Scorched Earth: Peacekeeping in Timor during a campaign of death and destruction

PITCH

Thank you for investing your time in reading the first pages of the 96,000-word biography Scorched Earth: Peacekeeping in Timor during a campaign of death and destruction, published by Big Sky Publishing, 2019. I am writing to ask if you would be interested in adapting Scorched Earth for the screen. The publisher holds non-exclusive film rights.

Scorched Earth is for those interested in true events; war and conflict; history and society; crimes against humanity; United Nations; and peacekeeping. But it is more. It is one of courage, strategy, and a refusal to fold despite incredible odds.

Set in East Timor (Timor-Leste), the story has international appeal. Civilian men and women campaigned for the Timorese during its 1974-1999 conflict, pleading for international intervention. A referendum was granted the Timorese in 1999, under the United Nations. More than thirty countries contributed to the referendum, including the United States, Australia, New Zealand, Canada, Japan, Malaysia, and the United Kingdom. Following the referendum, within weeks of the announcement of the results, INTERFET landed in Timor. INTERFET was a multinational armed taskforce mandated to respond to the scorching of East Timor and the genocide of its people. This story is the prelude to INTERFET.

I, myself, am a former Australian Federal Police member. I spent six years volunteering in East Timor, working alongside Timorese, including those previously a part of the clandestine and resistance. I’ve walked the streets that once flowed with fire, on a land scorched by those with differing ideals. Today, I continue to be actively involved in sustainable projects in East Timor.

Peter Masters, Military Books Australia, says, “At times this book reads like a thriller. You have to keep reminding yourself this is real. This is what the Timorese went through for the right to determine their own future. A timely reminder of how we should value the freedom of self-determination.” The story is topical and relevant. Many have related the experiences in Scorched Earth to the unconquerable spirit of those in present-day conflict, including Ukraine and the Russian Federation; West Papua and Indonesia.

It’s an Award-Winning Finalist in the 2020 ‘International Book Awards’ categories of Biography; Military History; Narrative Non-Fiction; and Inspiration. It’s also a Finalist in the 2021 ‘ScreenCraft Cinematic Book Competition’ and long-listed in Australia’s ‘Adaptable’ (book to screen) competition 2019/20. Gil Scrine, film maker and producer, describes it as, “Shows the rest of us what true courage looks like.” Best-selling author Peter says, “A dramatic story of the forgotten heroes who faced down the military might of a neighbouring giant.”

More than a hundred WWI and thirteen-hundred WWII stories have been screened, thousands about humanity and courage, and dozens on the UN. Rarely has screenplay revealed the heart of those who refuse to surrender, and the police peacekeepers willing to die for them. Hotel Rwanda (2004, Terry George, gross $23.5M), adapted from the book An Ordinary Man by P. Rusesabagina, has some parallels.

Synopsis

Off Australia’s coast, a greater per-capita slaughter since the holocaust unfolds. Blood of a third of the East Timorese population soaks the earth. Twenty-four years of campaigning brings a referendum within their grasp. With 271 officers, S/Sgt WATT voluntarily enlists as a police peacekeeper, leaving behind the woman he intends to marry.

August 1999: WATT lands in regional Gleno a day prior the ballot, in a country set to erupt. He’s to live by two rules: Remain neutral. He breaks that rule instantly. Follow the mandate. Keeping that would kill his humanity. Breaking it, could cost his life.

Instantly, WATT is unarmed, outnumbered, and on a crumbling mandate. He sees everything in black and white, but soon recognises nothing is what it seems. Within 48-hours, WATT starts a downhill spiral of guilt and hopelessness. Those he’d brushed with tainted strokes reveal that only death awaits them if their true identities are discovered. He learns that the conflict is no longer one between countries, but between ideals. Militia violently lockdown Timor. Under fire, the UN protects and relocates ballots for counting.

Results reveal 78.5% for independence. ‘Scorched Earth’ begins: annihilation of East Timor. Militiamen work off hitlists that include UN local staff. Though torn at leaving behind local staff, to minimise loss of international UN lives, the UN regroups to the lawless capital, Dili. Determined to drive out the last influential witnesses, in Dili, militia and military surround the UN’s gates. Against the mandate, inside the UN’s gates, thousands of Timorese take refuge. Outside, Timor burns.

