East Timor Law Journal
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WEAVING THE COUNTRY TOGETHER: IDENTITIES AND TRADITIONS IN EAST TIMOR
Natali Pride BA (Hons) UNSW 2002
Chapter Two
All You Have Is Your Past [1] : The Location of Cloth Within East Timorese Cosmological Socio-Cultural Structures
Dili’s Pasar Tais is a place full of contradictions. Behind the ramshackle wooden structures from which the tais are sold rise enormous satellite dishes; even further back are the rolling clouds and cool green mountains of East Timor’s interior. The dusty earth is stirred up as tourists and visitors wander in; otherwise it is quiet, with stallholders and their families and friends sitting in the shade of their shelters, waiting for custom. On a good day, up to forty ‘internationals’ will visit the Pasar Tais [2], looking for kenangan [3] to take home, or for a colourful addition to their personal collection. While smaller souvenirs are increasingly visible, such as beads and sandalwood, the textiles continue to dominate the market in terms of size, volume and colour. The distinctive blue of the United Nations flag is visible in many of the smaller scarves; the target market of these goods could not be more obvious. In an environment where textiles were historically made for personal, ritual and ceremonial use, the increasingly economic role played by these textiles is startlingly noticeable.
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[1] Allende, Isabel, interviewed in the Australian film Canto a La Vida, 1990, quoted in Turner, Michelle, Telling: East Timor, personal testimonies 1942-1992, Kensington: NSW University Press, 1992, xxii; “The Araucano Indians say that the past is in front of you because you can see it. All you can see is your past. You take experience and knowledge from it to build the present. The future is behind. You cannot see the future: it is black and it may not even be there because you could die today. So all you have is your past.”
[2] Figure quoted by Domingos Dos Santos, Tais seller, personal communication, 17 February 2002, Dili. Note this figure was given before United Nations withdrawal from East Timor in May 2002.
[3] An Indonesian word meaning memories. Used by Domingos Dos Santos in this context to describe souvenirs (Domingos Dos Santos, op. cit., 2002)
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It would appear these souvenirs are about as far removed as possible from the organic colours and functions of the tais asli[4] which preceded them.
Figure 2.1 Pasar Tais, Dili. (Photo: Natali Pride, February 2002)
Before exploring these textiles in further detail, it is important the discussion is contextualised – they were not created in a vacuum, nor is it helpful to discuss them in one. Timor sits at the extreme eastern end of the Sunda Islands, a chain that has its beginnings in Pulau Weh off the north coast of Sumatra and terminates just above East Timor. Described in the literature as a cultural, ethnic and linguistic ‘melting pot’, Timor’s location within the Eastern Indonesian arc, between Java and New
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[4] Asli is Indonesian for indigenous, authentic. Despite asli being an Indonesian word, this phrase was used by an East Timorese tais seller (Luciano Gomes, interview with Natali Pride, 6 February 2002, Pasar Tais, Dili, East Timor) to refer to the East Timorese practice of naturally-dyed, hand-spun and hand-woven textiles
[5] See for example Niner, Sarah, op. cit. 2001, p. 1
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Guinea, has exposed it to languages, cultures, traditions and histories which belong both to Austronesian and Melanesian societies.
The indigenous inhabitants of Timor can trace their ancestry back nearly fourteen thousand years, as evidenced by remains from four caves [6]. Historians largely agree that these early hunter-gatherers, who are thought to have been of Austro-Melanesian stock, are the ancestors of Timor’s predominant ethnic group, the Atoni. The Atoni are sometimes referred to as the ‘original’ [7] Timorese because they are the earliest known inhabitants of the island. These ‘people of the dry land’, a description which refers to their cultural habitat, tended to avoid the coast, and despite the fecundity of the coastal waters, did not exploit this resource [8]. The Atoni now live mainly in the central mountains of West Timor and compose nearly half of its population, having been slowly pushed westwards and further into the interior with the fourteenth-century arrival of the Tetum-speaking people [9].
