Portugal that any serious internal opposition to the liurai's rule emerged (Dunn, 1983: 5). In 1975 when the Portuguese left, the provincial and local levels were administered through 13 concelhos (districts), under which operated 60 postos (subdistricts) (Saldanha, 1994: 52). Each concelho was administered by the administrador do concelho, beneath whom operated the administrador do posto, who was sometimes also known as the chefe de posto. Beneath these figures were the chefe de suco and then the chefe de povoação (Nixon, 2008: 77, Gunn, 1999: 244-45, Saldanha, 1994: 52). Administratively, the Portuguese strictly limited the powers of the chefe de suco and chefe de povoação to receiving orders from the chefe de posto, collecting taxes and resolving all local disputes, which with the exception of murder were resolved through the traditional council of elders (Hicks, 1972: 101-102). This was no doubt a deliberate strategy. As Saldanha (1994: 52-53) notes, as a very poor nation Portugal was having troubles of its own, and administering a system through existing structures and with existing resources was the cheapest possible solution. Within this broader political environment, even by the mid-twentieth century at the provincial and local levels there remained what Hicks (1983) describes as an "unachieved syncretism", as traditional institutional structures continued to govern much of everyday life, operating alongside the Portuguese-recognised authorities. Within the colonial structure the most important figure at the local level was the administrador de posto (subdistrict administrator), who was an official of the Portuguese government (Forman, 1980: 340). The liurai who continued to be recognised and given significant power through the Portuguese policy of indirect rule needed approval from the administrador de posto both at the time of his succession and in the administration of his kingdom (Forman, 1980: 340). As Hicks (1972: 101) relates in his examination of local political structures in Viqueque, there were also other traditional authority figures who, unlike the liurai, were not disproportionately empowered through indirect rule. These included the datu (princedom governors) whose influence was balanced by the elders on the princedom council. There were also the chefes de suco (chiefs of suco), who was chosen by the villagers of the kingdom, but who also required approval from the administrador de posto. The procedures whereby villagers chose their chiefs varied from place to place and were not the equivalent of democratic voting, which some took to mean that these systems had died out and were no longer relevant (see for example Nicol, 2002: 208-09). However, while traditional institutional structures varied widely from one place to the next, Hicks' (1972: 101-102) account of the role of the elders on the princedom council in Viqueque illustrates that the system was far more sophisticated than was often presumed, encompassing a system of checks and balances designed to prevent despotic rule. This offers some insight into the impact that indirect rule had on the colony, effectively giving the liurai a power they might otherwise have been unable to maintain. 4.4: Emergence of a New Politics, Political Parties, and Civil War: 1974 to 1975 While the Portuguese were grossly neglectful of their least important and most far-flung colony, there were some important changes towards the end of their rule. One of these was in the spread of educational opportunities: in 1953 there had only been 8000 children in 39 primary schools, but by 1974 this had risen to almost 60,000 students in 465 schools (Dunn, 2003: 7). Better educated Timorese meant access to more powerful positions in the colonial administration, and by 1974 approximately 60% of all administradors de posto were Timorese (Dunn, 2003: 7). These officials knew too well the despotic power that was exercised by many liurai and often actively worked to reduce their power, desiring a movement towards a more democratic system of government (Dunn, 2003: 35). This newly emerging political elite were among the first to become politically active in 1974, when it became clear that Portuguese colonialism was drawing to a close. The movement towards decolonisation began following the 1974 Carnation Revolution Revolution on 25 April 1974 overthrowing the fascist Estado Novo (New State) regime by non-violent military coup. Named ‘Carnation Revolution’ because the soldiers were joined in the streets by many people carrying red carnations to celebrate the end of the regime. in Portugal, precipitating a hasty progression towards independence in Portuguese Timor. Within Portuguese Timor, a strong independence movement led by a politically conscious elite began to develop, and two major political parties and one smaller one, were founded in 1974. These parties were União Democrática Timorense (UDT), the Frente Revolucionária de Timor-Leste Independente (Fretilin), and the smaller Associação Popular Democrática Timorense (Apodeti). While the formation of political parties was still in theory illegal, these new parties were given defacto recognition by the administration in Dili (Nicol, 2002: 56). Given the hasty progression towards decolonisation, the policy platforms for the new political parties were largely undeveloped, and the major differences between the three were in their attitudes towards the future status of Portuguese Timor. While UDT wanted the progression towards independence to be fairly slow with Portuguese support, Fretilin wanted independence to come much quicker. Apodeti was more obviously different, wanting to integrate with Indonesia as an autonomous state (Saldanha, 2008: 70, Nicol, 2002: 70-105, Ramos-Horta, 1987: 33). The differences particularly between UDT and Fretilin in the beginning were fairly slight; in fact, at one point the two parties joined in coalition (Nicol, 2002: 99, Ramos-Horta, 1987: 51-52). While Fretilin was labelled at this time