Читать книгу The Timor Man - Kerry B Collison - Страница 15

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 were Javanese, and they demonstrated their cruelty to excess.

He was beaten repeatedly each morning and, for some perverse reason, always within an hour of being fed the maggot-infested food. He was obliged to urinate and defecate within a one-metre radius of the damp corner to which his right leg was shackled. He was repulsed by the foul smells in the dungeon, suffering nausea and choking convulsions. Soon he sank into despair, punctuated by periods of prayer. Albert had no idea how long he had been detained.

Then one day he was savagely prodded to his feet. A length of rotan was extended towards him at the end of which hung the key for his chains. These he clumsily unshackled, dropping the key into the slime around his feet several times before mastering its use. Even his jailers moved away from their prisoner to avoid the stench. The soldiers forced him to sit in the prison courtyard where he was roughly hosed down to remove the accumulated filth from his incarceration.

He remained silent during this cleansing, his eyes shut tight against the brilliance of the sunlight. He had, Albert later discovered, not been held more than three weeks but he felt as if he had become an old man. Recovery was slow and extremely painful. His spirit was all but broken. His friends had all gone. Only his stepmother cared for him, the others too frightened to admit to his relationship with their family. He spent weeks, sitting quietly alone, living with the fear that the soldiers might return to take him back for further interrogation.

And then, one day, a visitor came. At first he did not know Father Douglas, the blue-eyed priest who had taught him English, but when recognition came, Albert broke down and sobbed uncontrollably. The priest, at his mother’s desperate behest, had come to help him escape. Father Douglas had pleaded the young man’s case with the local authorities and agreed to arrange to have Albert sent overseas with the Church, should the Commandant arrange his release. Being a man of God did not deter the Father from encouraging the officer to accept a small token of the church’s appreciation, without which, Albert’s release would have been impossible.

After a tearful good bye to his family, Albert and the priest took the road to the coast and boarded a fishing boat. It was not until they arrived in Darwin five days later that Albert could really believe that he had escaped and that he was to spend the rest of his life in another country.

Albert was permitted a visa for entry into Australia and commenced studies in Melbourne. Within a year he met a young female staff member in the immigration hostel and fell in love. Two years from the anniversary of his release from prison, Albert Seda married. Immigration officials who investigated his case were satisfied that the union was genuine and subsequently permitted him to stay as a migrant. Initially he obtained casual employment at the hostel, acting as an in-house interpreter.

Three years after his brief detention in the Kupang barracks, Albert was earning a substantial salary teaching Indonesian to Australian diplomats prior to their taking up posts in Jakarta. Father Douglas had been careful to communicate Albert’s deep-rooted anti-Soekarno feelings to a friend in government. This made Albert’s credentials acceptable and the father’s friend then arranged for Albert’s security clearance to teach. Suddenly, life was extremely pleasant for the good looking young Timorese.

Albert took advantage of all the opportunities available to him. He eagerly commenced evening classes undertaking a rigorous study schedule. He laboured late into the evenings. He worked through the weekends while others relaxed or played. He was highly motivated.

The young Timorese never forgot the cruel beatings. He stayed away from any involvement with political movements which he associated with too many memories of pain and humiliation. Now he had responsibilities. He was married. He now lived far away from the terror of his childhood and had been given a second chance by God. He would work hard!

Albert’s wife, Mary, maintained her position at the hostel, working as an administrative assistant. She was so proud of her handsome husband. She knew Albert worked and studied diligently to ensure their future together although she often wished he would take more time for them to be together.

Mary’s father, an Irish immigrant who worked occasionally between dole cheques, despised his dark son-in-law. Like the majority of blue-collar workers in the postwar years, Patrick O’Malley, with a dozen or so beers under his belt, would make the most of any opportunity to parade his prejudices, to sneer at anyone who was not white, Anglo-Saxon and Catholic.

Xenophobia was rife in Australia. Australians feared that waves of yellow-skinned narrow-eyed races would descend upon their Lucky Country and take it all away. The immigration authorities even prevented Asian applicants from gaining entry by introducing a system of discriminatory procedures which presented them with the most appalling obstacles.

Paddy, even when reasonably sober, could not differentiate between the various ethnic groups originating from Asia. Like many other Aussies, he believed that if you looked Asian, you were either a ‘bloody Jap’ or a ‘bloody Chink’. He neither knew nor cared that such derogatory outbursts branded Australians as insecure white racists.

“Bloody yellow Chinese bastards!” Paddy would yell down the saloon bar at this favourite local on Friday nights. ”Come down here and seduce our lovely ladies they do, and before you know it the whole bloody country will be overrun by the bastards!”

