Must care from grass roots and then up From its strength we all share
Not imposed from the top from outside But from where The soul of the people is there.
I became closely associated with these kind, gentle and very poor people because I empathised with their silent suffering, identifying their traumatic experiences as being similar to those of my own people during the Holocaust.
Most East Timorese survivors did not openly talk about their past. However, I heard some terrifying stories and eyewitness accounts of how at least half of their population was murdered.
We lived very basically in East Timor. I had no problems maintaining my kosher diet. One night I even slept in an orphanage in Laga (a remote eastern village), run by Salesian Sisters; four “angels” mothered over one hundred children there, with meagre resources. During dinner, the Mother Superior said to me, “So you come from the land of the Father,” – confusing Israel with Judaism and Australia.
There were only a few hours of electrical power each day and not even every day. Water was electrically pumped. They grew their own food and had a small truckload of rancid maize which had been delivered by the UN food aid program. They seemed to be happy with their lot in life.
I burst into tears when we drove into the orphanage in our four-wheel drive late on Thursday evening and saw the children. They were illuminated only by our headlights, sitting in their orphanage courtyard. We heard their sweet little voices singing some songs of welcome to us in beautiful harmony – pure, harmonious, melodious music from angels in the dark.
That night I slept on a broken old steel bunk bed with a mosquito net hanging all around me. There were my three CNRT15 travelling companions sharing this little room, with frog and insect noises audible from a nearby bog.
15 National Congress for the Reconstruction of East Timor.
But I slept like a baby that night. It was pitch dark until the early morning dawn arrived to beckon us into a new day.
I went for a few hours to Ailieu, a remote village hidden in the mountains which had served as the CNRT headquarters during the Indonesian military occupation and continued to function as such. I met General Cosgrove at a very moving ceremony in which roles were formally handed over and the East Timorese tribal leaders officially wore their tribal attire again and publicly followed their inherited customs for such formal occasions. After that amazing military ceremony I briefed the East Timorese leadership, as requested, regarding a socio-economic model to rebuild their country and then had lunch with their military commander, Matan Ruak, in his house.
So much activity in such a short time.
We drove through much of East Timor. We saw a lot. We did a lot. We worked hard. There was so much to do. And Shabbat was approaching fast.
I had asked my hosts to make sure that I would arrive at the place where we would be sleeping Friday night – wherever it might be – no less than two hours before sunset, so as to have enough time to prepare for Shabbat. I explained to them that from sunset on Friday evening until after dark on Saturday night, I could not drive, but had to rest in one place – my “home” for the Shabbat.
We drove to Baucau (East Timor’s second largest city after its capital, Dili), a coastal town on the eastern side of the island, arriving mid-afternoon. There was an open fruit and vegetable market on both sides of the street in the centre of town. We came to a broken white house which had seen better days under the colonial Portuguese administration some decades ago.
This was to serve as my home for Shabbat. I was shown my room and unpacked my few things. The communal bathroom had a leaking faucet which dripped into an old bathtub which overflowed onto the stone tiled floor, running over the stone floor and out of a hole in the wall into the garden.
The water was very cold. I felt as if I was immersing myself in a traditional mikveh (ritual bath) and imagined myself in Jerusalem on a wintry afternoon two or three thousand years ago. My bathing was extremely brief. I dried myself, feeling frozen but refreshed. I dressed for Shabbat. A few minutes before sunset I lit the two Shabbat candles on a brick in my room and, with my kippah (skullcap) on my head, closed my eyes and made the Shabbat blessing over their flickering light, just as my wife does every Friday evening, as our mothers had done over the years. My blessing felt very deep and meaningful.
I prayed the Kabbalat Shabbat service; then I prayed the evening Shabbat service. I made kiddush over some kosher wine I had brought with me in a small flask. I sang a few zemiroth (songs) in the candlelight and then walked down to a small dining room in the house where my hosts were waiting. There was no electricity. A wood fire burned in the stone fireplace, illuminating the room. Outside, in the courtyard, a young East Timorese girl had cooked a whole fish for me over a small wood fire, by skewering it through with a wooden branch of a tree and turning it slowly over the glowing charcoal. She had also baked a few vegetables on the fire and made me some hot tea to drink. There were also fresh tropical fruits – very sweet and tasty.
This was my Shabbat meal. It was delicious.
During my singing of the grace after meals and again after my recitation of the Shema16 before going to sleep, I thanked the Almighty for everything that He does and for protecting me. I thanked Him for giving us the Shabbat.
16 A liturgical prayer consisting of three Scriptural passages recited twice daily by adult Jewish males to affirm their faith.
The next morning I washed my hands and face before putting on my tallith and reciting the Shabbat morning service. It felt so good and so rich. I sang every word and then took time to read the weekly portion of the Torah reading in English, just to enjoy it and to search for deeper meanings.
After this I made kiddush and indulged myself on a very tasty sweet bar I had brought with me. I sang a few songs, ate some fruit and drank some water.
Shabbat is such a special day. And that Shabbat was particularly special. I sat on a flat rock out in the courtyard under a beautiful tree in the warm tropical sun and read a book I had packed in my knapsack.
Later that morning my hosts took me for a walk around Baucau and we visited the United Nations command post where armed Thai troops were on guard.
Life is so strange at times. A handsome young man in his mid-twenties, casually dressed in a sporty civilian outfit, strolled out of the UN office onto its front verandah. His thick, but unmistakably English-educated Arabic accent pricked the air. We chatted. After a few minutes I asked him where he was from. “From Palestine,” he comfortably responded. Even as a well-travelled young Australian aged fifty, this caught me by surprise.
“Yes, but where in Palestine?” I heard myself ask.
“From Gaza,”, he said.
“I’ve been in Gaza,” I said. “You’re a long way from home. Don’t your people need educated young people like you to build your own country?”
The free scholarship to England and a high, tax-free UN salary appeared to offer a more attractive future to this young Palestinian.
This is the world we live in. “What is in it for me now” is the modus operandi and the culture of choice for so many westernised and privileged individuals. Makes it a bit hard for all the other people.
Thank G-d for Shabbat! It helps make the world an “us” place rather than a “me” place. The values, the ethics, the morality, the community, the continuity – all flow out of Shabbat. Thank G-d for Shabbat.
My flight was being called. I woke up, rubbed my eyes and moved from the lounge to the plane.
As I fastened my seatbelt and my flight departed from Israel, I thought to myself: was a good humus in Abu Ghosh comparable to the Kotel? And was