The Tetum, also known by the Atoni as the Belu [10], are believed to have originated from the Malay peninsula, also passing through Sulawesi and Flores [11]. Following this extensive migration, the reasons for which remain undetermined, the Tetum finally settled on the relatively fertile soil along the central north coast off Timor, not far from where the island first becomes visible to eastbound seafarers. The Tetum now mainly inhabit areas of East Timor, being the most numerically
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[6] Bellwood, Peter, Prehistory of the Indo-Malaysian Archipelago, Sydney: Academic Press, 1985, p. 190
[7] Bennett, James, op. cit., 1998, p. 43
[8] Schulte Nordholt, H. G., op. cit., 1971. p. 39
[9] Ormeling, F. J., The Timor Problem, Jakarta: J.B. Wolters, 1957, p. 68
[10] Nicol argues that Belu refers to the area on Timor’s central north coast on which these people first settled (Nicol, Bill, Timor: The Stillborn Nation, Camberwell: Widescope, 1978, p. 4), while Leibrick (Leibrick, Fiona, Motif-motif Biboki, Darwin: Northern Territory Museum of Arts and Sciences, 1993, and op. cit., 1994) writes that the term Belu comes from the Dawan language spoken by the Atoni, meaning friend. This is but one example of the many conflicting accounts of Timorese history found throughout the literature.
[11] Yeager, Ruth Marie and Jacobson, Marc Ivan, Traditional Textiles of West Timor – Regional Variations in Historical Perspective, USA: Batuan Biru Publications, 1991, p. 4
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significant ethnic group there. The Tetum are credited with introducing rice to the island, as well as bringing with them concepts of land ownership, and social ranking. They were probably also responsible for the introduction of many of the ritual uses for cloth, perhaps even aspects of basic weaving technologies. There were a number of cultural differences between the dominant ethnic groups of the Atoni and Belu, the former demanding a brideprice and being patrilineal in descent, in contrast with the Belu’s matrilineal ordering, full use of natural resources and wide variety of economic activities.
Nicol mentions the presence of small tribes, divided by ethnic background, but neglects to provide a date for the development of such tribes. This basic social unit varied from tribe to tribe as to whether the clan would be coterminous with a hamlet or village or some larger territorial unit, or have no relation to residence or land ownership at all. Financed by a lucrative trade in sandalwood, these tribes in time came to be ruled by local kings, known as liurai. The ruler of the Belu [12] kingdom of Wehale claimed dominion over some forty-six of these liurai along the coast and the interior [13] to develop a ‘unified political system in Timor.’ [14] In the west the confederacy on Sonba’i claimed a similar hegemony over sixteen liurai [15]. Again, these developments remain undated.
Schulte Nordholt proposes that each of the princedoms wove and used different textiles: “Every political community or important more or less independent sub-section of a community has its own pattern…often alternately red and indigo.” [16] In the Pasar Tais today, the tais sellers readily differentiate between the textiles of
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[12] Bill Nicol (op. cit., 1978, p. 5) locates the state of Wehale in the south of Timor, while Cribb (Historical Atlas of Indonesia, Richmond: Curzon, 2000, p. 99) locates it in the ‘centre and east of the island’
[13] Cribb, Robert, op. cit, 2000, p. 99
[14] Nicol, Bill, op. cit., 1978, p. 5
[15] Cribb, Robert, op. cit., 2000, p. 99
[16] Schulte Nordholt, H. G., op. cit., 1971, p. 45
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each region, using motifs and colours as their guide to determine the place of origin of each textiles. Despite these differences, social organisation throughout Timor was based on “[…] far-reaching ritual connections based on clan genealogies.” [17] and the integral combination of clan and marriage alliances and warrior values at every level.
Timor’s early socio-political organization would later be used by both the Portuguese and Indonesian governments in the formulation of vastly different administration policies, as well as by the East Timorese nationalists, as a model from which to draw ideas supporting their claims to the right to an historical indigenous identity. The lack of specific dates is unfortunate for the historian, making it difficult to compare the evolution of concepts such as kingship in Timor within the wider archipelagic context. While we know that such concepts were starting to emerge in, for example, the nearby island of Ternate by the fifteenth century, we cannot be sure whether or not this predates the Timorese experience.