the 'communist' party, and UDT the 'fascist' party this was over-dramatising the reality. Behind the political rhetoric, their policies were still being worked out and were internally contested (Nicol, 2002: 93-105). However, the approaches of the different parties to the liurai varied. Apodeti, as the more conservative political party, were able to attract the support of a number of liurai, including the notorious liurai of Atsabe, Guilherme Gonçalves (Nicol, 2002: 157, Dunn, 1983: 3, Ramos-Horta, 1987: 32-34), who later became provincial governor for the Indonesian administration. UDT, as the more conservative of the two major parties, also attempted to gain support through the liurai. Fretilin chose to focus at the community level. As Francisco Xavier do Amaral Leader of the ASDT party, that later changed its name to Fretilin. described in his testimony to the Commission for Reception, Truth and Reconciliation in Timor-Leste, The ASDT [Fretilin] party had this method. We could see that the first party to form was UDT, and I saw their tactics. UDT campaigned focussing on the Administrators, and went down to the Subdistrict Administrators and the traditional kings [liurai]. They did not go directly to the people. So I thought, we need the people, I don't need the liurai, they are with the Portuguese… So they would go from the top down, and I would start at the bottom… We would sometimes meet in the middle (CAVR, 2006a: 24-25) While Fretilin and UDT both wanted the liurai's power to be reduced, gaining their support was essential as many people did not understand these new politics, and many people said they joined their political party "because others in their family had done so" (Nicol, 2002: 156). The hasty progression to decolonisation had left no time for education of the Timorese on what independence and self-government would mean, and what the new political parties stood for. By contrast, Apodeti established themselves as an alternative to independence and democratisation in Timor. As Dunn relates, "integration with Indonesia seemed to offer the petty rulers the only hope of preventing the erosion of their traditional powers and privileges" (2003: 62). The support of the liurai for Apodeti's cause was not lost on the Indonesian intelligence agents and "by mid-1975 several of the key dissident liurais had been contacted by agents who sought to assure them that their status and privileges would be secure in the '27th Province'" (Dunn, 2003: 62). Indonesia actively nurtured these relationships as part of their overall strategy for annexing Portuguese Timor, named Operasi Komodo after the Komodo Dragon, giant lizards with immensely powerful jaws. Indonesia's behind-the-scenes subversion campaign and disinformation tactics mounted through Operasi Komodo played on the political inexperience of the emerging Timorese leaders, deepening the tensions that eventually led to civil war between Fretilin and UDT in 1975 (Dunn, 2003: 100). As the politics reached gradually boiling point, pushing the parties further and further apart, the violent rupture of civil war was prompted by a coup that was mounted by UDT, and opposed by Fretilin. Nicols (2002: 156-173) describes the difference between the parties at this stage as the "politics of hate", rather than any obvious difference between their policy platforms. However, by the time civil war did break out, the hate was very clear. As noted by CAVR, "the brutality of East Timorese people against each other in this brief conflict has left deep wounds in East Timorese society which continue to be felt to this day" (2006a: 43). Certainly in my fieldwork in Venilale, people still speak of the impact of the civil war as it turned families against each other. The atrocities committed during the civil war, and the effect of Indonesian interference, are detailed in the CAVR report (2006a: 40-52). By the time the civil war broke out, the Portuguese administration could do very little. As the two forces converged on Dili "the tiny Portuguese force of fewer than 100 combat troops was wedged between 1500 UDT soldiers and more than 2000 regular troops under Fretilin command" (Dunn, 2003: 150). As Fretilin overcame UDT forces and made a unilateral declaration of independence, there was widespread panic, fanned by Indonesian radio broadcasts from West Timor giving "exaggerated and distorted descriptions of the fighting", peppered with "false accounts of atrocities and brutalities, most of which were attributed to Fretilin" (Dunn, 2003: 153). Under the pretext of 'stabilising' their close neighbour, and ensuring the violence did not spill over into Indonesian territory, Indonesian troops invaded East Timorese territory on 7 December 1975. It is clear that the possibility of a smooth transition to independence was undermined by a lack of time given for the transition and the political manoeuvring of Portugal and Indonesia. It was also undermined by the disenfranchisement of the emerging Timorese leadership as active participants in decolonisation; for example a conference convened in Rome aimed at ending the civil conflict included the Portuguese and Indonesian Foreign Ministers, but excluded the East Timorese (Ramos-Horta, 1987: 59). The end result was that the Timorese had a tragically short few months in which to attempt to negotiate the multiple demands of decolonisation and independence, establish their political parties and policies, and balance multiple interests in either preserving or changing the status quo, all in the context of the Portuguese desire to decolonise as quickly as possible and Indonesia's Operasi Komodo. As well as the deep psychological scars that this and subsequent violence has left on the Timorese people, the politics of hate and its association with political parties continues to be an important aspect of contemporary governance at all levels from the national to the local. 