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Dom Bosco World Cup

It was the first time that everyone had a smile on their face. After two plus solid weeks of arson, looting, deaths and dissolution in this deteriorating third world country - the newest nation in the world, gales of laughter were emanating from the refugee/IDP camp on the eastern outskirts of Dili.  The source, under tens playing their own version of the World Cup.

Timor L’este was still in turmoil. The capital Dili, a sprawl of 130,000 folks now found half of its population recast as refugees or IDP’s (internally displaced people), obliged to seek sanctuary outside embassies and UN compounds. The more fortunate crammed inside religious compounds. The cathedrals and monasteries of this devoutly Catholic country.

Dom Bosco, a seminary, is crammed with families.  Frightened or fired out of their homes, ethnically separated into easterners and westerners. The criteria being, those whom live close to the Indonesian border or those from the greener more mountainous East. Dili sits on the north, not quite half way along the coast. The gas and oil lie off shore, the south coast in the Timor straits. Beyond that is OZ.

Timor L’este is a front line state, like its neighbour Papua. Both fantastically resource rich, both Irian Jaya and West Timor under Jakarta’s’ yoke.  Animists and Catholics both feeling subjected by Islam and the agenda of big business for their resources - creating nil synergy, greed and suppression.  Lurking not a long missile lot away, the Chinese and forest purloining Malays.  The Malays agenda doctored by Islamic fundamentalism, sublimated in the economics of ASEAN.  East Timor caught between tacit d’accord to the extremists, placating their home crowd and the commitment to expand economic growth inside the ASEAN community. 

Barely out of liberation & independence in ’99 at a cost of a quarter million lives, those who executed the painful process are now squabbling over democratic principles and access to the goodies. Millions in aid money have streamed into this country, where the average income is below USD0 per annum. What is to be seen for this investment?  Top these details with only 65% literacy and you can understand why unemployment runs at the same number.

When the Indonesians finally pulled out they had stripped the wires off the power and telephone poles, trashed the majority of public buildings and some of them had even defecated all over the hotel rooms and airport lounges. The bitterness and resentment of a quarter century of neo-colonial involvement down the drain. An Antigone built up between the powers in Jakarta and Canberra.

The recent descent into anarchy sparked off by Police and Army grievances and rivalries.  Factures inside the ruling Fretilin party old guard and new, squabbling over the right to assign the limited wealth to their loyal clans. It does not help that civil servants, police or army have received no salaries in over two months.  Preferences bestowed on old mates, the more hard core wing led by Fretilin secretary general, Mari Alkatiri, elected to power and Prime Ministership by a constitution that allowed the majority party to vote internally.  His power therefore is intrinsically entwined with the force of his party’s majority.  
Understanding how Alkatiri came to power explains why the two most charismatic politicians/public figures – Xanana Gusmao and Jose Ramos Horta seem to be almost ‘bit part’ players in all of this.  Both former Fretilin members but both loved by the people.  Having spent time watching them talk and mingle with the Timorese people I can attest to the charisma that exudes from each of them.  Xanana, a dignified ‘Che’ like presence and Ramos Horta the diplomatic statesman.   Ramos Horta has just been made caretaker defence minister while Xanana Gusmao has just discovered how little power he has as President. 

The old saying ‘behind every good man is an even better woman’ may well apply to Xanana Gusmao.  Which takes us back to Dili and the Don Bosco World Cup.  Kirsty Sword Gusmao has a presence as strong as her husbands.  Watching her move among the refugees at Don Bosco, one word came to mind – humanitarian.   A good woman who revealed on ABC’s ‘Australian Story’ that she had in fact worked as an undercover agent for the Timorese resistance movement.  The connection she feels with the people is clearly reciprocated.  She was there to initiate the ‘kick off’ and let everyone know that they would not be the only people on the planet who would not be a part of the World Cup.

Putting together the alternative world cup in the miniature ‘five-a-side’ field produced solidarity amongst the people.  Also an ingenuity and resourcefulness that produced soccer strips that represented previous world cup winners, Brazil, Portugal, Spain, Italy and England.  The lower part of their costumes ran from boardies through to army cut down and patched shorts.   Hair-do’s that reminded us we were supposedly watching Beckham, Kewell and Maradona.  The Fashion Police would have had a field day – yellow cards for every player.

The warm up session continued apace with wheel barrows full of dirt being trundled in to patch large holes pocked across the surface. ‘Arena side’ containers provided vantage points for those living inside them, the stand pipes still served the laundry runs and child latherings.  As the games progressed, the chores were abandoned to the swelling crowd. Flanked by translucent anti-malarial and mosquito banners, Kirsty Sword-Gusmao, held centre court with her two young sons and a very together looking black clad protection unit that stood back discretely, thereby allowing the party atmosphere to prevail.  They left the small media group to shoot freely and up-close at their own tempo. It was so good to see happy faces when only for a moment. The pace of the game was hectic, the dust kicked up like a cattle drive, shafts of late afternoon cooling sun shot magic light across the scene. Initially Malay airborne troopers had stood with M16’s at the corners, fading away to stand and yakka in Bahasa with the IDP’s. Football the leveller.  The peace bringer.  The guns of war firmly muzzled to the ground.

True to island time, the matches kicked off late, shortening the each way play time.  The pitch, a dirt packed oblong with a half meter high surrounding wall.  The rules – rebounds, not throw ins, unless the ball went over the wall into the perched crowd, who had the remit to drop a ball back into play.  Otherwise it was a hockey style face/drop off three paces from the wall.  It was frantic action – the verve and joy of liberated small boys.  Barefoot in the hard dirt.  Just for a while, an afternoon, all the Timorese were one.  The burning and troubles forgotten.  Maybe that’s why it’s called ‘the beautiful game’.

Article ID: 10

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Last Updated: 11-09-2008

Date Created: 11-09-2008