During the small wedding breakfast organised at the hostel, Paddy, a reluctant guest of honour, drank himself into his usual ugly, inebriated state. Hopelessly confused and adrift from reality, O’Malley, enraged at Albert’s impudence in kissing Mary, ordered his new son-in-law outside for a thrashing. Mrs O’Malley, ashamed and embarrassed, attempted to save the party. As she dragged her husband home, he continued yelling and screaming drunken abuse, threatening to feed Albert’s testicles to the local shearer’s dogs.

Yet Mary loved her father Paddy. She could not understand why he could not appreciate her handsome husband who would one day produce Paddy’s first grandchild. Mary’s eyes glazed over as she slipped away into one of her frequent daydreams, imagining herself pregnant, and then holding her own baby, nestled calmly between her breasts. Had she realised her father’s revulsion at the mere idea of his daughter bearing a half-Asian child, of sullying his family’s pure Irish lineage, then Mary might have been a little more circumspect during her father’s birthday dinner.

Paddy had invited the local drinking team to help celebrate his fiftieth birthday. If the truth be known, Paddy invited his mates simply because it was traditional for guests to bring more alcohol than they could reasonably expect to consume. O’Malley estimated that the surplus would stock his larder for at least two weeks. The lads were more than aware of Paddy’s sensitivities; however they could not resist the temptation nor the opportunity to stir the little Irishman along, to see his nostrils flare with rage.

“Well then, Paddy,” Pete Davies commenced, winking in the direction of his drinking associates, “when will we hear the patter of little feet around here?”

“When hell freezes over!” Paddy responded, eyes narrowing a little as the blood pressure rose and his muscles tightened. He did not appreciate this type of talk. Having his daughter married to the Timorese was bad enough; having her procreate with the man would be socially unforgivable!

Mary, unfortunately for all present, happened to overhear the rejoinder and slipped up behind her father, placing her arms around most of his enlarged stomach. “Looks like next year will be a very cold year then dad.” Mary insinuated, not realising that she had struck her father straight through the heart in front of all of his drinking mates.

“I will make you a grandfather, yet,” Albert added.

There was a hush. The men knew Paddy only too well. He was going to blow, and they did not wish to be on the receiving end of his temper, drunk or sober. His face turned scarlet as his chronically abused heart forced itself into overdrive in line with the adrenalin surge.

O’Malley bellowed with rage. Just once. Then he collapsed. Guests and family alike stood rooted as Paddy’s body fell limp to the floor. It was all over in just a few seconds. He had roared once, then died. The ambulance arrived within the half hour and Albert, sensing the mood, left his wife alone with her grief and her emotional family friends.

Mary and Albert never did begin the family she had hoped for. The guilt of her father’s death ruined all chance of Mary and Albert having a normal happy married life. After the funeral the Seda household became quiet. Albert continued his studies, deliberately staying up late to permit Mary the opportunity to go to sleep before he retired.

He was extremely self conscious. He imagined that friends and acquaintances would whisper behind his back regarding his father-in- law’s untimely heart attack, saying he was responsible.

As months wore on his self confidence returned, and he learned to tolerate the bigoted Australian middle-class attitudes.

He concentrated his energies on his new teaching position. The challenge of preparing the young trainees from the government departments was rewarding and, generally speaking, Albert found the quality of these potential diplomats and consular employees surprisingly high.

He was one of a number of teaching staff selected to train the students in the formal use of the Indonesian language, Bahasa Indonesia. He rarely experienced animosity from the students as they identified a genuine willingness on his part to assist. It was this sincerity that enabled him to establish close bonds with them. Albert had found his niche. He was content although his co-workers often remained aloof. He had conditioned himself to ignore the social difficulties which existed between the staff members. Some academics publicly supported full racial integration while secretly concealing their distaste for mixed marriages. Amongst their number there were fathers who cringed at the very thought of their daughters marrying someone like Mary’s “Alburp”, as Seda was so unkindly referred to when out of earshot.

His recently acquired nick-name stuck when an instructor from the French department grossly embellished an incident which occurred during a formal dinner for the newly appointed finance director. Unaccustomed to the paté, Seda had burped during a lull between speeches and, visibly embarrassed, had then broken wind causing those sitting nearest to pale considerably. Mary had attempted to make light of the matter, but Albert’s silence subsequent to the incident indicated all too clearly how deeply sensitive he was to the caustic comments and the general attitude of his fellow teachers. Over a period of time his embarrassment turned to disappointment and, eventually, indifference.

The students continued to warm to Albert. They sensed a sincerity that was not evident with other instructors. He gave his leisure hours to assist them and often ventured into their individual worlds to nourish relationships which soon developed beyond that of teacher and student. Often he would recount his student days in Timor, earning their admiration for his stand against the authorities. He never discussed his internment. This was part of his earlier life’s horrors which he attempted to purge from his mind.