The UN begins its withdrawal from Timor but 80 staff refuse to leave, including WATT. Timorese unite to prolong their lives, accessing networks including the Vatican. Final onslaught begins. Fighting policies and his own powerlessness, WATT says goodbye to the woman he loves. Globally, masses campaign to end Timor’s slaughter. On the last plane, WATT is evacuated. Contrary to UN practices, the 1,400 Timorese are also evacuated. INTERFET lands. By October’s end, East Timor’s independence is recognised.

Reviews:

Best war book since ‘Danger Close.’ Gripping. I was shocked how little the public had been allowed to know. Experience firsthand the unfolding horror of the narrator who in fifteen days went from a starry-eyed idealist to a shell-shocked survivor. A book to traumatise and provide nightmares for years to come. If it was a movie, it would be R18. - Raelene

Woven into the background details is this lingering sense of danger and disturbance. It feels precarious. Pemper uses a cinematic technique of panning the camera around and letting the observer discover the patterns and what’s out of place. We see more than guns and bloodshed. We see a panorama of the quiet everyday before being pierced once more by military aggression. We see beyond what is there. We see what is lost, and what is at stake. – Morgan Bell, author, technical writer, and editor

FIRST 10 PAGES

Chapter 1: Saturday, 28 August 1999

Two unwritten rules of peacekeeping existed.

You’d expect it would be easy to keep two rules, but I broke the first.

I had to break it to allow myself to live the passion that drove and controlled me, that distinguished one decision from another and determined where I drew my lines. I broke the rule to remain human.

Rule One: Peacekeepers must be neutral.

Impossible. Breaking Rule One created peacekeepers.

If peacekeepers didn’t feel a need to act, if we didn’t have that commitment, we wouldn’t sign up our lives. I was trained to handle a hostage situation, to apply first aid on machete and gunshot wounds, and to recognise who might want to kill me in Timor. I couldn’t help holding biases against those who may want me dead.

My lack of neutrality became the reason I now stood at the exit door of the UN-commissioned Hercules military plane supplied by the Australian Army. The runway we’d landed on was sandwiched between a jungle of palm trees, a line of huts, and the ocean that separated it from visible Indonesian islands. The same coastline from which Indonesian warships had shelled Timorese during their invasion of Timor twenty-four years earlier.

Breaking Rule One was the reason I now descended the metallic, fold-down stairs to serve in a country I might never walk away from.

My foot stepped on the tarmac of their capital, Dili, and I joined the East Timorese fight for life. Timor’s earth had drunk the blood of one third of her population. And still it thirsted. The East Timorese would have their referendum, even if it cost more blood, even if it cost my own. It was the mission I’d committed to months before. This was my duty.

Into the sweltering humidity I followed the others who’d stepped off the same plane. My eyes stung. Prickling heat parched my skin. I briefly squinted at the sun in its clear sky, a sky from which clouds of Indonesian military paratroopers had rained down upon the land during the invasion. Now, to the same earth, my body gave up sweat, pasting my uniform to my frame.

Several metres in front of me, a couple plain-clothed civilian International Observers walked as a group, loudly comparing notes. They were in Timor to study and report back to their agencies on the fairness and legitimacy of the referendum’s process. Talking at the volume they did went against all my police instincts. Listening in didn’t.

“Timor’s rising violence doesn’t put us in an easy position, Liam,” said the taller of them. “In our reports, who do we attribute it to? We can’t suggest militia are controlled by the Indonesian government. That’ll get us offside with-”

“It’s not factual, Imran” Liam said. “Militia aren’t controlled by the Indonesian government.”

“Militia have run joint operations with Timor’s Indonesia-controlled military,” Imran argued.

Liam checked over his shoulder. “I’d be careful saying that if I were you.”

I casually flicked my eyes from Liam to the Military Liaison Officers, MLOs, in identical camouflaged uniforms known as ‘cams’. The MLOs had also been on the plane and were now only a few paces behind Imran’s group. The MLO mandate was to keep communication channels open between their country’s military, Timor’s Indonesia-controlled military, and East Timor’s freedom fighters.

