Women and children first - Page 2
From Griffith REVIEW Edition 14: The Trouble with Paradise
© Copyright Griffith University & the author.
Written by Kirsty Sword Gusmão
A REFLECTION ON WHAT IT MEANS TO BE the first lady of the world's newest nation inevitably leads me to an analysis of the status of women in Timor-Leste and some of the efforts that I, my Alola Foundation and the women's movement in this country are making to elevate that status and to create the conditions for a healthier, more dignified life for our sisters – who are amongst the poorest in our region. Discussion of each of these issues highlights a significant gap between ideals, public perception, the goals we strive to achieve and the reality of women's lives.
Being a teacher by training and an activist by experience, I felt horribly ill-equipped to take on my new role. And so, when I was approached in early 2002 by a well-meaning grey-haired lady from the International Republican Institute (something tells me her name was "Martha") who had some tips to share with me, I listened eagerly. Timor-Leste was about to achieve its dream of national independence. I had been busy for months preparing a proposal to government for the establishment and support of the "Office of the First Lady". I had no idea really of what would be expected of me, but was encouraged to believe that a small allocation of public funds was my due and a necessity if I was to be effective in a public role. So I asked for a car and a modest travel allowance, plus a small kitty for "representation". "Martha" earnestly recommended that a media officer and marquees for hosting garden parties be added to my list. As it turned out, I got nothing. I was mildly irritated, but was urged by all to recall that Timor-Leste's annual national budget was on a par with the budget for maintenance of Australia's Parliament House in Canberra.
When I thought about the spouses of other heads of state, I imagined women with big hair hosting elegant cocktail parties and afternoon teas with cucumber sandwiches served on bright white doilies. Not having the benefit of a predecessor with whom to consult and conspire – I was the first first lady of Timor-Leste – I had to define the role myself. That included finding ways to access the funds to do the work I quickly identified as my priority: improving the lot of women and children.
The women of Timor-Leste live in deep poverty. Over half of them are illiterate and struggle to heal the wounds of twenty-five years of a brutal military occupation. Low social status, associated with cultural and religious norms, and an entrenched patriarchy add insult to their injury. In opting to throw my weight behind them, I had my work cut out. Thanks to the Alola Foundation, which I had established a year earlier to draw attention locally and internationally to the variety of forms of gender-based violence experienced by women in Timor-Leste, and to a grant from Dr Suthawan Sathirathai, wife of the Thai Deputy Prime Minister, I embarked on my challenging new journey with a modicum of support and decorum.
In 2002, the Alola Foundation's office was located in a room the size of a large broom cupboard at the rear of the World Bank building in Dili. Meetings with the women associated with our first project, an initiative aimed at identifying the training and other needs of handicraft producers, were conducted under a tree outside the cramped headquarters sitting on chairs scrounged from adjacent offices.
As our work and the demands on our services and meagre resources grew, we began the hunt for more fitting premises, and stumbled across a gutted building in the old market precinct of Dili belonging in Indonesian times to the Motor Vehicle Registration Board. I resisted pressure to have the inside walls, still bearing the marks of the arson and devastation of 1999, painted over. The charring was a salutary and important reminder of the past from which we were emerging and recovering, I believed. The official opening of the new office in February 2003 was simultaneously the launch of our National Breastfeeding Association of Timor-Leste, a body I had been anxious to establish since giving birth to my first son at Dili National Hospital in September 2000. Entertainment at the opening consisted of Xanana and I performing a short theatrical skit on the social ill of domestic violence and the benefits of breastfeeding, with our second son, Kay Olok, the "prop".
The foundation's work on maternal and child health, education and economic empowerment has developed in parallel with the slow and painful process of nation-building. There have been some significant gains for women in political participation. The national parliament currently has twenty-three women MPs out of a total of eighty-seven, one of the highest levels of female representation in South-East Asia – the result of some strenuous lobbying of party leaders by the UN and women activists. Women also hold positions of power in the Council of Ministers, and lead the Finance and Planning, State Administration and Education ministries. Despite these modest gains, the women's movement has learnt that having encouraging numbers in the legislature, and some positions of power in the executive arm of government, does not necessarily mean a shift in acceptance. A great many women parliamentarians report that they feel ill-equipped, both technically and in terms of experience, to be effective as legislators and representatives of their constituencies. They also claim to face discrimination and prejudice from their male counterparts, and struggle to combine public duties with motherhood and onerous family obligations. The recruitment of the sub-district administrators by the first Constitutional Government produced only one woman out of a total of sixty-five.
A MOMENT OF CRISIS IS, IT WOULD SEEM, a moment of truth. The gains over the previous four years almost evaporated with the onset of violence in late May. In the face of physical danger and political upheaval, women were once again relegated to the roles of caregivers and victims. It is telling that not a single East Timorese woman solicited an audience with my husband, or had her views sought, on solutions to the crisis at the height of the turmoil. It wasn't a deliberate act of exclusion. It just didn't occur to anyone, in this intensely patriarchal society, that women may have something important and useful to contribute to the delicate and vital processes of disarmament, reconciliation and peace-building.
At the same time, a disproportionate burden of responsibility for mopping up the mess left by the conflict has fallen on the shoulders of women: the mothers struggling to provide their families with shelter, security, food and other basic needs in the camps, the tireless Catholic sisters of various religious orders who, with no security provided by the international forces and with limited resources, have opened the doors of their convents and colleges to many thousands of hungry and traumatised displaced people.
Despite that, it was a woman whose political courage and moral outrage ultimately precipitated a revolt within the government that brought a resolution. With the prime minister on the verge of announcing his resignation, and facing criminal investigation through the Dili District Court for alleged distribution of arms to civilians, a handful of male cabinet ministers began weighing up whether or not to tender their own resignations. It was a brave woman, Maria Domingas Alves (alias "Micato"), a former adviser to the prime minister on gender equality, who took the step first. She said she could no longer serve the women of Timor-Leste within a government "which no longer functions effectively". Six other senior government officials, including three ministers, two vice-ministers and a secretary of state, were spurred on by her brave example and also resigned from their posts. Shortly afterwards a new government was formed, and a semblance of peace, if not normalcy, returned.
My experience has convinced me that women in a country like Timor-Leste are uniquely placed to build peace and security. They, like no one else, value peace as the foundation for the survival of their families and communities, as the basic precondition for their children's education and prosperity. And yet they are virtually absent from the discussions relating to reform of the security sector and negotiation of the mandate of a new UN mission in the country. This highlights the sad fact that the women of Timor-Leste still have a long way to go to achieve their rights as equal and valued citizens of their new nation. ♦