The majority of early visitors to Timor were lured by the sandalwood that at one time covered Timor’s now near-barren mountainsides. The Chinese are believed to have visited as early as the sixth or seventh century, setting the stage for future visitors by supplementing their cargoes with Timorese slaves. A Chinese chronicle of 1436 remarked that “[T]he mountains are covered with sandal-trees and the country produces nothing else.” [18] The island also receives a mention in the twelfth to fourteenth century records of the ancient Javanese kingdoms of Kediri and Majapahit [19], indicating it paid some form of tribute to these states. Europeans were among those lured by the promise of sandalwood and spices, but did not arrive until
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[17] Bennett, James, op. cit., 1998, p. 44
[18] Boxer, CR, “Portuguese Timor, a Rough Island Story: 1515-1970”, History Today 10, no. 5, 1970, pp. 349-55
[19] Kediri was a twelfth to thirteenth century trading kingdom of east Java: Majapahit was a major east Javanese power in the fourteenth century. See Ricklefs, M., A History of Modern Indonesia since c.1300, London: Macmillan, 1993
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the early sixteenth century, when the Portuguese used their garrisons on Solor and Flores as bases for expeditions into Timor. The Dutch too were interested in Timor, and made tentative forays into the interior in search of sandalwood and slaves. [20] Portuguese and Dutch disputes over access to Timor developed over the decades, with each claiming authority over various parts of the island. [21] The passing of time saw ongoing struggles between these two European countries to establish and legitimise their authority in the area. However, their relative lack of success is indicated by the ongoing wars between Timorese kingdoms; European presence was evidently considered to be of lesser import than their own inter-kingdom interests. In 1702 Portugal declared Timor a colony, though this declaration was fairly superficial and had little effect on the rule of ascendant native kingdoms. It wasn’t until the Portuguese adopted and adapted the established local administrative liurai system as a model for indirect rule in the late nineteenth century that they were able to gain more effective control of parts of East Timor. The central areas of the island remained independent of colonialism throughout the nineteenth century, some only falling to foreign rule in the early part of the twentieth century. Textile production was only affected by the increased Portuguese presence to the extent that the Timorese were exposed to new design motifs.
As in other parts of the Indonesian archipelago, early Timorese textiles were often made from soaked and beaten bark. The introduction of woven cloth to the island by Malay, Javanese and other seafaring islanders is seen in rock paintings at Tutuala, on East Timor’s easternmost point, which depict ocean-going vessels that
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[20] Schulte Nordholt, H. G., op. cit., 1971, p. 50
[21] For a comprehensive study of the struggles between the Portuguese and the Dutch to partition Timor, refer to Farram, Steve, “The Two Timors: The Partitioning of Timor by the Portuguese and the Dutch” from Studies in Languages and Cultures of East Timor, University of Western Sydney, Vol. 2, 1999
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probably first brought textiles as trade items for Timor’s sandalwood. [22] At this East Timor site an image of a ship with patchwork sails and a flag blowing before the wind records woven cloth in material culture during the first millennium or earlier – that is, prior to the estimated arrival of the Tetum. However, because of the distortion of time in oral histories, the exact period at which this change occurred cannot be ascertained. [23]
Despite the difficulties in determining the dates relevant to the establishment of a woven-fabric tradition, it can be said with certainty that these fabrics became in time a source of pride for East Timorese communities, and for women in particular.
Sources [24] indicate weaving was an activity inherently linked with farming activities, with advances in both farming and weaving technologies and knowledge occurring concurrently. Whilst the activity of weaving primarily occurred during the periods of free time between farming activities, it was more than a mere pastime. While agriculture required adherence to a strict timetable, this was not the case with weaving. Provided the weaver had the basic tools at hand, weaving could be done at any time of the day, usually sitting in the shade after the essential tasks of food production were completed.
There were no restrictions relating to age or level of maturity as to when a female could begin to learn weaving and dyeing techniques, the only requirements being a personal interest in the art, and access to the necessary knowledge, passed down from generation to generation rather than acquired formally. Flexibility of learning requirements sets the East Timorese experience apart from its regional
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[22] Bennett, James, op. cit., 1998, p. 43
[23] Croese, Megan R., op. cit., 1995, p. 40
[24] Departmen Pendidikan dan Kebudayaan, Pengrajin Tradisional Daerah Timor Timur, Direktorat Jenderal Kebudayaan: Museum Negeri Propinsi Timor Timur, 1993-1994, p. 3
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neighbours, where often menstruation, marriage or even the birth of a grandchild [25] could be a necessary prerequisite.
Figure 2.2 This weaving scene could be one from many parts of the Indonesian archipelago, the most noticeable element being the dominance of women in this domain. Children are also a constant feature; men a rare one. (Photo: Natali Pride, February 2002)
The primary materials required prior to commencing weaving were the cotton thread, and dye(s). These materials, wild or cultivated, could usually be obtained near the place of residence. The favoured type of cotton was that which was already mature; this required less time drying in the sun. The cotton seeds were removed, and, following a prolonged spinning process to separate the coarse from the fine, the threads were rolled into a spool, ready to be dyed.