Good luck with that, I thought cynically as I strode behind the MLOs. There was no way anyone could work out who to trust in this hotbed.

A woman whose uniform matched mine walked to the left of the MLOs. I’d met her at Darwin Airport while waiting for our Hercules. Her name was Catalina. She was a fellow peacekeeper from Brazil, an experienced police officer, and married with a couple of kids. We were both replacements for two of the two-hundred and seventy-one peacekeepers from twenty-seven countries that had landed in Timor a few months earlier. The other peacekeepers had decided to leave for reasons the UN didn’t tell us. As long as they weren’t in body bags, their reasons didn’t faze me.

A heavily-armed military soldier stood on either side of the airport building we were entering. Their trained hands held black aluminium and steel weapons. Long, slim barrels. Distinctive carry handles. M16s. Shorter magazine than the AK-47 but still capable of nine hundred and fifty rounds a minute. At two thousand Aussie dollars each, the Indonesians had invested a serious sum of their country’s funds into East Timor’s airport security.

The soldiers’ eyes tracked us as expected. I held their cold gaze, my motivation cementing. From what I knew they’d had their hand in to date, they represented oppression.

I stepped into the airport. The shipping container sized room had concrete floor-to-ceiling beams, white floor tiles, and a couple of slow turning overhead ceiling fans. A musty odour of perspiration lingered.

A ruler-straight line of armed soldiers stood from the door to the checkpoint. They made it clear enough where we needed to go. Behind the checkpoint counter stood a sole Indonesian officer. I was forced to wait for him while he processed the passengers.

None of us spoke. The less we said, the better. We didn’t want to risk sharing information around those who may not want the UN in Timor-Leste. Anything we said could potentially be misconstrued then used against us.

A soldier moved to readjust his M16, sliding the strap further along his shoulder. Another shuffled a hand off his loaded magazine, exposing a spare magazine strapped to it with red tape. A fast, efficient, re-loading strategy. The one nearest me cleared his throat and wiped his forehead beneath his green beret with the back of his hand.

In my peripheral, I took in each movement of the soldiers until finally, only one other passenger remained beside me: Catalina.

The checkpoint officer summonsed her with a nod and a flick of his fingers.

Catalina stepped forward, placed her passport and documents onto the counter and re-slung her backpack – her Go-Bag – across her shoulders. I carried an identical kit. Every peacekeeper did. The UN required us to safeguard water purifying tablets, maps, a thin aluminium tarpaulin to use as a heat/cold blanket, first aid kit, compass, and two days emergency rations. It would give us a head start if we needed to take refuge in the jungles. I’d topped up mine with snacks and emergency coffee.

In low tones, someone behind me started talking in Bahasa Indonesian. I glanced in the direction of the voice. Two of the soldiers had moved closer, one leaning in to speak to the other. They had already been watching me and both instantly shot me a glare that told me to mind my own business. I turned back but not before I noticed they now stood in the doorway I’d walked through. Were they deliberately blocking it? Their volume dropped as they continued talking. I was certain they were discussing me.

Really, you’ve got nothing better to do? I wanted to say to them. I was going to enter their country whether they agreed or not, so they’d better learn to deal with it.

Movement on my left. In my peripheral, another soldier moved behind me. They were repositioning themselves. I checked my exits. There was one blocked door to my rear and a narrow corridor past the checkpoint counter.

Catalina spoke over her shoulder, “Meet you on the other side.”

She stepped past the checkpoint officer and disappeared down the corridor. I took her spot. The deadpan Indonesian at the desk tapped a finger on a space between neat sets of white cards.

“How’s it going?” I asked. On his chosen spot I dropped my travel documents and official passport, each attesting to my legitimacy to enter East Timor.

He flicked aside the papers then lifted my passport and opened the bio page with his little finger and thumb.

He studied me.

Then my passport photo.

“Peter Watt?”

I nodded. “That’s me.”

Another turn at me then directly to the Australian flag sewn onto the sleeves of my uniform. I eyed the three soldiers behind me who’d been talking. They were still watching me. My gaze swept the rest of the soldiers in their line. I also held their attention. It irritated me, and I had to force myself not to confront them.