The memory could never be completely erased. He resisted the temptation to solicit their sympathy. No, these past nightmares were his, and his alone. Often, when the day’s stress prevented Seda from sleeping soundly, the nightmares would recur and he would awaken, screaming, to find himself drenched with perspiration. His nightmares were real; they filled his dreams with the terror of his incarceration in that stinking hell hole in Kupang, the detention centre for subversives.

Albert was already in his fifth year at the institution. It had grown considerably as a result of Australia’s commitment in Vietnam. He taught Malay and Indonesian which, although basically the same languages, were just different enough to warrant separate courses. The 1965 course had commenced two months before, soon after the new year. Twenty students had been accepted from over one thousand applicants. Three were Foreign Affairs officers, and the remainder a mixture from the armed forces and government bodies such as AID and information agencies.

Albert was part of a five member teaching team responsible to the Director of Studies. The director coordinated the language courses and, in turn, reported to the college head, a Defence Department appointee. The courses were designed to produce graduates fluent in the target languages. Very few of the new intake had any previous exposure to the Asian languages as these were not taught in Australian schools.

The Malay Emergency, followed by the Indonesian ‘ Konfrontasi ’ movement finally convinced the government of the need to develop an Asian language institution. Premises were located within an existing defence establishment and lecturers were scrounged from wherever they could be found. The need for extensive security inquiries reduced the pool of potential instructors to a small but talented group of men and women who were expected to produce linguists in the incredibly short period of just one year!

Father Douglas had provided the information required to fill in the blanks in Albert Seda’s past. Security had been impressed with his anti-Soekarno stand and the priest’s recommendations. He was cleared for the low-level security position almost without reservation. There had been some concern that this young man was anti-military; however lengthy discussions with Albert convinced the department that this was not so. It was understood that his animosity was directed at the Indonesian military machine and not the Australian armed forces. Had they persisted, Albert would have admitted that, in fact, he had a deep rooted hatred for all military groups but was realistic enough to realise that he had to say what they wanted to hear.

The Indonesian community in Melbourne was relatively small. Albert avoided his former countrymen and had it not been for an occasional visit to Radio Australia and the presence of two other Indonesian instructors, he would have had no contact at all. Occasionally a letter would arrive from his village. Father Douglas had been sent to Sumatra and his replacement refused to assist to forward correspondence from his family. He felt the sadness the migrant experienced on foreign soil once contact with family is broken. A few requests for funds had managed to survive the inadequacies of the postal system, and these always arrived months after the originator had put pen to paper. It was impractical to send money directly to Indonesia. Rupiah were not available in Melbourne, and Australian currency was unknown and not able to be cashed in Kupang. American dollars would certainly be stolen from the mail and postal notes or cheques were hopeless.

The solution was to entrust cash to a courier, but these opportunities were few and far between. At year’s end he would occasionally seek the assistance of graduating students destined for Jakarta. Some would assist, but there were always those who would not, for fear of violating the currency regulations and thereby jeopardising their positions. Once in Jakarta, an embassy official had little difficulty in assisting with such trivial matters.

Albert was reluctant to send money via his stepbrother, Nathan. Occasionally he dispatched letters or small parcels directly to Nathan seeking his assistance as it was unlikely that postal items addressed to a military officer would suffer the same fate as mail bearing a civilian destination. He preferred not to encourage the relationship with Nathan as the Australian Government was unaware of his family association. He was concerned that, as his stepbrother had risen to the rank of colonel, then perhaps they may review his security clearance should the relationship come to light. His earlier declarations would be challenged and he would be dismissed, perhaps even charged, and sent to jail. He was well aware of the Australian paranoia when it came to Asians.

Albert shuddered involuntarily at the thought of being deported. Quickly he dismissed the thought and decided it would not be in his best interests to make further contact with Nathan. He really felt nothing for the man anyway, he justified in his mind. After all, was his brother not one of them now, fighting and killing as the others had done throughout the bloody Revolution? He guessed that Nathan was most probably unaware of Albert’s good fortune as previous communications had been formal and uninformative. Nathan had merely been a convenient conduit to Kupang for his remaining family.

Albert rocked his head from side to side, a habit he had developed when alone and deep in thought. He believed that his relationship to Nathan would eventually jeopardise his position, and decided that he would discontinue all communication with his stepbrother; he would write to his family instructing them not to mention him in any of their letters, as an additional precaution. He was aware from a friend in Radio Australia that occasionally incoming mail was opened at the Australian end and not, as it was commonly assumed, by the Indonesian authorities.