4.5 Timor Timur, the '27th Province' of Indonesia: 1975 to 1999 The Indonesian forces invaded Dili on 8 December 1975, followed up by an attack on Baucau two days later. The randomness and savagery of these attacks have been well-documented and these events set the tone for future murders, torture, rapes and other atrocities that were carried out during the 24 years of Indonesian occupation (Dunn, 1983: 283-84, Taylor, 1999: 68-70, CAVR, 2006b). As the first step towards legitimising their annexation of Timor, the Indonesian authorities announced that on 31 January 1976 all political parties had 'dissolved themselves', to be replaced by three officially sanctioned Indonesian parties (Dunn, 2003: 257, Saldanha, 2008: 70). Following a farcical 'vote for integration' and in a process that shut out even Apodeti, the party which had desired integration with Indonesia, on 17 July 1976 Timor-Leste officially became the '27th Province' of Indonesia This annexation was never recognised through international law. (Saldanha, 1994: 100-101). Following this act of 'integration', Timorese governance structures were brought into line with that of other parts of Indonesia and trusted pro-Indonesia Timorese were appointed to positions of authority within this new structure (Dunn, 1983: 301). At the provincial and local levels, the Indonesians largely adopted the existing district and subdistrict boundaries, integrating them into Indonesian local government structures. In addition to this, the Indonesians formally recognised the previously unrecognised governing units operating at the levels of suco and povoação (Saldanha, 1994: 102-103). Democratic elections were introduced for the village chiefs in 1982, however, as Ospina and Hohe (2001: 54-55) note, the democratic credentials of these elections were questionable, as the candidates were decided by local institutions that were likely dominated by traditional authorities, and most importantly the Indonesian authorities retained a right of veto. The povoação/aldeia chiefs continued to be appointed traditionally (Ospina and Hohe, 2001: 57) and their power was fairly limited. In theory, incorporating these levels into the state structure as part of the Indonesian administration should have given them more opportunity to implement village programs. However, as Dunn relates, this appearance of Timorese rule was a thin façade. As Timor-Leste was under heavy military occupation, the most powerful person at every level of governance was the military commander (Dunn, 1983: 301). Those who had been able to escape the invading forces had fled to the mountains under Fretilin's leadership. As well as defending these groups, Fretilin arranged for crops to be sown and herbs to be grown, and prepared makeshift medical centres (Taylor, 1999: 81-82). However, following mounting Indonesian military pressure and a rift in Fretilin leadership, and faced with the option of surrendering or starving, many people reported to the Indonesian authorities and went to live in the concentration camps, euphemistically named 'resettlement centres', that had been established in the lowlands (Taylor, 1999: 85-88, Dunn, 2003: 263). Conditions in these camps were very difficult, food was scarce, and sanitation and health care were of poor standard. This, coupled with tight restrictions on freedom of movement for those within the camps, meant that thousands of Timorese unnecessarily died of starvation and disease (Taylor, 1999-98, Ramos-Horta, 1987-76, Dunn, 2003: 271). Once the Indonesians had established their presence in Timor and most of the civilians had returned to the lowlands, a research study was commissioned by the Indonesian government to investigate why the Timorese were "uncooperative, apathetic and constantly suspicious" (Mubyarto et al., 1991: vii). As this was Indonesian-commissioned research, the research team from the Gadja Mada University accepted the premise that integration of Timor-Leste as Indonesia's 27th Province was legitimate. However, the study was distinguished by its honest efforts to listen to the Timorese and uncover the real reasons for the lack of integration. As such, it was initially suppressed by the Indonesian government because of political sensitivities (Mubyarto et al., 1991: vii). The research team identified two main reasons for the continued failure of integration: the ongoing presence and brutality of the Indonesian military, and the exclusion of the East Timorese from any meaningful economic or political participation (Mubyarto et al., 1991: ix). As Saldanha (1994: 102) documents, even after many years' occupation the military continued to maintain a presence in all the resettlement zones, effectively putting all East Timorese under constant surveillance. The tight restrictions on movement for the Timorese in these resettlement areas had devastating consequences (Mubyarto et al., 1991: 9). People were unable to tend their rice fields and gardens that were located outside the resettlement zone (Dunn, 1983: 336), and while a number of people tried to change their focus by opening small businesses or stalls, many had to close them down again because they were unable to make a profit (Saldanha, 1994: 253). In addition, when the security situation was relaxed in a few areas, those people who were able to return to their villages found that all the housing and infrastructure had been destroyed (Saldanha, 1994: 253). It is certainly true that infrastructural development increased during Indonesian occupation, in contrast to Portuguese neglect (Ospina and Hohe, 2001: 55, Saldanha, 1994: 156-57). As the Gadja Mada team noted when comparing their visit in 1981 to 1989, more roads, community health centres and senior high schools had been built in almost all subdistrict towns (Mubyarto et al., 1991: 3). However, such 'development' in the midst of a military occupation is a façade. During my fieldwork in 2008, people spoke cynically of these infrastructural investments, often used as a way to counteract local reactions to military excesses. As one