An Indonesia police officer checks for a pulse on an East Timor man after he was shot by police.
If you examine the history of East Timor, it has had its share of violence.
In 1702 the Portuguese took control of the island and moved the capital to Dili. Along the way, there have been several rebellions. The Dutch and Australian occupied the island during World War II.
In 1975 Indonesia invaded and took control of all provinces. In the years following there was an active pro-independence movement. In 1991 in the cemetery of Santa Cruz in Dili, Indonesian troops shot and killed 250 pro-independence protestors.
In 1998 Indonesia president B. J. Habibie offered an independence referendum and asked the United Nations to hold it. The majority of the people of East Timor welcomed it.
But others didn't. Leading up to the vote on 30 August 1999, there had been violence between pro-independence factions and the others aligned with Indonesia, mostly armed paramilitary groups.
I arrived there on Aug. 30, 1999, to help my friends Charlie Dharapak and Firdia Lisnawati, both fellow wire service photographers, to cover the election. Dili airport was a cluster of old buildings and a lot of faded paint and had seen better days. I grabbed my gear and met up with Charlie. Associated Press television had rented a house in town as a base. It was spacious and offered enough working space, a common area as well as a kitchen. A cook and her husband were caretakers as well. I settled into a room, unpacked and set up my laptop computer.
In a short time, Charlie and I were told of a demonstration down the street from the house. It seems demos were happening everywhere in Dili that day.
Since Charlie was already working photos he had shot earlier I grabbed my cameras and headed out the door following an APTV cameraman. We hopped inside a van with a large sliding door and headed off.
Minutes later we had all piled out and began filming a large gathering of East Timorese and what looked like paramilitary. The paramilitary was easy to spot; they were the one wearing camouflage pants and black t-shirts. I was attacked immediately by three armed men with clubs. One of them kicked the digital camera I had around my neck on a camera strap, with a wide lens. The others swung but missed.
My next move was to run. As I sprinted back to where the van was parked, I was horrified to see it leaving. I caught up, banged on the sliding door all the while screaming for help. It was clear that if caught by the thugs who had just assaulted me, it would not be good. The APTV cameraman slid the door open, and I dove in head first.
Once back at the house I dusted myself off and assessed the damaged to my gear. My ultra wide lens, necessary for use with digital cameras because of a magnification issue, was destroyed. It no longer would focus. I was skinned up on my arms but other than that no other problems.
An hour later word came that the factions were at it again at the same intersection. This time it seemed the paramilitary thugs had slipped away and the East Timorese were yelling at Indonesian police officers in brown uniforms.
Out of the corner of my vision I caught sight of a young man carrying his flip flops and running. I watched as he turned and yelled back at the policemen. My view of him was lost for a brief second as passed near a parked car and it then that I hear gunfire. As I ran out from behind the car, I saw the man lying in a pool of his blood. He was dead. Somehow I managed to make several photos of the man dead being checked by an older policeman before once again I was running for the safety of the van.
Back at the house, Charlie grabbed my disk and began working the images.
Out on the streets now it was chaos. Plenty of noise, mostly men shouting on loudspeakers and occasional gunfire.
The next morning APTV and Charlie had left to cover a rally, I sat at a kitchen table drinking a cup of jet black East Timorese coffee. It was like a triple shot of espresso.
Suddenly the maid was running, past me and as I turned, watched her leap over a six-foot wall with all the grace of east Texas deer. Then her husband though not as graceful made the same move.
What was going on I asked myself? I ventured outside to see a mob, about half a block away heading my direction. I was not going to stick around to see if they like Americans.
My only chance was to get in touch with Firdia and see if she could convince someone to rescue me. Less than five minutes later she showed on a small Honda motorcycle. I piled onboard with my gear. Firdia had become a stringer living in Dili and had a room at a local guesthouse. The guesthouse, the Turismo, was to become my home for the next two days.
I managed to set up an office in one of the rooms at the Turismo Hotel. The place was full of stringers for several newspapers and news agencies. My next door neighbor, a black man, was working for the New York Times. He kept a mattress up against the door at all times. It was Aug 26th, 1999. Four days away from the vote.
The crew managed to stay in Dili and cover the United Nations-backed election. The voting turnout was significant for the island.
Someone delivered a processed roll of color film to me. It was shots of an East Timorese man, armed with a bow and arrow, tears streaming down his face and severed heads on poles lining the path to his village.
The intimidation each got a little worse.
My most vivid memory of this time came while waiting at a makeshift morgue in Dili. The day before armed thugs had attacked a young man and his family. The paramilitary thugs beat him to death. His body now was lying on a rickety table with candles all around.
I waited for about an hour, and then the man's father and mother showed up. The photographs I made that morning still haunt me to this day. The grief and the total helplessness they exhibited were moving beyond words.
The United Nations at this point was powerless to do anything. They had come to monitor an election not stop a civil war.
As a photojournalist, it had become terrifying. None of us knew what would come next. We traveled if at all in packs and stayed as close to the hotel as possible.
The paramilitary packs seemed to have vanished the day of the election. We learned later the East Timorese had voted 75 percent in favor of leaving Indonesian control.
That night the paramilitary units began burning down the neighborhoods and executing anyone they thought to be pro-independence. By morning it was clear those of us left covering the story would have to make a run for it. A police truck showed up outside the Turismo, and we all piled aboard.
The heads of other news agencies had arranged a charter flight from Bali. We all got on board. There we no tickets or seat assignments and we loaded our baggage into the plane's cargo hold.
Once in Bali I decided to stick around there as there we refugee coming from the ongoing violence in Dili. I heard rumors of mass killings. They turned out not to be true. Eventually, the United Nations landed a peacekeeping force, but for many East Timorese, it was too late.