Albert did not know of the existence of ASIO.

Albert turned his attention to the students sitting facing him. Some already showed the strain of these few hard weeks. Others, with a stronger determination, forced themselves along, only to discover the hopelessness of attempting to understand the Asian logic. Every aspect of the languages they were learning seemed to be imbued with underlying alien thought patterns.

Afew students actually enjoyed the pressures caused by constant correction, repetition and competition. These were rare, Albert acknowledged, his eyes moving casually from one student to another. There were only two he could identify in that year’s intake. They stood out far in front of the rest of the class. Neither had previous language training and neither were members of the military.

Albert was pleased. He did not particularly enjoy devoting his life to teaching soldiers whose ultimate purpose was to kill. Intellectually speaking, he found the civilians who attended these courses far superior to the other students. It was for these reasons that Albert created opportunities to develop closer relationships with the civilians. Albert was wise enough to realise that these were the officers selected for overseas posts who might, in time, provide him with assistance should the requirement arise.

The bell rang announcing the end of the period. Albert’s attention returned to his class. The students looked to the instructor who nodded, indicating that time was up. Their expressions reflected the mental fatigue. Written tests often produced this quiet response. As they departed Albert collected the papers and, as it was the end of the school day, he wandered home to the accommodation provided.

Stephen Coleman rubbed his eyes and immediately wished he hadn’t. They felt like sandpaper, irritated by lack of sleep and cigarette smoke. Far too much smoke. He realised that rest was imperative to prepare for the oral test scheduled for later that day. His head ached, the temple pulse exacerbating the pain with a dull throbbing sensation, beating a brittle drum inside his head. He knew that he consumed far too many cigarettes but this was not the time to break the habit.

The course pressure was devastating. Already four students had been removed and they were still only in their first quarter! The course was damn difficult and it was obvious that they were burning people off. They wanted only the best. Previous year’s confidential records clearly indicated that most students failed or were removed either early in the course or, surprisingly, during the last days towards graduation.

The latter was a direct result of accumulated pressure for, as the end appeared in sight, some students virtually collapsed with memory loss, unable to remember even the basics of what they had studied through the long and mentally demanding year. The rewards were considerable for those who successfully completed the training. For some, instant promotion, for others a posting overseas with excellent career opportunities.

Coleman lighted another cigarette. Leaning back he viewed his cell-sized quarters. Small, sparse, practical. Almost claustrophobic. The adjacent rooms were occupied by dedicated military types who had considerable difficulty accepting civilians on their courses. He smiled, recollecting the first assembly.

Soldiers marched in, saluting, pivoting and stomping their feet at one another with gusto. The Timorese instructor, expecting students, not toy soldiers, was horrified. Ground rules governing an acceptable standard of conduct were explained. These were received with grunts of disapproval from the army, smiles from the navy and airforce, and cool disdain by the few civilian participants. This obvious contempt for all things military was the hallmark of public servants, which the servicemen found intolerable at the best of times.

Students were given a native name suitable to the language studied. Ranks and service seniority were to be ignored on campus and all were expected to live in the allocated accommodations, separated from family. Quarterly breaks of one week were scheduled. Most students utilised these leave breaks to consolidate their vocabulary while others simply disappeared, escaping the dull monotony of endless study.

Pre-selection for attendance had been announced in the monthly Government Gazette and it was not until the preliminary tests were conducted that Coleman realised that special priority had been given to the training. He observed the number of applicants and was surprised as to the standards demanded for the pre-qualifying examinations.

For some time the Australian intelligence forces had become increasingly alarmed at the accelerated development of military capabilities in some of the neighbouring countries. Indonesia was of particular concern considering it boasted the third-largest Communist party in the world and was well armed with sophisticated weaponry supplied by its Soviet mentors.

The Australian public was deliberately kept uninformed as to size and capability of this immediate threat, as Australian cities were clearly vulnerable to attack from Indonesia’s air and sea strike arsenal had their Government been motivated to do so. That was the enigma. The Indonesians never displayed open hostility towards the Australians and yet attacked the very concept of a united Singapore and Malaysia. The two British Commonwealth states had recently formed their own Federation together, and the Australians were unsure of their best course of action.

Defence specialists urged the government to embark on a program which would give greater access, through information collection, to enable more accurate interpretation of the mass of foreign language material made available through Australian embassies and friendly powers. The difficulty lay with the defence sector’s inability to source qualified personnel with acceptable security clearances to assist in filling the information vacuum. The decision had been made to provide immediate training in Asian languages to specific branches of the Government ranging from defence to information services.

