Reflections on my Immersion Tour 2025 - Alex Gorman

The flight from Darwin to Dili in Timor-Leste is surprisingly short-75 minutes and yet it is a world away from Australia in so many ways. The first thing you notice flying over the country is how mountainous the terrain is. I wonder how the population travels, communicates, connects, makes a living and accesses health and education- I know not very well. And yet I am aware that this mountainous country has also provided protection during multiple hostile occupations by invading Japanese and Indonesian forces. Indeed, the Timorese did a heroic job protecting and aiding Australian forces against the Japanese during World War 2. A barrage of heat hits as you exit the aircraft. I’m wearing jeans and they are too hot. Our group of 5 make our way to the small terminal where we are met by a smiling Eddie Pina who  greets us warmly while taking our passports and shepherding us through the arrival process while joking with his customs mates. Eddie is an old hand at dealing with groups coming from Australia as he was once a refugee living in Perth but returned to East Timor to “work with his people”. He has 2 children at university in Melbourne. He is an indispensable link between the 2 countries. Eddie leads us to 2 robust looking, dust covered 4WD’s. One is painted red with a sign on the side- donated by the Rotary clubs of Ascot and Broome in Western Australia signifying the range of charities, NGO’s and government entities supporting this small country.

Dili reminds me of all the Asian cities I have visited-noisy motor bikes piled high with people produce and possibly an animal. There are people on bikes, old buses with students hanging off the back, street vendors selling vegetables, poorly build houses and some established buildings, usually embassies and government buildings some built during the colonial rule of the Portuguese. Leaving Dili the tared road soon gives way to a windy dirt track. It is the dry season, so every passing vehicle produces clouds of dust so those living or selling from the side of the road constantly protect their faces with whatever they are wearing-scarves or pieces of clothing. The journey is rough and despite the fact that we are travelling 72 km, the journey will take up to 3 hours. The 4WD lurches as we negotiate potholes, tight corners and dangerous overhangs, but the journey shows a people busy with life-kids walking to school, women sweeping the front of their modest dwellings or carrying produce on their heads, chickens in flight, men chopping wood. Each time we slow to negotiate a tight corner we catch the eye of kids and families and call out “Bondia” which means good morning and they respond in full voice. We pass thatched cottages, houses barely standing, lean-tos and small wooden enclosures. We pass burning rubbish (there’s no rubbish collection here), stray tyres, motor bikes, vegetables laid out for sale, just off the road and huge bunches of hanging bananas. I’m struck by the level of poverty-the need for wood to cook a meal, limited water, scarce land to grow food, the need to burn rubbish and no real sewerage system. Eddie notes that we can’t even use one dollar bills as the main currency is coins below one dollar.

Around 40% of Timorese live below the poverty line. The minimum wage is $115.00/month while salaried employees earn $252.00/month. The country is rated 147^th out of 187 on the UN’s Human Development Index. In rural areas poverty is particularly widespread. Health and education levels are poor.

That is why we are here.

This story begins with one personal contact. Georgina Loughnan was visiting friends who were volunteering in Timor in 2009. While there, she met Eddie de Pina who asked for help building a new chapel for the district of Eraulo. On a return visit in 2011 a young priest from the Letefoho Parish in the mountains also asked if she could “help his people”

She returned to Sydney where she suggested that the Parish Priest of Lower North Shore, Fr Rex Curry, and several Parish Council members including my husband John, travel to Timor to “see for themselves” the poverty in the country and assess what could be done. In September 2013 Parish Council members unanimously agreed to support the subdistrict of Letefoho and a memorandum was created whereby the 2 parishes were twinned.

In 2017 a Charter of Friendship was signed between the Parish Priest of Lower North Shore and the Bishop of Dili Diocese, now cardinal of Timor Leste Virgilio de Carmo de Silva.

The result of this “friendship” has seen a renovated senior high school, a newly built girls boarding school, a refurbished boys boarding school, the sponsorship of 851 senior high school students and 313 tertiary students, sending 150 refurbished computers, the purchase of an industrial truck for water goods and people transportation, 2 water projects and the building of a piggery.

On arrival at Letefoho Fr Elio, the parish priest and head of the community, greets us warmly as do the other staff who are there to meet us. The women working in the kitchen peep out with smiles on their faces. We are ushered into the dining room for coffee, sweet potato and bananas.

Our accommodation is luxurious by Timor standards. A bed with a sheet and a coverlet.

The “toilet” is flushed by pouring cold water into the basin and hoping for the best. There is no hot water.

But I couldn’t care less. I am acutely aware that Fr Elio is treating us like royalty, and I can go without a shower for as long as needed. Indeed, in the months leading up to this “immersion” I began to question my motives for signing up and whether I’d cope. Was it because I was a well-off middle-class woman living on the North Shore of Sydney who felt guilty about how she lived-probably yes.

Did I know anyone else on the trip-no except for our Parish Priest Fr Vincent. Would I cope with the food and lack of amenity-didn’t know. Then it was too late to pull out.   I spoke sternly to myself:

“you’ve done tougher stuff than this so commit, connect, engage and be grateful that you have been invited into the lives of the Timorese people”.

