(This review is a slightly shortened version of my review on Livejournal)

One curse of a life of intense action is that you may not have much time for reflection, not much time to take stock. You’re too busy doing. This certainly seems to be the case for Kirsty Sword Gusmão, who plunged into activism on behalf of occupied East Timor in the 1990s and didn’t emerge for air until—well, ever. There has always been, and continues to be, just too much to do.

A Woman of Independence captures this perfectly—the rush from one thing to the next, the clamor of small matters demanding attention while momentous matters loom in the background:

My whole day had been taken up with the petty problems of the rapazes [boys]. It was a tiny job really, this passing on of information between various parties, but it felt big and time-consuming enough to prevent me from articulating and recording my own thoughts and responses to the events unfolding around me.

Those events being, in this case, her impending visit (in 1995), on behalf of the imprisoned independence leader Xanana, to guerrilla commanders out in the field. And very soon she’s on her way to attempt that meeting, stopping to give a letter from Xanana to the wife of one of the guerrilla commanders:

[Olinda] wore the years of physical hardship and the pain of separation from her husband on her face. Nevertheless, as I handed her the envelope from Xanana, I noticed that her eyes gleamed with satisfaction, a tear threatening to escape down her bony cheeks. She had spent many years in the bush herself, having given birth to her son, Benvindo, in a guerrilla encampment in 1986. The food shortages and absence of medical attention led her and [her husband] Aluc to decide to place the infant in the care of Aluc’s father in Los Palos town. But the child was kidnapped en route by an Indonesian lieutenant-colonel who no doubt wished to use Aluc’s boy as a bargaining chip in the effort to force the Falintil to surrender. Olinda had not seen the boy since.

What makes Kirsty perfect for this life is that she’s willing to give herself entirely to the cause. It seems to be what’s required of revolutionaries and nation builders. A year earlier, after meeting his grown children (by his first wife) after years of separation, Xanana wrote to Kirsty,

I talked to them about the struggle, about my guerrillas’ suffering, so that they could get from me, not the reminiscing of a ‘resuscitated father,’ but the sense of the ongoing demands of ‘a patria’—the homeland. I couldn’t carry you constantly in my thoughts, I told them. I couldn’t dedicate a place in my heart to you because my guerrillas also had forgotten everything and had suffered more than myself.

And Kirsty too, when she learns she’s been banned from returning to Indonesia, thinks first of her work and the cause, and second of her chance to see Xanana:

What would this development mean for my job, for my work for East Timor and for my prospects of being able to see Xanana again? To my surprise, the thought that caused me the greatest pang of grief and remorse was that of not being able to visit Indonesia again. Since my first trip to the country in the early eighties, hardly a year had gone by that I hadn’t travelled to a different part of Indonesia, renewing old friendships and making new ones, filling the holes in my understanding of the complex and diverse nation … The thought that this was the end of the road caused me to wince. I was assailed by a profound sense of loss.

It’s maybe not surprising that the area in which Kirsty offers the most reflection and insight is the area that she’s been most involved in, most continuously: education. In 1993, working with Timorese young people in Indonesia, she reflects:

Over the years of my involvement in the East Timor struggle it had occurred to me that in many ways, this deliberate uprooting of the youth and the denial of their right to education was an even more insidious aspect of the Indonesian campaign of genocide than the murder and rape. More insidious because it was subtle, its effects enduring, and it robbed almost an entire generation of the opportunity and the means to contribute meaningfully to the life of the pátria, that almost mythical sovereign ‘homeland,’ which they knew only through the speeches and exhortations of their leaders.

This is a theme she returns to after independence. Walking through the rubble of Dili in 1999, she has the following thoughts:

Almost half East Timor’s population were young people. I found it disturbing to see so many unemployed youths on the street, with no chance of an education or of participating in reconstruction projects that required skills they didn’t have. Even recreational activities beyond the occasional soccer or volleyball match were denied them. I decided to set up a reading room. I wanted it to be a place people felt comfortable to visit, not daunted by, so a library wasn’t the answer. I wanted to create a place that would promote a love of reading and foster pride in the culture and fighting spirit of the people of my new home.