Popular dyes included turmeric and indigo. The extraction of colour from the former was usually straightforward [26] – after immersion in water and repeated
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[25] See for example Hoskins, Janet, “Why do Ladies Sing the Blues? Indigo Dyeing, Cloth Production, and Gender Symbolism in Kodi”, in Weiner, A., and Schneider, J., (Eds.), Cloth and Human Experience, Washington/London: Smithsonian Institution Press, 1989
[26] The process for indigo was somewhat more complicated. The leaves had to be gathered when the rains came and the plant’s sap was running. Between ten and fourteen immersions have been cited by dyers as required to get an adequate saturation of colour. For an excellent article on the complexities of and meanings behind indigo dyeing, see Hoskins, Janet, “Why do Ladies Sing the Blues? Indigo Dyeing, Cloth Production, and Gender Symbolism in Kodi”, in Weiner, A., and Schneider, J., op. cit., 1989. Hoskins looks at the relationship between indigo dyeing and herbalism, tattooing, poisons, midwifery and witchcraft. Fertility and blessing are all affected when the threads are immersed into the indigo bath, with fertile or pregnant women banned from participating in the process. As women pass through menopause, involvement in and initiation into the secrets behind indigo dyeing are acquired like a badge of honour (literally: indigo-coloured tattoos are applied to the forearms once a woman reaches this stage). The secrecy of such knowledge is jealously guarded, finding its position alongside the secrecy of reproduction and childbirth. Exclusive possession of the technical and ritual knowledge required to perform the dyeing process means that even the indigo baths must be obscured from men’s eyes: they smelt of rotting corpses and were taboo.
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pounding, the plant was squeezed dry, the colour running into the dye-bath. Thread was usually immersed for up to forty-eight hours, removed and, without squeezing, laid out to dry. The colour yielded depended on various factors such as age of the plant, season [27], length of immersion and skill of the dyer. Another special type of dyestuff was mud, probably iron-bearing clay, yielding a matte black colour after being kneaded with the threads. It produced a similar effect to that achieved by the indigo plant, without the characteristic blue colour of the latter.
This century has witnessed the extensive use of commercial dyes throughout Timor, and the resulting decline in the use of traditional dyes derived from local plants.[28] While some textiles were woven without imported yarns as late as 1964, the trend has increasingly been towards pre-dyed commercial yarns. Spun cotton yarns were traded inland in the early part of the twentieth century, to be used primarily as
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27 Ofelia Napoleao, Manager of Timor Aid’s Weaving and Sewing Program, acknowledges the varying depth of colour achieved from natural sources depends as much on the season as on the ability of the dye-extractor. Dyes extracted during the dry season tend to be lighter-coloured, as the plants and leaves are not as healthy. As such, dyeing of threads is usually carried out during the wet season, concurrent with the planting and harvesting of food crops. The dyeing of the threads during the Wet season, and completion of many agricultural activities, means more opportunity for the actual task of weaving during the dry season. Interview with Ofelia Napoleao, 6 February 2002, Dili
28 Detlef Frietz Dirksen writes “Due to their affinity to strong colours, I believe that the Timorese were the first in Nusa Tengarra Timur (Central Lesser Sundas) to adopt the use of chemical dyes, and to the early sandalwood exploitation by the Portuguese resulting in regular contacts with western traders, they had access to these dyes already at the turn of the century…In the case of Timorese textiles we can often therefore not judge the age and quality (and price) of a fabric by the fact that it has been worked in the ‘traditional way’ (that is the use of homespun yarn and natural dye stuff). Many of the Timorese fabrics are of such unique beauty that we can almost neglect the fact that they [are] either completely or partially worked with modern material.” Exhibition of Textiles from Nusa Tenggara Timur op. cit., 1985, foreword.
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colour variations in lateral stripes. This trade disappeared during the Japanese occupation in World War II, when local cotton and looms supplied what clothing was available.[29] As will be explored in the following chapters, East Timorese weavers are now being encouraged to use traditional dyes, in an effort to both rejuvenate traditional knowledge and cater to an international market expecting such products.
