Chapter 2

      Albert Seda and Stephen Coleman — April 1965

      “Java soldiers, go home! Java soldiers, go home! ” Albert chanted as he marched alongside his friends. “Come on Didi,” he called to a classmate who was struggling to carry a poorly inscribed placard as they were jostled. “Give it to me. I’ll carry it for you. ”

      “We’ll carry it together,” his friend responded, moving closer to Albert while raising the sign above the heads of the others.

      They continued with the chant and soon their numbers swelled as hundreds of senior school students joined in the demonstration and headed towards the mayor’s office.

      “Java soldiers, go home! Java soldiers, go home! ” the crowd yelled in unison as they boldly took their positions directly outside the military official’s building. Their spirits were high. They were enjoying the moment and the thrill of challenging the Jakarta officials.

      As they continued to chant and call for the Mayor to show his face, the students failed to notice the soldiers move quickly into position. One of the boys threw a rock through the Mayor’s front window and within moments others followed with a hail of missiles they had picked up off the road.

      A volley of shots cracked through the air over the demonstrator’s heads sending the students into a frenzied panic as they broke ranks and ran, knowing that their lives were in danger. A squad of soldiers trained in riot control moved forward quickly with their rifles held out directly in front, the deadly bayonets fixed alongside the muzzle of their weapons. As they were confronted by the mass of youngsters who pushed each other in their attempts to flee, the sharp blades glistened brightly as they moved savagely from side to side cutting through flesh and cloth amidst the screams and cries of disbelief.

      When he first heard the shots, Father Douglas was uncertain but when these were followed by the frightening screams which pierced the tranquillity of his small church, the priest knew for certain that the rumours had become fact. The students were demonstrating.

      Immediately he feared for them all and crossed himself quickly. They were just children. Foolish children at that, forever challenging the authority of their new colonialists, the Javanese. Father Douglas rose quickly from his knees and ran to the church’s side entrance. He opened the heavy teak doors and peered cautiously towards the main street and the incredible noise. He was stunned by the scene before him.

      It was as if the streets were engulfed by white, breaking waves as the mass of students ran hysterically, yelling and screaming as they fled from the barrage of bullets and soldiers’ bayonets. Two of the youngsters ran towards the church. Suddenly, the staccato sound of automatic fire hammered at his ears and both the students fell to the ground. Father Douglas closed and bolted the church doors.

      Albert Seda had not, at first, been as fortunate as his young stepbrother, Nathan. Bitter since childhood at the injustices that the Javanese soldiers had inflicted on the Timorese, Albert spent considerable time in the company of priests at the local Catholic church. Early on, Father Douglas identified the young man’s ability as a student and coached him, helping Albert become fluent in English.

      The priest’s hopes that Albert might even enter the priesthood were dashed when Albert, involved in the student rally, found himself incarcerated by the local garrison commander on charges of sedition.

      Albert had not really planned to attend the group rally. Like many of his friends he was just caught up in the excitement of the moment and the opportunity to protest on behalf of his people. He believed that to be his right. His responsibility.

      The students, all teenagers experiencing the first euphoria of knowledge without the benefit of an adult life’s exposure to disappointment and frustration, had gathered with placards pointedly aimed at the suffocating economic and military stranglehold the Jakarta-based garrison commanders had imposed on this poor province.

      Almost without exception the young boys and girls originated from humble and still struggling rural families whose parents, as had theirs before them, suffered the harsh hand-to-mouth existence of the impoverished farmer. They had seen the soldiers enter their homes demanding and taking whatever they wanted. Forced at gunpoint to stand by silent and helpless, they had witnessed the rape of their mothers, sisters and friends. At least one member of virtually every family in his village had suffered the humiliation and terror of being dragged outside their houses in full public view, where they were stripped, taunted and taken behind the trees where they were abused and left to struggle back home, their spirits broken from the torment and physical violation.

      They were angry but they were also naive. Had their parents known of their intent to demonstrate they would have forbidden such a rash and provocative act. There were less than two hundred students in the demonstration. The local garrison duty officer dispatched fifty well-trained troops. The results were devastating. When it was all over four dissidents lay dead. At least another twenty were seriously injured. Only a few of the youths escaped beatings and many just disappeared.

      Their parents lived in hope that their children had been taken to another province for indoctrination courses but, in their hearts, they knew that it was unlikely that they would ever see them again. And, of course, they had other and younger children to care for, to protect.

      Albert had been fortunate to survive the soldiers’first onslaught. He was knocked unconscious during the first few minutes as the soldiers commenced their methodical and brutal attack. When he awoke, he was shackled and in a dark foul smelling cell with two other detainees. It was then he realised that, although he was lucky to be alive, he had been locked up in the Lubang Maut, or Death Hole, underneath the detention cells within the garrison walls.

      These fearful cells had been built by Dutch plantation owners. Originally intended to break the spirits of peasants who protested the confiscation of their land, now they were used to deal with Timorese freedom fighters — what the Indonesians called political agitators. Now the underground caverns held the children of those who had struggled before them. Now the colonists