interviewee put it, "where there was a killing, tomorrow there would be a new well". In addition, besides the brutality involved in the military occupation of Timor-Leste, the administration was highly corrupt. There were numerous complaints made by aid workers, when they were allowed into the territory in the early 1980s, that food and medical supplies intended for the Timorese was being diverted to private business (Dunn, 1983: 338, Taylor, 1999: 120-22). This did not just apply to foreign aid; even as Indonesia turned its focus to providing more development into the territory, many projects were abandoned before completion, together involving multi billion US dollar outlay (Saldanha, 1994: 344-45). The corruption was endemic, such that in 1994 there were 465 cases of corruption reported (Saldanha, 1994: 345). The disenfranchisement of the Timorese was further heightened by the influx of migrants from other parts of Indonesia, facilitated through an Indonesian transmigration program—'social engineering' designed to dilute the Timorese resistance to Indonesian rule (Gunn and Huang, 2006: 68). Many of the newcomers took on positions of authority within the Indonesian administrative and military structure and others took over monopolistic business interests in Timor, where for example one of the largest consortiums, made up of 15 companies, held a monopoly on logistical support for the military, having been set up by several generals immediately following invasion (Saldanha, 1994: 346). As during Portuguese colonisation, these new policies meant East Timorese were effectively shut out from the economy. Even fifteen years after integration the constant presence of the military, and their interference with development initiatives through protecting and encouraging monopolisation, was regarded by these Timorese elites as an insurmountable impediment (Mubyarto et al., 1991: 61). These factors combined had the effect of hardening local attitudes against Indonesian occupation. The Timorese had no access to decision-making within the Indonesian administration, and when they did they found that they could achieve very little because of the oppressive military presence throughout the territory. Participating in the independence movement, by contrast, was an active way through which they could assert their identity and assist and encourage the Falintil fighters in the mountains. The brutality of the military, combined with the disenfranchisement of the Timorese from real economic or political engagement, continued to feed the resistance movement and caused the Timorese to embrace their cultural identity as one that was distinct and separate to their Indonesian oppressors (Ramos-Horta, 1987: 205). Throughout this time, the Falintil resistance continued to mount offensives against the Indonesian military, supplied by the villagers in the resettlement zones. While initially the resistance movement was dominated by Fretilin's leadership, in the 1980s this changed, with Ramos-Horta and Gusmão reorganising the resistance to incorporate other political parties and perspectives (Gusmão and Niner, 2000: 131-132). This was named the Concelho Nacional de Resistência Maubere (CNRM) and later replaced by the Concelho Nacional de Resistência de Timor (CNRT). In addition, Gusmão declared the military arm Falintil to be independent of Fretilin and representative of the broader independence struggle. This political reorganisation was accompanied by transformation of the resistance itself into a network of smaller, more mobile units, incorporating both guerrilla fighters and village clandestine operatives, and with a strong international following. Many within the villages became actively involved in the clandestine movement that protected and provided resources for the Falintil fighters in the mountains. As McWilliam (2005: 35) relates, key to the clandestine movement were the suku-based networks known as the núcleos de resistência popular (nurep). Nurep were popularly elected by representatives from all aldeia, with the election conducted by a Falintil commander. The clandestine subdistrict chief, secretario de zona, was chosen by Falintil commanders (Ospina and Hohe, 2001: 58-59). The nurep was established as a clandestine counterpart to the suku-based Indonesian leadership, kepala desa, and beneath the nurep were the aldeia-level clandestine networks, the selcom (or selular comunicação) (McWilliam, 2005: 35). As McWilliam relates, this structure had two advantages. First, these small networks meant that if someone was compromised this would not endanger the wider clandestine operation. Second, and more importantly, it actively worked through "close-knit kin relations and affinal connections", where networks revolved "around house-based affiliations of trust and obligation between agnatic kin and their affinal allies in the extended family relationships", the foundation of Timorese social relations (McWilliam, 2005: 35). The reliance of the clandestine operation on family networks was clearly recognised by the Indonesian military and reflected in the 'Instruction Manual' that was produced to guide Indonesian intelligence—a total of nine documents, reproduced and translated by Budiardjo and Liong (1984: 176-244). Throughout the documents, various instructions are given on how to break the clandestine movement through interrogating family members of resistance fighters, and subverting the continuing influence of the liurai (Budiardjo and Liong, 1984: 179-94), In addition to nurep, there was a growing student movement as a new generation who had grown up under occupation began to organise, linking in with the pro-democracy student activists in Indonesia (Rei, 2007, Nicholson, 2001). This student resistance movement climaxed with a series of events and protests that led to the Santa Cruz massacre, as mourners attending the burial of an activist were gunned down in the cemetery on 12 November 1991. This brutal event was filmed by British