Coleman was surprised when he was selected for the course. He had studied journalism at college before joining the department, believing at the time that this would provide the opportunity to travel abroad. But it hadn’t. As a career it lacked the excitement his contemporaries enjoyed. Life in Canberra had been dull and, more out of boredom than any other motivation, he had applied for language training when the positions were called.

The financial rewards were attractive also, although he believed that few of the applicants were motivated by the considerable salary increases offered. He had not stipulated Bahasa Indonesia . The selection committee, having assessed his preliminary aptitude tests, decided that Chinese, Thai and Vietnamese would be too unmanageable due to the difficulties of tonal pronunciation. He had considered their decision and decided that this course was difficult enough. Had he attempted the Thai course there was every possibility that he would already have returned to his desk in Canberra.

The alarm sounded startling Coleman. Five o’clock! He had studied through the night without sleep. He yawned. God how his mouth tasted! His sense of smell was practically nonexistent but he knew the room stank of stale smoke and the partly demolished block of New Zealand cheddar.

He shaved, showered, and dressed quickly. Outside it was light and Coleman left his quarters and walked briskly towards the sea where, to his relief, the tide covered the foul smelling seaweed which could, at low tide, turn even the strongest stomach. He enjoyed these early morning walks.

Coleman reflected on how he had changed over the years. His present success continued to surprise him. He had been a shy and unconfident child! An only child, Stephen Coleman had grown up in an atmosphere filled with intelligent albeit often inebriated debate, and witty but cutting sarcasm, as both his parents were professional people who were often, to Stephen’s amusement, fiercely competitive towards each other.

As a young child he experienced an ongoing sense of loneliness. His parents, due to the nature of their work and interests, were basically peripatetic and disliked putting down roots of any kind. They travelled extensively and the inside of his wardrobe doors were lined with post cards from the most exotic places one could imagine. He had spent his adolescent years in boarding school.

At night, when the other boarding students were asleep, he would lie on his bed visualising these faraway places and conjure up some fantasy in his mind to carry him off to those destinations, not necessarily to be with his parents, but to escape the monotony of being a teenager ensconced in the rigid disciplines as determined by the school’s masters.

He had been one of those children who could pass through others’ lives without being obvious, or apparently special. Not that he had really tried. In fact, although he had the ability, Stephen found the whole idea of attending boarding school relatively boring and conformed just to pass the time. He existed on the periphery of the other students’ worlds.

One summer he had the good fortune to spend his holidays in the country at the invitation of another boarding student. He had enjoyed every moment. The host family had gone out of their way to treat him as they would one of their own and in the first week he had already mastered the basics of horse riding and sheep mustering. He had not known until some years later that the two-month holiday had been arranged by his parents. Apparently they had been invited to Banff Springs for the fabulous New Year’s Eve formal celebrations and his mother had insisted that she and her husband attend without their child.

Stephen believed that his mother, having never been pregnant prior to his own conception, decided to become so just once for the experience and, once he was born, had decided also that it was not something one should repeat.

He had completed his secondary education without being able to remember even one occasion when either parent attended a prize award evening held by the school. Perhaps, he determined, that was one of the reasons he was not really motivated enough to win, or compete, as there was nobody to encourage his success or applaud his efforts.

University had, at first, been just as unstimulating as school but before the end of his first year he discovered that easy sexual conquests were available to all and he was determined to have his share. This new found confidence with the opposite sex nearly brought about an early end to his tertiary studies.

During the second semester of the following year he was caught in a scandal and his father was obliged to intercede on his behalf in what could have resulted in his premature and permanent departure from the campus. Fortunately the Dean of Students’ over endowed and flirtatious wife admitted encouraging his advances and, in the interests of the college and with a little outside pressure, the matter was dropped. Stephen did, however, move from Melbourne to a Sydney campus.

Having completed his formal education at one of the state’s finest colleges he felt there was not a great deal left for him to do in the academic sector. His life became directionless. He drifted through the long hot summer holidays surfing, reading and generally just lazily filling in the days alone. His parents, when their complicated schedules permitted, arranged never ending eating and drinking marathons around their pool with stockbrokers, lawyers and what seemed to be an endless list of interstate associates. Stephen should find something to do, they urged.

It was towards the end of February, the summer heat having reached its zenith, when his mother hosted one such reception in their home. Stephen had attempted to avoid attending the party but his mother’s insistence obliged him to do so.

It was at this gathering that he first met Mr John Anderson. During the course of the afternoon, as he strolled around the pool stopping occasionally to speak to his parents’ guests, he had observed his mother standing close to this charismatic and handsome man. She had called Stephen over to introduce them. He wondered had his father been present, would he have been concerned with the obvious attention his mother lavished on the popular guest, or would his reaction have been one of customary complacency.