Whilst women’s participation in farming was essential to a successful harvest, the physicality of agricultural activities meant they were primarily associated with ‘men’s’ activities. In contrast, weaving was almost without exception seen as a female activity. The development of weaving traditions was coterminous with the development of concepts of dual classification and complementary opposites, the concept of which is here demonstrated by the relationship between weaving and farming. All aspects of Timorese life were organised to fit this system, the fundamental principle of which was opposing yet complementary dichotomies. It was evident in a multitude of social forms and understood by all members of the community.[30] Expressions of cultural assumptions predicated on the ritual and metaphorical manipulation of symbolic life-giving qualities were ordered through forms of complementary opposition. [31] Dual complementarity expressed itself in various ritual processes throughout Timor, manifesting itself both in the range of
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[29] Gittinger, Mattiebelle, op. cit., 1990, pp. 182-3
[30] For sources on dual complementarity, see Hicks, David, op. cit., 1984; Needham, R., (Ed.), Right and Left: Essays on Dual Classification, Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1973; Fox, James, “Category and Complement: Binary Ideologies and the Organisation of Dualism in Eastern Indonesia”, in Maybury-Lewis, David, and Uri Almagor (Eds.), The Attraction of Opposites: Thought and Society in the Dualistic Mode, Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press 1989; Mc William, Andrew, “Case Studies in dual classification as process: childbirth, headhunting and circumcision in West Timor”, in Oceania, vol. 65 no. 1, September 1994; Friedberg, Claudine, (translated from the French by Elizabeth Traube) “Boiled Woman and Broiled Man: Myths and Agricultural Rituals of the Bunaq of Central Timor” in Fox , James (Ed.) The Flow of Life: Essays on Eastern Indonesia, Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1980; Traube, Elizabeth, “Mambai Rituals of Black and White” in Fox, J. (Ed.) op. cit., 1980
[31] Mc William, Andrew, op. cit., 1994
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conventional expressions for category distinctions[32] as well as in the formal organisation of ceremonial contexts and structural patterns of society such as rituals and ceremonies related to life-changing events.
Within these cosmological concepts, textiles played an integral role as the physical embodiment of softness and femininity. With so many aspects of cloth manufacture traditionally performed by women, textiles were typically seen as ‘feminine’ goods; the production of semi-durables such as cloth and children by women was contrasted with the association of men with hard objects such as steel and stone. Gittinger writes, “Textiles…are categorised as feminine items. This arises from work patterns, which demand that all stages of the textile process, from the planting of the cotton through the actual weaving of the cloth, be performed by women alone. As a consequence, in the dual classification that structures so many Indonesian concepts, textiles are bracketed with such entries as female, lower world, profane, night, moon, and blue-black. Opposed are male, upper-world, sacred, day, sun and red.” [33]
However, while the women were active and instrumental in every stage of the dyeing, spinning and weaving process, the above statement disguises the importance of the male role in the weaving process. Both women and men were mediators between opposed categories. The exclusiveness of weaving activities to the womens’ world was possible only because of a male contribution: bamboo and wooden alat-alat [34] were created not by the women weavers, but by their husbands, fathers, brothers and sons. Despite its apparent autonomy, this ‘world’ of weaving depended on the
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[32] For example: male/female, secular/sacred, old/young, heated/cooled, outside/inside, wild/tame, wifetaker/wifegiver. Cardinal points on the compass were also ranked – east and south had a male association, north and west a female. Even colours were categorised according to gender.
[33] Gittinger, Mattiebelle, op. cit., 1990, pp. 33-35
[34] Indonesian, meaning tool, equipment
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existence of its complementary other – the world of men, hardness and war - for its own livelihood.
Gittinger later concludes that “A textile […] is the perfect element to be united with a metal object such as a spear in a conceptualisation and representation of totality”[35] , and it was through the concept of lulik [36] that the sanctity and necessity of male/female unification was expressed. Lulik were sacred objects believed to possess special powers, and included both domestic and foreign textiles. The former were valued for their age and intricacy, as items passed down through generations of skilled women weavers. These textiles were believed to retain, through the techniques, colours and motifs used, the spirit of the ancestors. Bennett writes that the conferral of the concept of lulik onto foreign textiles is indicative of the “[…] significance of inter-island contact held sacred in communal memory.” [37] Other valued objects included gold and silver discs worn by warriors as breastplates, swords, spears and rifles, and Makassan and, later, Portuguese flags.[38] Stored in the uma lulik [39] , the metal objects such as swords and breastplates were wrapped in the softer fabrics of the flags and the textiles, explicitly and implicitly expressing the close relationship in Timorese cosmology between war and weaving, men and women, hardness and softness.