journalist Max Stahl and spread throughout international media outlets, sparking popular outrage across the world. Following this tragedy, Timorese leaders including Nobel Peace Prize laureate Bishop Belo began to argue their case for the autonomy of East Timor, similar to that which had already been granted to Aceh and Yogyakarta (Saldanha, 1994: 325). The removal of President Suharto from office in May 1998 provided the political window that CNRT had been looking for, and on 21 April 1999 an agreement was signed mandating the UN to conduct an election on the future status of East Timor—independence, or special autonomy within Indonesia. The UN Mission in East Timor (UNAMET) was established in June 1999 to carry out this task. Violence against the Timorese escalated in the lead up to the election, and the election itself on 30 August 1999 was conducted in an atmosphere of extreme intimidation (Downie and Kingsbury, 2001: 64, Federer, 2005). However, despite this intimidation, violence and evidence of Indonesian election-tampering, 98.6% of registered voters turned out to vote with an overwhelming majority of 78.5% voting for independence. On 28 September 1999, Indonesia granted de facto authority to the UN, and on 20 October 1999 Indonesia passed legislation annulling the 1976 annexation of East Timor. However, independence was achieved at great cost. In the lead up to and immediately following the 30 August elections, CAVR calculated that "thousands of civilians were detained, hundreds of thousands were forcibly displaced, and at least 1,400 people were killed or disappeared" (CAVR, 2006b: 19). This post-election violence lasted for two weeks, until it was stopped by the arrival of Australian-led INTERFET forces on 15 September 1999. The brutality of Indonesia's occupation and the struggle for independence had the effect of sharply delineating the Timorese family networks and traditional institutional structures from the authority structures of the Indonesian state, making engaging and celebrating in their culture an important aspect of Timorese resistance. In addition, as Falintil actively utilised the networks of trust that existed through relations within and between uma lulik, these too became an integral part of the resistance. However, Indonesian brutality and their use of Timorese militias has left deep psychological scars, turning family against family, and introducing new animosities. One new fracture line that emerged as a result of Indonesian occupation was the division between Lorosae, from the east, and Loromonu from the west, culminating in the wide-spread violence in Dili during 2006. There were many layers to this conflict, including divisions between political leaders, the composition of the police and the army, and the communal affiliations of martial arts gangs in Dili (Scambary 2009). However, at the heart of the conflict was the Lorosae's claim that they had led the resistance and that the Loromonu had largely collaborated with the Indonesian occupiers (Shoesmith 2010a: 2). While the division between east and west precedes Indonesian occupation, this was the first time that it had been a source of such violent conflict. Indonesian occupation also deepened already existing tensions between families and communities at the local level. Timorese affiliation with militias was not random and there are cases of militia violence that can be traced back to feuds that had existed for over a century, with violence on both sides (see for example Rawski, 2002: 84-93, Russell, 2008: 263; Gunter, 2007). In this context, Indonesian brutality provided a new outlet for settling old scores, a feature that the Indonesians deliberately played on in recruiting militia members and subsequent denial of responsibility for their actions (Rawski, 2002: 91-92, 95). This legacy of violence, and the continuity of violent conflict between communities cannot be underestimated, as it has left deep divisions within some communities. 4.6 UN Interregnum (UNTAET): 1999 to 2002 On 25 October 1999, following Indonesia's annulment of the 1976 legislation incorporating Timor Timur, the UN Security Council passed UN Resolution 1272, establishing the UN Transitional Administration in East Timor (UNTAET). UNTAET's mandate was: To provide security and maintain law and order throughout the territory of East Timor; To establish an effective administration; To assist in the development of civil and social services; To ensure the coordination and delivery of humanitarian assistance, rehabilitation and development assistance; To support capacity-building for self-government; and To assist in the establishment of conditions for sustainable development. (Security Council, 1999: 2-3) There is no doubt that UNTAET had their work cut out for them. Despite the level of trauma evident everywhere, Dili was paradoxically orderly: there were "no major crime incidents, nor disturbances, nor evident conflicts of demands" (Federer, 2005: 70). However, as the situation moved past the immediate emergency phase, the complexity of the task ahead began to become apparent. As UNTAET began its work, there were a number of criticisms levelled at the administration's slowness in facilitating Timorese participation (Chesterman, 2002, Gorjao, 2002, Chopra, 2000, Beauvais, 2000, Suhrke, 2001), with many Timorese leaders becoming increasingly vocal about their lack of inclusion. On 11 December 1999, UNTAET established a National Consultative Council (NCC) to facilitate Timorese participation in the rebuilding of their nation. However, many believed that the NCC was a rubber stamp body, with no real decision-making authority (Rodrigues, 2003, Saldanha and Magno, 2003, Cliffe and Rohland, 2003). While some leaders chose to participate, others refused (King's College, 2003: 98). To remedy this growing discontent, on 23 October 2000 UNTAET replaced the NCC with the National Council (NC) that had an increased role in the political process—part of UNTAET's accelerated