Twice Coleman had the opportunity to engage the tall suntanned man in intelligent non-party conversation and to his pleasant surprise, Anderson did not patronise him nor did he avoid conversing with the younger man. They had also discussed the ski slopes of the Snowy Mountains. Stephen had developed his winter skills as a teenager whilst visiting Smiggins and Perisher and both men related their own stories of how they’d had near disasters on those runs, and the exhilaration of speeding down the snow covered slopes alone, challenging the mountain and the elements.

When Anderson had politely inquired as to Stephen’s future plans and had discovered that the young man was not only undecided but lacked any direction whatsoever, it was he who suggested, later in the day, that Coleman consider entering government service. At first he considered the idea preposterous. He spent a week recollecting the brief encounter with the intriguing Mr Anderson and then decided to give him a call. Stephen borrowed his mother’s Jaguar and drove down to the capital. They met over dinner at the Statesman’s Club in Canberra at the request of the older man.

The evening had gone well. So well, Stephen felt as if the meeting was just an extension of the previous week’s amicable conversations. He could not remember ever being so at ease with an older person as he had with John Anderson during those moments. It was obvious that his mother’s close friend had deliberately gone out of his way to ensure that Stephen was relaxed.

Anderson had talked extensively and Stephen had happily listened, as the man made a lot of sense. Without a great deal of further deliberation he accepted the advice and made a commitment to apply for the position suggested.

He remained for a few days before returning to Sydney. There he stayed just long enough to pack and inform his parents regarding what had transpired as a result of his visit to Canberra. There was practically no discussion regarding his monumental decision although his mother appeared to be pleased. His father’s reaction had been surprisingly cool and indifferent. At the time Stephen had shrugged it off and, as he departed, just shook his father’s hand without any further exchange or comment, sensing that something had disturbed the man and that it related to his career choice.

Stephen had put his arm around his father’s shoulders but there was little response. He seemed distant, almost preoccupied and overly reserved. His father had never really been a demonstrative person. Clever, yes, Stephen had thought but never warm or affectionate towards his son. Stephen could not remember ever kissing the man, even as a child. His mother had fussed as he said goodbye to her. She had held him closely and whispered into his ear, instructing her son to behave himself and phone regularly. It seemed strange. He was only travelling a few hundred kilometres from their home and yet he experienced a strange sensation of one who was embarking on a long journey, away from all that was familiar and loved. He had never experienced this emotion before, not even when he was away at school.

John Anderson used his authority to locate a suitable apartment. These were scarcer than hen’s teeth as most were allocated directly according to strict waiting lists. Anderson was good to his word. Within a fortnight Stephen Coleman was accepted into the Department.

Once settled, Stephen easily fell into the routine of government employment. He enjoyed his workplace and the new circle of friends and threw himself into the arduous training schedules. He found the pristine air invigorating but soon discovered that the capital had a downside when the weather warmed. The flies drove him into fits of temper he’d not displayed since his childhood days on the sheep station. They were small and aggressive, attacking the nostrils and ears, causing Canberra’s inhabitants to curse the filthy little insects, bred by their own government to consume the larvae of the traditional country fly which infested the rural areas around the capital. Stephen often wondered how the foreign diplomats and their families put up with the pests. Gradually he settled into the new routines and found life satisfactory.

Stephen enjoyed the first months assimilating to the work conditions and also adjusting to the demanding training schedules. He was pleased at having made the decision to enter into the government service. There was so much to learn and the opportunities seemed endless.

He had become concerned during the first weeks however when, for reasons he could not fathom, several of the other Department’s officers displayed a coldness towards him, a coldness which was not evident in their behaviour with respect to their other fellow workers. He put it down to a personality clash or basic civil service arrogance and did not dwell on the matter until, during the course of a function at which one of these men having consumed more than was wise, made an offhanded remark that concerned Coleman. He raised the issue with Anderson when next invited to the mountain retreat which now had become a regular monthly excursion.

Stephen was surprised to discover that John Anderson had stood as referee for him. He knew, of course, that Anderson had facilitated his entré into the Department. They agreed that the attitude some of his co-workers displayed was probably resentment at Coleman’s swift acceptance into his new position. He acceded to the older man’s advice to put what he considered only a minor annoyance out of his mind.

Ayear passed quickly by which time he found that he was firmly ensconced in the Canberra circuit and continued to spend at least one weekend every month in the quiet of Anderson’s hideaway. He still found himself relaxed in the man’s company. Apart from the weekends away they met often, dining together and even travelling to Queenstown in New Zealand together for a weekend ski visit. He never tired of listening to John’s deep soft resonant voice advise on subjects new to Stephen or lecture him on the idiosyncrasies of bureaucracy in government. He was always attentive to the older man’s advice and out of the deep respect he had developed for him had, without hesitation, accepted his urging to transfer to the Information Bureau and broaden his horizons. Except it wasn’t really the Information Bureau!

