Elizabete's Story (page
2 of 9) Back Next
Brave individuals with
a strong sense of identity and pride for their warrior kings rebelled
against the Portuguese control. Some were sent into exile to other Portuguese
colonies. Our Noble Peace Prize laureate, Jose Ramos Horta, was sent to
Mozambique. So was my father for making complaints about unjust recognition
in the workplace and for being one of the founders of the first East Timorese
social club which allowed and welcomed East Timorese dressed in their
indigenous costumes. All the other existing social clubs operated by the
Portuguese did not allow such custom. In the workforce, the leading positions
were giving to the Portuguese workers regardless of their incompetence.
The more capable East Timorese workers were not given career advancements,
nor monetary recognition, even though they would successfully complete
highly skilled projects. The Portuguese workers were the ones rewarded
in the place of the East Timorese. Numerous times, my father was victim
of such affronts and complained vigorously to no avail. Instead, he was
advised by the fascist controlling force, PIDI, to take on a job contract
in Mozambique for 4 years; he either accepted the offer or he would face
a jail sentence for his anti-colonial expressions. My father pretended
to accept the contract with the intentions of escaping while travelling.
When his flight stopped in Darwin and he was accommodated at a seaside
hotel for three days, my father walked away from his exile sentence with
his luggage on his back and with the hope of finding somewhere to hide
and make his return back to his homeland.
He did not know the Portuguese were spying on him; they caught him and
forced him into a taxi, led him to the airport and saw him onto a plane
bound for Mozambique. One year later, in mid 1972, my father called us
to Mozambique. I left my country of birth with my mother, my two brothers
and a baby sister when I was seven years old. My maternal grandmother
was at Dili airport on the morning we left; saying good bye to her was
my first heart wrenching experience. Tears streamed down my face like
torrential rain, my lips trembled as I gasped air in desperation as if
I was going to die of suffocation. If my grandmother cried or not, I don't
remember, most likely she did. I don't remember seeing anybody else cry,
but my mother. We cried as we walked to the plane and as we waved goodbye
out the window and we cried for the next hour in the plane. My little
soul must have guessed what was ahead of us.
Eighteen years later when my grandmother came to visit us in Melbourne,
I could not communicate with her anymore. I could not speak the three
languages she knew: Tetum, Hakka and Bahasa Indonesia. And she could not
speak the two languages I knew: Portuguese and English. A big black hole
emptied my heart. And on her face I saw a terrible awkwardness as if she
was extremely uncomfortable being in that situation. But underneath that
outer layer of expression I saw an even deeper distress: a clash of bitterness
and hope, of courage and fear, of a lifetime of hardship and heartbreak
pulled together by a boundless will to see her country succeed. This will
empowered her to fend for herself in vicious environments and stopped
her from fleeing her homeland, like many of her family members did.