policy of 'Timorisation'. However, as Federer argues, the claims of lack of Timorese participation show only one aspect of what was becoming an increasingly complex situation. Federer argues that UNTAET's administration is best characterised as going from one extreme to the other in their approach to Timorisation. For the first few months, "it initially acted as though East Timor was a blank slate, a terra nullius" but when this was challenged, UNTAET then "readily capitulated and prematurely shared power with them… before a sufficiently mature political and administrative infrastructure had been constructed" (Federer, 2005: 76). The accelerated process of Timorisation was of particular concern, Federer (2005: 82) argues, as it was carried out in ignorance of the very divided nature of Timorese leadership. While UNTAET tended to turn to CNRT as a constituency that could help them with Timorisation, CNRT was dominated by the Portuguese-speaking older generation of leaders who had fled the Indonesian invasion. This effectively excluded many of the younger Indonesian-speaking leaders who had grown up under occupation, who were often better educated but did not speak the languages of UNTAET, which were essentially English and Portuguese (Federer, 2005: 88, Beauvais, 2000: 1123). Just as importantly, there appeared to be little understanding of the disconnection between the elites who were engaging in national politics and "the isolated, rural population [that] continued its subsistence life as usual, trying to survive and having few, if any, expectations of participation in government processes" (Federer, 2005: 83). This disconnection was fuelled by the UN's focus on economic development that failed to reach beyond Dili, coupled with a failure to establish effective communications and transportation systems (Hill, 2003), which might conceivably have laid the foundation for addressing the growing rural/urban divide. Federer's concerns were echoed by Jarat Chopra (2003) who served as the Head of the Office of District Administration for UNTAET and who argued that the combination of UNTAET's centralist approach, together with its insufficient timeframe, meant that the majority of Timorese were excluded from UNTAET's state building, effectively laying the foundations for future conflict. Under the UNTAET administration, there were District Administrators (DAs) assigned to each of the 13 districts, however a request that another layer of administrators be appointed to support the DAs was rejected for budgetary reasons (Chopra, 2003: 988). As a result, Chopa argues, the District Field Officers, who were in theory responsible for operating at the subdistrict level, were in most cases redirected to support the isolated DA (2003: 988). Not only was UNTAET's deliberately weak regional structure the source of serious criticism because of its impact on local participation, Russell (2008: 157) also notes that UNTAET continued on this course even though they were openly aware it was not an appropriate model for the Timorese. In effect, the tricky issues surrounding administrative devolution of power and local participation in governance were left unattended, to be picked up by the Timorese government come independence (Russell, 2008: 177-79). Given UNTAET's lack of interest in local governance, the hiatus in local-level leadership was filled by the CNRT nurep networks. In most places, as the people began to return from their hiding places in late 1999, a nurep was put in place as chefe de suco Chefe de suco: chief of suku. As Portuguese spelling of local authority figures was used during the UN interregnum, this is reflected in this section of the thesis. The Tetun terms for local authority figures are used in discussions of contemporary local governance arrangements. to keep order in the suku. This was arranged by agreement between Falintil and CNRT representatives and the village elders (Ospina and Hohe, 2001: 64, Russell, 2008: 16, Righetti, 2004: 104). In September 2000, this was followed up by a popular election for the chefe d'aldeia Chefe d’aldeia: chief of aldeia., conducted by the chefe de suco (Ospina and Hohe, 2001: 64-65). At the same time, the World Bank began its Community Empowerment Program (CEP), designed to simultaneously encourage democratic decision-making and distribute much-needed resources at the local level (Ospina and Hohe, 2001, Moxham, 2005). Under the CEP program 416 suku-level Village Development Councils were established, to which over 6400 councillors were directly elected by villagers in over 3000 separate elections that were held in aldeia across Timor-Leste (Ospina and Hohe, 2001: 83). Each Village Development Council was established on a 'one man-one woman' basis. However, the CEP program hit a number of administrative road-blocks. UNTAET was hostile to the idea of Village Development Councils from the beginning, fighting hard to block implementation of the program in 2000 (Russell, 2008: 157, Beauvais, 2000: 1126, Chopra, 2003: 992-94). This had flow-on effects with a lack of communication and coordination between CEP facilitators and UNTAET District Administrators—in some cases District Field Officers did not even realise that CEP came under UNTAET's auspices and hence had no sense of loyalty to the program (Ospina and Hohe, 2001: 129-130). More importantly, the Village Development Councils suffered from lack of local legitimacy within the villages (Bank, 2006: 12). To dovetail into the CNRT elections for chefe de suco and chefe d'aldeia, the CEP excluded these chiefs from election to the Village Development Councils. Traditional leaders were also ineligible to sit on the councils. This proved to be a highly controversial decision, and while Chopra and Hohe suggest that the rationale was to maintain a separation of powers at the local level (Hohe, 2004: 44, Chopra and Hohe, 2004: 296-97), Moxham takes a more cynical view, arguing it represented "a 'civilising' mission: a way to bring