Resistance was not futile

 Feeling more settled in our teaching duties, our schedule wasn't nearly so hectic this week. Initially we were helping the Snows with crowd control and they did the same for us and we were practically living at the church all day, every day. Our attendance numbers have dropped to a much more sane amount, just like Janu said they would, and we are all managing on our own, so that's freed up ALOT of time. We are finding the existing curriculum still needs a fair amount of tweaking for our personal style of teaching, so every day, we work on our lessons together and make revisions and additions. But being with our students is still the BEST part of our week. Oh and did we mention two of them showed up to church and watched Conference with us last Sunday? Yes!!

                 Half of our Intermediate class

  The other half of the class in our 

backwards L-shaped room

This allowed us a little more free time this week to get "oot and aboot" and see a little more of Dili, since we never know when our time is up here. Our free day was drizzly and gloomy, very appropos for what lay ahead. We'd heard bits and pieces of the history of Timor-Leste from various sources, but we felt a tug to visit the Resistance Museum and learn more about it for ourselves. The museum is not geared towards English whatsoever, it's presented in their native tongue of Tetum and translated into Bahasa and Portuguese with English as the 4th option near the bottom. We found ourselves crouching to read every entry. 

Not ESL more like EFL

 I won't be sharing a comprehensive overview of the Timorese saga in this blog. It is 26 years long for one thing. Suffice it to say, it is the same story of man's inhumanity to man and the utter horrors of war. Nor can we share any part of the exhibit in pictures as they didn't allow photography inside the museum. These are only the picture windows on the outside of the building.

While I was enjoying my comparatively carefree life from 1976-2002, the people of Timor Leste were battling for their lives and their independence. They gained their independence from Portugal in 1976. 9 days later they were attacked by Indonesia. All of the photos and images we saw had the vibe of the Viet Nam War era that we were much more familiar with. The clothing looked straight out of Cuba with their leaders looking akin to Fidel Castro. Two exhibits impacted us profoundly. First-TV footage captured by a journalist of a massacre that happened right in the Santa Cruz Cemetery where I've been doing my volunteer work. Through pained, half-closed eyes we watched people running for their lives and crouching behind tombstones to avoid being shot at. It was so horrific and brutal at times, I had to avert my gaze. There is a memorial to Max Stahl in the cemetery, the journalist who captured the footage and lost his life doing so. All this time, I've felt like I've been treading on hallowed ground and now I understand why. It was the very scene of a massacre of innocent civilians, the defenseless men women and children of Timor-Leste. If you've ever been to a Holocaust museum, you know the feeling I'm talking about. It crushed our hearts to witness this senseless brutality. The other heart-breaking display was of the personal items and clothing remains of 6 young resistance fighters; their ratty clothes and sneakers, their soles practically falling off. They did not have the backing of a first rate national military to give them uniforms and rations. These were young men who some might call renegades but with a devoted cause to fight for their country and families. We learned the US did not help the Timorese in their fight for independence against Indonesia for there was suspicion they were being helped by the Communists but from what we read, it seemed no country was helping their plight at all, it was so rag tag. But somehow they just kept fighting this ongoing war until 2002 when they were finally declared independent from Indonesia. One young man's name stuck with me because it was so unusual- Procopio. The rest of the names slid off my brain like eggs on Teflon.

 The very next morning after our museum visit, we ventured out early to the cemetery to photograph gravestones. I came to one grave and there he was- the very same young man I learned of the day before- Procopio. 

           His name means "progress" in Greek

As if this wasn't coincidental enough, I then took the time to look at his full name. No way! Rego is Joel's last name too, our Indian convert son in Bengaluru! What uncanny odds! Both of these young men with Portuguese ancestral ties, with the same family name, and about the same age I'd guess, one who was given all the blessings of the gospel, the other gunned down in the prime of his life. It all came full circle for me. When they say God is in the details of our lives, I have every reason to believe it's true. I'm praying that these names I record in the cemetery are those of these brave young men and their families, martyrs who gave their lives for the eventual freedom of their country. These names and lives have not been forgotten and will someday fuel their temple, where their sacrifices will not go unnoticed by our Heavenly Father. I know this country is years away from having a temple but I had another crazy vision. If our church architects can convert a burnt down Tabernacle and transform it into the House of the Lord, what could they do with this deserted, half built church in the heart of Timor-Leste? 

                               It could happen

              Is anything too hard for The Lord?

So now when we meet these very special people everywhere we go, we see their resilience and special heritage. The Lord's eye is on the sparrow, the people who the world forgot or deemed insignificant. Though we were ignorant of them only a month ago, we know the Lord has a beautiful story of redemption for them. 

       The bright smiles of the gift shop ladies

                       The innocent children 

                       The wonderful students            

              (Look! Elder Mehta's twin brother!)

And when we see these statues and murals around town, it means a little bit more to us to know their history and their fight for independence.

     the price they paid to become a free nation

and to break free from the shackles of oppression 

Whew. Heavy stuff. On a much lighter note- Here's an exciting discovery we made this week: A mere block down from our church, we saw what looked to be an Indian restaurant.  We ventured in and met Noor Islam, the owner of the place. He was from Bangladesh and spoke excellent English but he claimed Indian, Pakistani, and Bangladeshi food is all pretty much alike. Really? We took him at his word. And so we ordered Chicken Biryani, Paneer Curry and Garlic Naan bread and immediately knew he was telling the truth. It was so delicious to be eating Indian food again and in Timor-Leste no less! I've made this point before, you don't miss something til you don't have it for awhile. It made us very homesick for India and our old life there. Noor even had our favorite snack on the shelf to buy. Moong Dal! 

         They look like Rice Krispies but they are not rice bubbles! They are a crunchy lentil, "rich in protein" and make a great salty snack. What a find for us! (If we could market these in the US as the healthy treat they are, we could perhaps make our fortune.) They claim to have the same amount of protein as 500 grams of spinach. Touchè, Popeye! 

 

And to hail back even further to my first  mission in 1985, here was another find:

                      Pulkogi flavored chips! 

 Apparently there is a Timor-Korea connection

We celebrated the end of our work week eating out with our fellow seniors at Castaways, an open air restaurant across the street from the Timor Sea. 

            Oops, wrong photo of tired porkers. 

                         There's the right gang!

While we ate, the mosquitos had a heyday on my legs. I'm paying the price today for yesterday's fun and relaxation.

So here's the lessons learned for our life:

Most times, we must put down our weapons of war and beat them into plowshares and become peacemakers. But sometimes we must pick them up and resist evil, to fight to defend freedom with our very lives if necessary so that future generations can have the blessings we didn't. May the Spirit guide our actions to know when to do which. 

Therefore, my beloved brethren, let us resist evil, and whatsoever evil we cannot resist with our words, yea such as rebellions and dissensions, let us resist them with our swords, that we may retain our freedom, that we may rejoice in the great privilege of our church, and in the cause of our Redeemer and our God... Give unto them power to conduct the war in that part of the land, according to the Spirit of God, which is also the spirit of freedom, which is in them. 

The words of Pahoran to Captain Moroni

 found in Alma 61: 14-15

 The Book of Mormon