In years to come Coleman would reflect upon his close relationship with Anderson and silently acknowledge that he was not really conscious at the time that it was then he had been recruited, albeit surreptitiously, by the master craftsman. He had entered a new world, sinister and without shape, a world from which few had ever escaped. And now he was back in Melbourne, in literary hell, struggling to stay alive — or at least remain on the course.

Although difficult, the study load suited Coleman’s demeanour. He was offered an intellectual challenge and was obliged to compete as an individual. Initially, during the confusing first days he had questioned his judgment in selecting this training. Critical of his own lack of patience he had, he decided, to persevere and complete the task he’d undertaken. Now, armed with weeks of confidence building results behind him, Coleman applied the necessary self-discipline required to push himself just that little harder, to achieve the level of fluency required to communicate in the alien tongue.

As he strolled towards the soft sounds of the sea and the waves slowly encroached on the narrow strip of the dark sandy foreshore, Stephen’s thoughts continued to drift in the early morning hours. He felt tired, but at the same time he experienced a sense of exhilaration at being alive, almost as if he had finally been given some real purpose in life. Stephen found this new energy invigorating. He identified the new motivating forces and was pleased that they were not based on monetary considerations. It would have been relatively easy, he knew, to obtain employment through his parents’ connections in a far more lucrative field of endeavour.

The cry of birds overhead interrupted his thoughts. A flock of sea-gulls passed over and Stephen instinctively raised a hand over his head. He stood for a moment observing a small fishing dinghy bobbing up and down a few hundred metres offshore. They were probably from the base, he thought, as it was some distance to a jetty not located within the military surrounds. Coleman stood for a few moments looking out to sea. A figure moved past behind him and called, “Selamat pagi.”

Coleman instantly recognised Pak Seda, one of his instructors. “ Selamat pagi ,” he responded.

Seda approached, hands in pockets, with the casual gait Asian men have developed throughout the centuries. “Mau kemana? ” Where are you going? asked the short dark skinned man. Coleman hesitated. He knew he had to select his words precisely as mistakes, even off campus, were remembered when assessing student proficiency.

“Iseng-iseng saja Pak .” Just strolling around, sir, he answered. Coleman was pleased he had remembered the phrase. His vocabulary was growing rapidly which increased his confidence.

“You are up early Koesman .” Seda observed, using the student’s allocated Indonesian name.

“Yes. I needed the fresh air. Too many of these ,” he replied, indicating the cigarette dangling between his nicotine-stained fingers, his sentences still stiff as one would expect of a new student.

“Would you like a kretek ?” the teacher offered. Aroma from these cigarettes mixed with clove would permeate every corner of the staff building when Seda smoked. The uninitiated would stand close to a kretek smoker only once before discovering that apart from the marijuana grass-like smell, the weed would often explode burning holes in nylon shirts, trousers, or even worse, as had happened one day, to the Director of Studies’sports coat. Seda had almost changed to more orthodox brands after the embarrassing incident.

Coleman flicked his cigarette away before accepting the Dji Sam Soe . As he lit it, the taste touched his tongue followed by a cooling sensation of scented smoke flowing into his lungs.

Seda observed the student expecting a response he had often witnessed from inexperienced Indonesian cigarette smokers. When none was evident Seda was pleased and proffered the rest of the packet.

Embarrassed, Coleman refused. “No, Pak , terima kasih ,” breaking into English, “Thank you, but no. I cannot take your cigarettes as they must be very difficult to obtain here in Australia.”

“Tidak apa apa . It’s all right. I buy them from friends who work for Radio Australia. They have plenty. Please. I would be offended if you don’t take them”

Coleman knew that this was not the case. Asians would not show offence over something so trivial; instantly he felt a warmth for this lonely man who tried so hard to be inconspicuous amongst his peers. Stephen accepted the packet and walked along the beach road, his tiredness forgotten, pleased to be in the company of the Timorese.

“As a child I used to walk along the beach near my village. I would dream of crossing the ocean to make my fortune and return as wealthy as a king. ”

Seda paused to ensure that he selected words simple enough for the student to understand.

“In my kampung the people were so poor there was not even one motorbike. We were the neglected island: the forgotten people in Soekarno’s dream. ” He turned his head to ensure that his student had understood. “Do you understand, Mas? ”

Coleman had understood but was unsure how he was expected to respond. “I understand what you are saying but do not understand the ... ” he paused, searching his memory for the correct word. Unable to remember, he resorted to the English substitute, “situation.” he added.