I had enough papers to make sure I’d get in. Peacekeepers were high on the UN priority list of personnel who enter a mission. In an evacuation, the reverse applied. We were the last to leave a country though I’d heard local UN staff were sometimes left behind. I had no intention of being a part of that, if it came down to it. No peacekeeper could rest with that on their conscience. At least I couldn’t anyway. It would mean the country was out of control, a death zone, and we were leaving our people behind to get slaughtered.

“Is there a problem with my papers?” I bluntly asked the checkpoint officer.

He paused at the page showing I’d served in Cyprus as a peacekeeper four years earlier. It hadn’t been a difficult mission, that one. Having weapons trained directly at my body by militant officers and tracer rounds over our HQ building, was the hairiest it had gotten during that tour.

Two silent blinks and a scowl later, the officer stamped my visa with a figure of the Garuda, the mythical golden eagle that was Indonesia’s national symbol. Indonesia held power in Timor. Not the Timorese. Not the UN. Not me.

He inserted my travel documents back into my official passport, closed it, and sharply slid the collection back.

“Thank you,” I said. That was a waste of time.

I manoeuvred through a short corridor, round a grimy wall, and towards more Indonesian soldiers patrolling the airport. I scanned for the exit and spotted Catalina near the front door. She stood beside a man in dark blue UN cargo pants and a light blue shirt, a peacekeeper judging by his uniform. I was glad to see that he’d gathered and guarded our luggage. I couldn’t stand any more hold-ups.

Half-grinning, I joined them.

“The name’s Gerhardt,” said the man, an Austrian who had managed to remain pale despite Timor’s sun. I was already darker than him though it was still winter in Australia. I guessed he was office bound. “I’m the UN’s Admin Supervisor. Let me give you a hand-up with your gear.”

I threw my duffle bag on one of the two police trunks Catalina and I each now owned. An individual blue trunk was large enough to conceal a folded body, not that we’d try. It contained all I needed including a self-inflating mattress and collapsible camp stretcher. Standard issue.

Gerhardt grabbed the other trunk. Catalina wrestled her own UN-provided duffle bag.

“We’re over there,” Gerhardt said as we stepped through the exit. “How was your flight?”

He nodded towards a white Land Rover. He needn’t have bothered pointing it out. He’d parked it beside the curb a couple of metres from the terminal entrance. Not only was it the sole vehicle anywhere nearby, it also displayed a large U and N on the front passenger doors, bonnet and rear door.

“Short,” Catalina answered. “It’s hard to believe we’re barely an hour from Australia.”

On our left, half a dozen East Timorese had been leaning against the terminal building. They nudged each other and pushed themselves off the wall to head for us. My suspicions took over.

I wonder which side these guys are on.

“Taxi?” one of them asked even though they could see we didn’t need transport.

“It’s a different world here,” Gerhardt said. “Stay alert.”

I had been trained to analyse people. The so-called taxi drivers studied me with the same scrutiny. They must have learnt it to survive in Timor. Sweat beaded down their faces; faces which were structured to be partially Tahitian, semi-Portuguese, and the rest Malay. Their skin ranged in colour from burnt sienna to golden brown and their physiques of subtle strength could see them trekking for unbroken days over wild terrain. Their timeworn shirts and pants were stained so deeply no amount of harsh scrubbing would ever remove the grime though they’d tried. Holes peppered their clothes.

None showed a single expression. Their eyes gave nothing away. Not a single thought. No hint of an emotion, only the occasionally heavily accented word, “Taxi. Taxi.”

I nodded at them and smiled. “Bondia,” I said in the local East Timorese language of Tétum.

No response. They kept right on silently staring at us. They followed us to our vehicle.

Into the rear of our 4WD we heaved our gear. Each trunk would easily have weighed the same as one of the short, lanky drivers.

I offered Catalina the front seat. She took it with a look that implied she’d planned to anyway. I jumped in the rear seat behind her.

We closed our doors and the taxi drivers instantly pressed themselves against the Land Rover windows. They studied us, our belongings, everything in the vehicle.