a 'one-size-fits-all' democracy to the countryside" (2005: 524). Regardless of the intent of this policy, it ultimately proved to be CEP's downfall. In addition to the exclusion of legitimate leaders, the World Bank's requirement that CEP members be literate meant that that mainly young literate people were elected onto the councils. However, these young people tended to not come from the family groups that were ancestrally empowered to exercise local leadership, a clear indication that they were regarded more as project implementers rather than local leaders (Hohe 2004: 52). As such, the Village Development Councils could not compete with the authority of the chefe de suco (Chopra and Hohe 2004, 296-7), a problem that manifested in various ways. Sometimes the Village Development Council and chefe de suco worked quite well together, but community members would not attend council meetings unless the chefe de suco called them in (Ospina and Hohe, 2001: 127). Other times, there was direct conflict between Village Development Councils and the chefe de suco, as the chefe de suco felt excluded and undermined by the council's power to disburse much-needed resources within the suku (Ospina and Hohe, 2001: 128, Hohe, 2004: 50-51). While the CEP had succeeded in getting resources out to the villages, its primary aim of introducing democratic institutions at the local level was a failure. As Moxham (2005: 522) argues, an underlying flaw within CEP was the inherent tension between speedy resource distribution and the creation of institutional structures designed to encourage local-level democratisation. By privileging the distribution of resources, often according to World Bank priority areas, the CEP allowed insufficient time and care for the encouragement of genuine local participation. Local perceptions of the CEP as an infrastructural development program—as opposed to a democratisation program—were also confirmed in my interviews with xefe suku in 2008 who listed CEP projects as simply another 'NGO project', of interest because of the resources that came into the suku rather than their impact on local-level governance. As UNTAET's administration was to draw to a close on 20 May 2002, the administration shifted its attention to organising two major elections, the successful conduct of which was to showcase the success of the mission. The first election was for a Constituent Assembly (CA) and was conducted on 30 August 2001. The CA's main task was to write the constitution for Timor-Leste, but through majority CA vote they then went on to become the first Legislative Assembly for independent Timor-Leste. The second election was for the President, held on 14 April 2002. However, despite UN claims that the elections were 'free and fair', there were serious concerns expressed over the legitimacy of the CA election in particular. As the swirling politics in Dili became more murky, civic education was one of the areas that fell through the cracks. As Federer (2005: 97-98) shows, while UNTAET had begun preparations for voter education in 2000, they had not consulted sufficiently with Timorese civil society activists who were becoming increasingly disenfranchised. In response to their complaints, UNTAET went back to the drawing board, and it was not until May 2001 that a more acceptable civic education program was ready to begin—only three months prior to the elections for the CA. Not surprisingly, there was vast confusion among most Timorese over the purpose of the CA election, with an Asia Foundation survey showing that "only 5% of the eligible voters correctly stated that the election [was] for a Constituent Assembly. 61% think that the... election is for the presidency" (2001: 4). However, while these results were alarming to say the least, they were not acted on as neither UNTAET nor CNRT president Xanana Gusmão believed the data (Federer, 2005: 97). In addition to the lack of civic education, Hohe (2002b) argues that candidates' campaigning for the election was deliberately designed to mislead and manipulate, cynically using traditional and cultural symbolism that were now deeply entwined with the successful Timorese resistance to Indonesian occupation. She labelled the elections a "totem poll", in which "voters expressed their honour and respect towards their history and cultural values" (Hohe, 2002b: 83). Different parties were able to draw on different aspects of Timorese history and culture. Fretilin were still popularly viewed as the resistance front rather than a political party, so they focussed on their role in the resistance and encouraged people to express their gratitude to those who had died in the struggle by voting for their party (Hohe, 2002b: 76). Two new political parties Partido Democratico (PD) and Partido Social Democratica (PSD) had been formed out of disenchantment with Fretilin politics, and were comprised of younger Bahasa Indonesia-speaking activists and intellectuals (Saldanha, 2008: 74). These two parties emphasised their role in the clandestine and student resistance movement, often using their code names as a centrepiece for their campaigns (Hohe, 2002b: 76). More traditionalist parties—Klibur Oan Timor Asuain (KOTA) and Partido Povo Timor (PPT) focussed on more localised traditional ideas and symbology, emphasising the continuing importance of the liurai within Timor-Leste (Hohe, 2002b: 77). The manipulation did not stop at the cynical use of symbology: one candidate went so far as to claim he was "a relative of Prince Charles of England and a major shareholder in the World Bank" (Federer, 2005: 100). Not only was this candidate not disqualified, he was subsequently elected to the CA and later went on to become a member of the first Legislative Assembly of Timor-Leste. It was no surprise to anyone that Fretilin went on to win the majority of votes, with 43 seats in the national election (representing 57.3% of the vote) and all of the 13 district seats—giving it a total of 56 seats out