Overall, though, what’s best about A Woman of Independence are the hundreds of dramatic encounters and interactions that Kirsty describes—a revolution from the inside, recounted in vivid detail.
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(This review is a slightly shortened version of my review on Livejournal)

One curse of a life of intense action is that you may not have much time for reflection, not much time to take stock. You’re too busy doing. This certainly seems to be the case for Kirsty Sword Gusmão, who plunged into activism on behalf of occupied East Timor in the 1990s and didn’t emerge for air until—well, ever. There has always been, and continues to be, just too much to do.

A Woman of Independence captures this perfectly—the rush from one thing to the next, the clamor of small matters demanding attention while momentous matters loom in the background:

My whole day had been taken up with the petty problems of the rapazes [boys]. It was a tiny job really, this passing on of information between various parties, but it felt big and time-consuming enough to prevent me from articulating and recording my own thoughts and responses to the events unfolding around me.

Those events being, in this case, her impending visit (in 1995), on behalf of the imprisoned independence leader Xanana, to guerrilla commanders out in the field. And very soon she’s on her way to attempt that meeting, stopping to give a letter from Xanana to the wife of one of the guerrilla commanders:

[Olinda] wore the years of physical hardship and the pain of separation from her husband on her face. Nevertheless, as I handed her the envelope from Xanana, I noticed that her eyes gleamed with satisfaction, a tear threatening to escape down her bony cheeks. She had spent many years in the bush herself, having given birth to her son, Benvindo, in a guerrilla encampment in 1986. The food shortages and absence of medical attention led her and [her husband] Aluc to decide to place the infant in the care of Aluc’s father in Los Palos town. But the child was kidnapped en route by an Indonesian lieutenant-colonel who no doubt wished to use Aluc’s boy as a bargaining chip in the effort to force the Falintil to surrender. Olinda had not seen the boy since.

What makes Kirsty perfect for this life is that she’s willing to give herself entirely to the cause. It seems to be what’s required of revolutionaries and nation builders. A year earlier, after meeting his grown children (by his first wife) after years of separation, Xanana wrote to Kirsty,

I talked to them about the struggle, about my guerrillas’ suffering, so that they could get from me, not the reminiscing of a ‘resuscitated father,’ but the sense of the ongoing demands of ‘a patria’—the homeland. I couldn’t carry you constantly in my thoughts, I told them. I couldn’t dedicate a place in my heart to you because my guerrillas also had forgotten everything and had suffered more than myself.

And Kirsty too, when she learns she’s been banned from returning to Indonesia, thinks first of her work and the cause, and second of her chance to see Xanana:

What would this development mean for my job, for my work for East Timor and for my prospects of being able to see Xanana again? To my surprise, the thought that caused me the greatest pang of grief and remorse was that of not being able to visit Indonesia again. Since my first trip to the country in the early eighties, hardly a year had gone by that I hadn’t travelled to a different part of Indonesia, renewing old friendships and making new ones, filling the holes in my understanding of the complex and diverse nation … The thought that this was the end of the road caused me to wince. I was assailed by a profound sense of loss.

It’s maybe not surprising that the area in which Kirsty offers the most reflection and insight is the area that she’s been most involved in, most continuously: education. In 1993, working with Timorese young people in Indonesia, she reflects:

Over the years of my involvement in the East Timor struggle it had occurred to me that in many ways, this deliberate uprooting of the youth and the denial of their right to education was an even more insidious aspect of the Indonesian campaign of genocide than the murder and rape. More insidious because it was subtle, its effects enduring, and it robbed almost an entire generation of the opportunity and the means to contribute meaningfully to the life of the pátria, that almost mythical sovereign ‘homeland,’ which they knew only through the speeches and exhortations of their leaders.

This is a theme she returns to after independence. Walking through the rubble of Dili in 1999, she has the following thoughts:

Almost half East Timor’s population were young people. I found it disturbing to see so many unemployed youths on the street, with no chance of an education or of participating in reconstruction projects that required skills they didn’t have. Even recreational activities beyond the occasional soccer or volleyball match were denied them. I decided to set up a reading room. I wanted it to be a place people felt comfortable to visit, not daunted by, so a library wasn’t the answer. I wanted to create a place that would promote a love of reading and foster pride in the culture and fighting spirit of the people of my new home.

Overall, though, what’s best about A Woman of Independence are the hundreds of dramatic encounters and interactions that Kirsty describes—a revolution from the inside, recounted in vivid detail.
( )