“Is this normal in Timor?” Catalina asked.

I lifted my chin at the youths in greeting.

No reaction. It confused me.

“At least they’re friendly,” Gerhardt answered.

I laughed until I realised he was serious.

Behind the wheel, Gerhardt pulled cautiously from the curb and left the youths behind.

“If you have a conversation in public, Timorese will surround you within seconds,” he said. “They won’t talk to you. That could get them killed. But it won’t stop them from wanting to know what’s going on and it’s hard to tell who knows English. In Timor, no one knows who is on which side so you’re better off not talking to anyone.”

“To who? To Timorese working for us?” I asked. “This is Timor.”

Gerhardt picked up a handset and accelerated past several dented, rusted sedans. Maybe they actually were taxis. On a couple of them my eye caught the spider-web shatter of a broken window. The epicentre of the shatters, the shape of a bowling ball, indicated the vehicles could have been attacked. By who and why I didn’t know.

“CP-0172 to Base,” Gerhardt said, cutting in over another call-in. He waited for a response and turned his attention to me through the rear-view mirror. “Through their allegiances and families all Timorese, including those with the UN, are linked to some groups. The Timorese resistance has three of these groups: their Diplomacy Unit, Clandestine Unit, and Falintil freedom fighters otherwise known as guerrilla fighters. The pro-integration supporters have their own militias. The Timorese with us haven’t listed on their CV who they’re linked with.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” I replied casually. It was nothing I hadn’t already guessed.

Gerhardt careened our vehicle towards a roundabout bordered with masonry angels blowing trumpets towards the heavens. The wings of each angel brushed the platform on which they knelt. In the heart of the roundabout stood a tiered fountain with a stone ladder connecting each level. The fountain was cracked and neglected. And also bone dry.

“This is Base, go ahead 172,” a Canadian accent said.

“Three-up at the airport on our way,” Gerhardt answered. He pressed the handset against his lips as he spoke while negotiating the roundabout one-handed. “Clean pickup.”

“Copy that,” came the reply from HQ.

“Heading direct to HQ. ETA fifteen minutes.”

Gerhardt rehoused the handpiece and jerked the car to merge onto a main road. Mini vans surrounded us, puttering along. Passengers in each van filled every available space. Men sat at the doorways with bare calves and thonged feet dangling out. On several other vans, men perched cross-legged on the roof, each with one hand clasping the top of a glassless window. They seemed serious, all of them. On some rooves, passengers had tied live pigs on their sides making them look like they were already on dinner plates. On others, goats stood on top of the moving vans.

“And Peter, don’t use Tétum,” Gerhardt harped on. “Indonesians associate it with the clandestine and have banned its use.”

“I know,” I said. “I’ve had my briefing from the UN.”

“We’re neutral,” Gerhardt said. “Use Bahasa Indonesian if you want to make connections.”

I laughed. “How’s that neutral? That’s also sending a message.”

“Who would have thought that saying good morning could be so political,” Catalina said. “Gerhardt, where am I posted?”

In the open boot of the limping sedan in front of us sat three cross-legged youths. Black smog billowed from their car’s exhaust, partially concealing each of them. Gerhardt soon overtook the car.

“Liquiçá,” Gerhardt briefed Catalina. “The town’s twenty minutes behind us. Being close to the capital, it’s strategic ground for militia. Three to four thousand militia within a regional population of, say, fifty thousand.”

“How many peacekeepers?” she asked, looking out her side window at a large, run-down dwelling with white concrete walls, arches, and a terracotta tiled roof. Clearly one of the city’s buildings influenced by Timor’s Portuguese era.

“We’ve eleven including you, which is high compared to other regions,” Gerhardt replied. “They’ve only given us enough bodies to provide advice to the local forces. Security rests on the shoulders of the Indonesian-controlled police, not us. We’re not mandated to protect Timorese even if they’re attacked at our feet like what happened at the local church in Liquiçá. We issued a press release condemning the massacre.”

I snorted. I’d read the press release. It contained the usual ‘we strongly condemn the violence’ which was one step above ‘we condemn the violence’ and a fat lot of good to the butchered.