| BUSINESSWEEK ONLINE : SEPTEMBER 20, 1999 ISSUE | ||||||||
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| INTERNATIONAL BUSINESS
Trapped in Dili, a Reporter Gets a Taste of Terror Lisa Rose Weaver, a freelance journalist based in Jakarta, spent two weeks in East Timor before being forced out by the violence. Here is her account: The militias reminded me of urban gangs. We--the journalists and U.N. staff there to monitor the East Timor independence vote--would see them sitting on the low wall just feet from the hotel where we had our morning coffee. Armed, and uniformed in black, long-sleeved jerseys, they cast us cold, hostile stares. Many had long hair or tattoos. Most looked angry and poor. Often they shouted at us to ''go home.'' We had heard stories of those who tried to negotiate their roadblocks in the countryside and got a machete embedded in their windshield. In the days leading up to the independence vote, they mostly kept their distance. We thought that if we kept ours, we would be safe. But the feeling of security was temporary. In the days that followed, these men chased us through the streets, pinned us inside the U.N. compound with gunfire and threats, and leveled a gun at my chest. But that was nothing compared to what they would do to the Timorese. In their campaign of destruction in East Timor, hundreds were reported killed. Tens of thousands were marched to the sea, terrorized by Indonesian soldiers firing volleys from automatic weapons over their heads, and loaded onto ships, according to witnesses who escaped. Buildings and homes were burned and looted. Before I was safely evacuated from Dili, I had a taste of the horrors to come. On Sept. 1, another journalist and I ventured toward the U.N. compound. In streets electric with tension, we saw independence supporters pelting the militia with rocks. Within minutes, a large group of militiamen was chasing us toward the compound, throwing rocks and brandishing swords. Just before ducking inside the U.N. gate, I stood in their path long enough to see faces contorted with rage and bodies bent on destruction. In the hours that followed, they surrounded the U.N. compound and shot up its walls as we crouched inside. Smoke belched from the houses they had set on fire. As gunfire echoed from behind the compound, a stream of terrified people came scrambling over the wall and into the auditorium. Old women carried toddlers and bundles of belongings, a look of weariness and dread on their faces. Some hid under tables. Most tried to calm wailing children. Eventually, someone among them led them in song, a Catholic prayer in the local Tetum language. U.N. staff tried to tell themselves everything would be O.K. ''This is just a temporary event that hopefully will pass very quickly,'' said Patrick Bradley, an election observer from Northern Ireland. But by Sept. 4, the day the vote was announced, what should have been a celebration for independence was instead muted and ambiguous. Virtually no cars, other than those evacuating the city, were on the road. Indonesian police erected barricades to block all approaches to the Mahkota Hotel, where most journalists were staying and where the U.N. had announced the vote tally just an hour before. But the authorities failed to stop one militiaman from sauntering through the barricades, pulling out a submachine gun, and rushing the hotel's front entrance. Journalists fled back inside. Armed men returned to the hotel several times that day and the next. Since my hotel had no food and few telephone lines, I ventured out to another hotel, the Turismo. Once darkness fell and I had no safe transport, I decided to settle in for the night. The gunfire began in earnest after dark, coming closer as the night wore on. One journalist came rushing through the garden saying: ''We've got to get out of this place.'' The following morning, we did. The militia made sure of it, roaming hallways to tell us to leave. Some 200 U.N. workers and 2,500 people they sheltered remained behind in the U.N. compound. For us, the police provided trucks to the airport, where we boarded a chartered plane. As it lifted out of Dili, I could see masses of refugees crowding the docks like colorful ants. Smoke spiraled from the horizon. Just hours later, there would be much, much more. _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ BACK TO TOP |
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