In 1702 the Portuguese took control of the island and moved the capital to Dili. Along the way, there have been several rebellions. The Dutch and Australian occupied the island during World War II.
In 1975 Indonesia invaded and took control of all provinces. In the years following there was an active pro-independence movement. In 1991 in the cemetery of Santa Cruz in Dili, Indonesian troops shot and killed 250 pro-independence protestors.
In 1998 Indonesia president B. J. Habibie offered an independence referendum and asked the United Nations to hold it. The majority of the people of East Timor welcomed it.
But others didn't. Leading up to the vote on 30 August 1999, there had been violence between pro-independence factions and the others aligned with Indonesia, mostly armed paramilitary groups.
I arrived there on Aug. 30, 1999, to help my friends Charlie Dharapak and Firdia Lisnawati, both fellow wire service photographers, to cover the election. Dili airport was a cluster of old buildings and a lot of faded paint and had seen better days. I grabbed my gear and met up with Charlie. Associated Press television had rented a house in town as a base. It was spacious and offered enough working space, a common area as well as a kitchen. A cook and her husband were caretakers as well. I settled into a room, unpacked and set up my laptop computer.
In a short time, Charlie and I were told of a demonstration down the street from the house. It seems demos were happening everywhere in Dili that day.
Since Charlie was already working photos he had shot earlier I grabbed my cameras and headed out the door following an APTV cameraman. We hopped inside a van with a large sliding door and headed off.
Minutes later we had all piled out and began filming a large gathering of East Timorese and what looked like paramilitary. The paramilitary was easy to spot; they were the one wearing camouflage pants and black t-shirts. I was attacked immediately by three armed men with clubs. One of them kicked the digital camera I had around my neck on a camera strap, with a wide lens. The others swung but missed.
My next move was to run. As I sprinted back to where the van was parked, I was horrified to see it leaving. I caught up, banged on the sliding door all the while screaming for help. It was clear that if caught by the thugs who had just assaulted me, it would not be good. The APTV cameraman slid the door open, and I dove in head first.
Once back at the house I dusted myself off and assessed the damaged to my gear. My ultra wide lens, necessary for use with digital cameras because of a magnification issue, was destroyed. It no longer would focus. I was skinned up on my arms but other than that no other problems.
An hour later word came that the factions were at it again at the same intersection. This time it seemed the paramilitary thugs had slipped away and the East Timorese were yelling at Indonesian police officers in brown uniforms.
Out of the corner of my vision I caught sight of a young man carrying his flip flops and running. I watched as he turned and yelled back at the policemen. My view of him was lost for a brief second as passed near a parked car and it then that I hear gunfire. As I ran out from behind the car, I saw the man lying in a pool of his blood. He was dead. Somehow I managed to make several photos of the man dead being checked by an older policeman before once again I was running for the safety of the van.
Back at the house, Charlie grabbed my disk and began working the images.
Out on the streets now it was chaos. Plenty of noise, mostly men shouting on loudspeakers and occasional gunfire.
The next morning APTV and Charlie had left to cover a rally, I sat at a kitchen table drinking a cup of jet black East Timorese coffee. It was like a triple shot of espresso.
Suddenly the maid was running, past me and as I turned, watched her leap over a six-foot wall with all the grace of east Texas deer. Then her husband though not as graceful made the same move.
What was going on I asked myself? I ventured outside to see a mob, about half a block away heading my direction. I was not going to stick around to see if they like Americans.
My only chance was to get in touch with Firdia and see if she could convince someone to rescue me. Less than five minutes later she showed on a small Honda motorcycle. I piled onboard with my gear. Firdia had become a stringer living in Dili and had a room at a local guesthouse. The guesthouse, the Turismo, was to become my home for the next two days.
I managed to set up an office in one of the rooms at the Turismo Hotel. The place was full of stringers for several newspapers and news agencies. My next door neighbor, a black man, was working for the New York Times. He kept a mattress up against the door at all times. It was Aug 26th, 1999. Four days away from the vote.
The crew managed to stay in Dili and cover the United Nations-backed election. The voting turnout was significant for the island.
Someone delivered a processed roll of color film to me. It was shots of an East Timorese man, armed with a bow and arrow, tears streaming down his face and severed heads on poles lining the path to his village.
The intimidation each got a little worse.
My most vivid memory of this time came while waiting at a makeshift morgue in Dili. The day before armed thugs had attacked a young man and his family. The paramilitary thugs beat him to death. His body now was lying on a rickety table with candles all around.
I waited for about an hour, and then the man's father and mother showed up. The photographs I made that morning still haunt me to this day. The grief and the total helplessness they exhibited were moving beyond words.
The United Nations at this point was powerless to do anything. They had come to monitor an election not stop a civil war.
As a photojournalist, it had become terrifying. None of us knew what would come next. We traveled if at all in packs and stayed as close to the hotel as possible.
The paramilitary packs seemed to have vanished the day of the election. We learned later the East Timorese had voted 75 percent in favor of leaving Indonesian control.
That night the paramilitary units began burning down the neighborhoods and executing anyone they thought to be pro-independence. By morning it was clear those of us left covering the story would have to make a run for it. A police truck showed up outside the Turismo, and we all piled aboard.
The heads of other news agencies had arranged a charter flight from Bali. We all got on board. There we no tickets or seat assignments and we loaded our baggage into the plane's cargo hold.
Once in Bali I decided to stick around there as there we refugee coming from the ongoing violence in Dili. I heard rumors of mass killings. They turned out not to be true. Eventually, the United Nations landed a peacekeeping force, but for many East Timorese, it was too late.