“Ah. Yes, for Australians life is relatively simple. What will you do when you have completed the course?”

Coleman felt the thrill of the assumption. He had been reasonably confident of completing the training but this was the first indication, almost confirmation of the possibility from a staff member.

“No doubt I will be sent to Jakarta to assist the Information Bureau there. After two years in the Embassy the government usually sends us back to Canberra where we sit and wait for another opportunity to travel ,” he explained, struggling to find the correct words in his limited vocabulary.

“Perhaps you will have the opportunity to visit my kampung halaman ,” suggested the guru.

“Insja Allah,” Allah permitting, Coleman responded flushing immediately he realised his mistake. He corrected his error with a suitable Christian equivalent and apologised to Albert for his error.

“Tidak apa apa,” Albert declared, not wishing that Coleman suffer for his mistake.

The two men walked together each contemplating his own future until the intrusion of the putrid seaweed smell forced their retreat to prepare for the school day.

That evening Coleman decided to visit Albert briefly, away from the school, to establish whether or not the teacher would be prepared to offer additional tuition. He believed that, with the assistance of one of the indigenous speakers, colloquial and idiomatic dialogue would be less difficult to deal with once he had completed the course and commenced his tour in Indonesia. The basic syllabus provided only a general introduction to idiomatic terminology as most graduates would, in fact, have little opportunity to actually visit or work in Indonesia. Consequently, those who were fortunate to receive overseas postings would discover to their chagrin, upon arrival in the target language countries, that they would have considerable difficulty with the day-to-day communication.

As he approached the well-kept married quarters, Stephen noticed Albert sitting outside his terraced accommodations. Mary remained inside, apparently preparing the evening meal.

“Selamat sore, Pak Seda,” Coleman called, pleased with the opportunity to approach the instructor outdoors.

Albert had not seen the young man coming. In fact, he had not been conscious of anything much for the past hour. Startled, he jumped up and prepared to escape from the intruder before recognizing the student on his way up the path. He quickly buried the letter deep into his baggy trousers pocket, then waved, beckoning for Coleman to approach, composing himself as best he could considering the weight of the communique hidden in his trousers.

“Selamat datang, Mas Koesman. Silahkan masuk .”

Coleman hesitated, surprised at the initial reaction he had witnessed, then proceeded to address his teacher. “Maaf mengganggu, Pak ,” he apologised.

“Come in, come in,” Seda repeated opening the front door to his bungalow. They entered together. Coleman waited in the guest room while Seda disappeared momentarily, returning with his wife.

“Selamat sore Njonja Seda,” Coleman extended his hand to the short homely-faced woman. Her hair was dull red and her skin showed signs of a harsh childhood, perhaps on a farm, the guest concluded.

“Sorry, I do not speak much Indonesian. I leave that to Albert,” she explained.

Coleman was amused that Mary showed another of the country’s characteristics. Foreign languages were something never spoken and rude if used by others in front of real Aussies!

They sat, talked, and drank strong black coffee. Coleman politely refused the offer to stay for dinner, returning to his room to study. The brief discussion had been rewarding. Seda had agreed to provide the additional instruction Coleman had solicited. Payment had been offered and brushed aside. A schedule was established and both had parted feeling pleased with the arrangements. Seda was particularly pleased that he had been asked. Coleman was delighted that the senior guru was personally committed to assisting with the extra-curriculum instruction. Later, as he lay awake, his mind recounted the two meetings with the Timorese that day. Albert’s earlier over reaction to being startled now caused Coleman to smile as he recalled the scene as the instructor’s behaviour had been almost comical.

Albert Seda also lay awake anxiously contemplating the letter from his brother Nathan. Sleep was impossible. The disguised threats unsettled his stomach. Should some source inform the Australian authorities of Albert’s relationship to Nathan, dire consequences would follow for their remaining family in Timor. Tired and agitated the following morning, Albert decided not to attend classes for the day. He had to have time to think, to convince Nathan that it would be impossible for him to do those things that he asked. No, not asked, demanded.

In the following weeks a further and even more threatening communication arrived and Albert assumed the Asian philosophical approach to Nathan’s letters. He decided that he was, after all, of Indonesian heritage and that bore certain responsibilities even though he had not found peace in his country of birth. He had also considered his remaining family in Kupang and the additional hardships they may have to suffer if he refused assistance.

He really had no choice but to submit. He agreed to cooperate and, in so doing, commenced down a parallel path to that of Stephen Coleman, unaware that their respective journeys would eventually twist and turn in opposing directions as each moved forward in search of their own dreams and, perhaps too, their ajal .

Their final destiny.