of 88. The closest rivals were new political parties PD with 7 seats and PSD with 6 seats, both of which appealed to the younger Bahasa Indonesia-speaking generation. Also predictably, Xanana Gusmão, the hero of independence, was elected as President by an overwhelming majority of 83% (King, 2003: 747-749). Aware of his popularity and cynical of the party politics, Gusmão refused to be affiliated with any one political party. Because of this manipulation and the lack of civic education, Hohe dismissed the CA election results as "reflect[ing] the will of a small elite, the diaspora and overseas-educated individuals who knew how to exploit local beliefs" (2002b: 83). Moreover, this was an election held in an environment of heightened emotion. People were still traumatised by the 1999 violence and there was widespread fear across Timor-Leste that the election would result in political violence (Federer, 2005: 99, Asia Foundation, 2001: 3, Hohe, 2002b: 77, Saldanha, 2008: 76). Through portraying themselves as 'the' resistance party, Fretilin capitalised on people's pent up emotion over what they had endured during occupation. As the Indonesians had labelled all opponents to their rule as 'Fretilin', this election represented the chance for the people to express their anger and their grief, as well as their commitment to their hard-won freedom (Federer, 2005: 100). While the UN declared the elections a resounding success, conducted as they were with a high voter turnout of 91.3% and without a single violent incident reported, these other factors reveal a more complex story. In the rush to independence, the majority of the population were left behind as the state apparatus for Timor-Leste was being built around them, with insufficient time to lay the foundations for a meaningful democracy. The efforts that had been made through the CEP program to establish the foundations for local-level governance were undermined by lack of coordination and lack of local legitimacy. Meanwhile, UNTAET retained their focus on building a cheaper, centralised structure, despite their open acknowledgement that this was probably not what the Timorese people ultimately wanted. As numerous commentators have argued, many of these issues could have been avoided if UNTAET had been established over a longer timeframe. This, however, required political will within the UN to spend the time and money to do the job properly—political will that was not available to the fledgling nation. Instead, the national political apparatus was hastily constructed in such a manner that the 'masses' out in the rural areas were left behind as the elites engaged in the business of politics. The result, as Hohe described it, was "a young nation with the appearance of national democratic institutions but unstable at the grassroots" (Hohe, 2004: 44). 4.7 Timor-Leste Since Independence On 20 May 2002, in a celebration that was attended by many international dignitaries but which paradoxically—and perhaps symbolically—shut out most ordinary Timorese, UNTAET's administration ended and the nation of Timor-Leste finally achieved independence. The administrative structure that UNTAET handed to the new Timorese government was highly centralist, and there was much concern expressed at the forced 'nationalisation' of Timorese identity that had never existed before. In response, experts recommended greater devolution to the local level to capitalise on the strong ties within communities, but these recommendations were ignored by the then Fretilin government, which instead tightened central control over local governance (Da Costa Guterres, 2006: 234). Issues around decentralisation and devolution of power continue to be fraught within contemporary Timorese politics. While Article 5 of the Timorese Constitution commits the government to implementing political decentralisation, negotiations over the draft Package of Municipal Laws through which 13 elected regional bodies are to be established have stalled as Parliament debates the various issues involved (Borges 2010). It is yet to be seen what impact decentralisation will have on local governance in Timor-Leste—an issue I return to in chapter eight. At the local level, the konsellu de suku was established through Decree Law 5/2004 by the Fretilin government, formally acknowledging the ongoing role of traditional authorities within the suku of Timor-Leste but with some modernising changes to encourage greater representation for women and young people. The konsellu de suku is thus composed of a mixture of 'old' and 'new' institutional figures. The old institutional figures include the xefe suku, all of the xefes aldeia, one suku elder and one lia-na'in. The new institutional figures include two women's representatives, and two youth representatives—one man, one woman. All members are directly elected by the people of the suku, except the lia-na'in, who is appointed during the first meeting of the konsellu de suku following election into office. As Decree Law 5/2004 was intended as bridging legislation, it has since been replaced with Decree Law 3/2009, following nation-wide consultation conducted by the Timor-Leste government in late 2008. However, an ongoing issue for local governance since the konsellu de suku was created continues to be a lack of resourcing, and subsequent disempowerment, of the elected officials. As we trace through the various stages of foreign occupation in Timor-Leste, it is clear that the common thread for local governance and communal identity has been the centrality of kin-based groups bound together via lisan. Fieldwork strongly demonstrates that this continues to be the case for local governance in independent Timor-Leste, as traditional institutions and dependencies flowing from these institutions operate alongside democratic ideas of legitimacy. The question of how the institution of konsellu de suku fits into this broader governance environment is the focus for the remainder of this thesis. 4