Attending mass at Our Lady of Mt Carmel Church the next morning was a truly humbling experience. The entire parish community was there to welcome us. Older people, young children in colourful dresses, people who had walked for miles, all began to gather. They reached out to kiss our hands in a gesture that was so humbling I don’t know quite how to respond except to smile and bow my head in gratefulness. I sensed their deep faith and love but above all their humility. I feel ashamed as I began to see how stark the contrasts were between the way we live in Australia and how these people hold onto the ledge of survival. At the entrance to the church we are met by a group of adolescent men wearing a headdress and tribal cloth. Drums sound. The young women line up in dark traditional woven cloth with white shawls used to swing back and forth in a gesture of welcome and “enclosure”.

The choir standing at the top of the steps breaks into loud harmonic song. I am completely “heart stuck”. I want to capture this moment and hope it imprints on my long-term memory. As the ceremony continues, I see young children hiding behind their mother’s legs not knowing whether to be friendly or fearful. Aged faces look on inquisitively. We are ushered into the second front row behind a nun who has 6 young children in her charge. During Mass they deliver their memorized gospel readings and prayers of the faithful with great confidence. I make eye contact with some of the girls who are servers on the altar. They giggle and smile back at me. After mass I track them down and all they can say as they giggle and hide their faces is “selfie’ but I can’t understand them.  Then they point to my phone.

Oh “selfie” I say responding to their request. 13 selfies are taken as they pout and giggle.

Then squeezing in together they excitedly look at their images. They crowd around me in a circle of pure joy. I am struck by how their laughter sits just below the surface and yet how respectful and well behaved they appear.

Fr Elio is calling us to the Parish Hall where the parents of students we are sponsoring gather quietly.

This time we are asked to sit on a raised platform where we are subjected to words of praise and gratitude for the “work” we have done in supporting the students we have sponsored. I want to run away as this adoration is totally excessive and embarrassing. I want to reject the idea that they somehow owe us something. In fact, it is the reverse. We are the ones who are privileged to experience their warmth, laughter, faith and generosity. It is we who have the opportunity to reflect on our own indulgent lifestyle-consuming more and more-well in excess of what we need at the same time as damaging the planet. It is we who can experience a rousing in our own gratitude for all we have.

But then I hear my student’s name mentioned. Saturnina rises from the group and approaches the stage. She seems uncomfortable to be singled out but approaches with a big smile on her face.

We hug and later I meet her father. We bow to each other, smile and shake hands. The exchange is genuine-no words needed. But as I reflect I am ashamed to say that I could have sponsored more than 2 students. One student’s expenses for a year represents the cost of a healthy night out with friends or a pair of high-quality shoes. I vow to be more generous.

The next day we visit the lady of Mt Carmel High School where we are greeted with a lineup of students on each side all beautifully presented but waiting for us in the hot sun. There is more drumming and ceremonial dress. We are escorted by the teachers and students to an assembly area where there are more speeches. I have brought gifts for the students-pens, hair clips, head bands and pen highlighters. I decide to spice things up a bit and from the stage manage to kick a soccer ball into the student group. They’re not expecting this and roar with laughter. At Francis Xavier college the next day I venture into one of the classrooms with an English teacher. The room is stark but clean. The walls are painted bright green. The students are lined up in rows seated quietly and respectfully. I am keen to ask them what they want to do when they leave school. They are shy and reluctant to speak. They hide in embarrassment as I pick on them one after another to say what their hopes are.

A doctor, a journalist, a scientist, a teacher, an army officer. They listen intently to each other and fall about laughing as each takes their turn to rise and speak. The students are happy and I am farewelled enthusiastically. I wish I had the time to know each student individually as I am aware that their dreams will be hard fort. I know that some days they will come to school without having eaten and that their parents will sacrifice a great deal so their children can attend school. But the students will represent a growing educated middle class in East-Timor and that can only help enrich the country. Many students we have sponsored have returned to these communities to teach.

The end of the day is fast approaching as we notice a group of students arriving at the church for the rosary (prayer). I am stunned by this devotion. I don’t know one teenager who would do this in Australia except perhaps in a devoted Catholic home. I try to talk to the students but Father xxxxx tells them to come back after dinner. And they do, gathering slowly as the night closes in. Someone drags 2 speakers into the church square. The music starts and suddenly the students are singing and holding hands in a big circle. I can’t stand by. I drag the onlooking nuns who sheepishly enter the group and then Father Agostu joins in and suddenly we are moving in and out of a big circle. Someone tries to dance in the middle in a half stupid way and everyone roars with laughter. Suddenly we are dancing to the Macarena and I fumble to follow the dance moves-to catch up. There’s so much noise and joy! Nuns, a priest, students and mad Australians are all in on the act. But I’m exhausted. As I fall into bed in my little cell like room, I can hear Father Agostu farewelling the students. I hope they go home feeling as though they experienced some joy with the Australian visitors.

Timor Leste gets into your bones. It humbles and excites. You can’t forget what you have seen and experienced. Leaving the country feels like turning your back on a whole population vulnerable but seeking courageously for a better life while still carrying the wounds of those who have murdered and betrayed them. Their faith captivates. The whole country feels like an open church despite their poverty and trauma. The people of East-Timor express a love, warmth and generosity that goes beyond the every day. When they lift their eyes to God their devotion is visceral-it gives me goosebumps and I am nudged into reflecting on my own half-hearted efforts to be more prayerful more active and more generous. But I made a decision … I will be returning to East Timor.