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[35] Gittinger, Mattiebelle, op. cit., 1990, pp. 33-35
[36] The possession of lulik was believed to protect the owner. According to H. O. Forbes (quoted in Davidson, K.G., The Portuguese Colonisation of Timor: The Final Stage, Sydney; University of New South Wales PhD Thesis, 1994, p. 133), “[…] in the case of those whom the lulik has chosen, no bullet or weapon can hurt them.” Lulik were used during ceremonies such as requesting rain, during planting and harvesting seasons, or during the building of a new uma lulik. For a fascinating account of the power attributed to lulik in Timor, see King-Boyes, M., Eden to Paradise, London: Hodder and Stoughton, 1963, pp. 150-158
[37] Bennett, James, op. cit., p. 43
[38] Hull, Geoffrey, East Timor: Identity, Language and Educational Policy, Lecture, University of Western Sydney, at Instituto Nacional de Linguistica, Universidade Nacional de Timor Lorosae, 17 October 2000
[39] Special house where these sacred objects were stored
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Davidson argues that the use of foreign objects such as rifles and flags as lulik is “[…] prosaic evidence of how that right [to rule] was achieved [;] by conquest.” [40] However, while migration and trade resulted in the dissemination of new concepts and ideas to Timor, such activities did not necessarily enter the Timorese consciousness retaining the same symbolism attributed them by Europeans. The use of foreign objects as sacred heirlooms by the Timorese did not symbolise for them the destruction or conquest of their traditional culture; in fact, the reverence attributed to such objects as flags and bibles was not so much due to those objects’ roles in the European context, but instead due to the unique meanings, discussed above, attributed to them by the Timorese. Various non-Timorese influences were adopted on terms that cast them to fit a local aesthetic
Tais were an important part of the traditional social, visual and belief systems which existed throughout the island. In the tropical environment of the low-lying East Timorese coast, the function of the tais extends far beyond that of protector against the elements. The necessity of warmth provided by textiles is negated, and despite the cool of the mountainous interior, the values attributed to the tais within East Timor are validated in other ways. Fischer [41] writes of the many uses for textiles within the Indonesian archipelago: clothing, costume, mnemonic devices for chants and poetry, flags and banners, pouches, shrouds and burial cloths, house decoration, money, advertising, dowry, armour, stored heirlooms, ship plumage, baby carriers, blankets and gifts. Within these various roles, textiles may symbolise social status, gender, kin, clan, lineage, age, political power, wealth, ethnic and regional identity, religious role, physical prowess, or hunting skills – and usually a combination of these. These uses
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[40] Davidson, K.G., The Portuguese Colonisation of Timor: The Final Stage, Sydney; University of New South Wales PhD Thesis, 1994, p. 117
[41] Fischer, Joseph, “The Character and Study of Indonesian Textiles, in Gittinger, Mattiebelle, (Ed.) Indonesian Textiles: Irene Emery Roundtable on Museum Textiles, 1979 Proceedings, 1979, p. 340
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are relevant to the Indonesian archipelago in general, and many relate to the East Timorese experience more specifically.
In their role as feminine goods, textiles were “essential" [42] to a complex set of gift exchanges at various stages of life. Gittinger writes that ceremonies held for particular transition stages “[…] often centre[d] on the moment when textiles [were] transferred.” [43] These rites of passage were transition stages such as birth, tattooing [44], wedding, circumcision and burial. The transformation of the textile during the giving process, from raw material to finished product, demonstrated “fundamental concepts of the community from which it originate[d]”,[45] concepts which valued the contributions of both men and women in constructing a male and female structural whole.
As a fundamental theme in the orientation of Timorese social and cultural life, dual classification was directly applicable to the ordering of social forms and rituals. Of these, headhunting reveals the most relevant examples in demonstrating the totality of the Timorese worldview as it was informed by the concept of complementary opposites. [46] The use of textiles in rituals related to headhunting is most obviously seen in the ceremonial costume worn by a Timorese ritual warrior-leader upon attaining his first head. The headhunter’s costume consisted of a variety of items, rather than the textile alone, also incorporating sword and head ornaments, the
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42 Barnes, Ruth, “Women as Headhunters: The Making and Meaning of Textiles in a Southeast Asian Context”, pp. 38-39, in Barnes, Ruth and Joanne B. Eicher (Eds.), Dress and Gender: Making and Meaning, Oxford/London: Berg Publishers, 1993, p. 38
43 Gittinger, Mattiebelle, op. cit., 1990, p. 20
44 Maxwell writes of the use of a powerful textile during the rites of tattooing, whereby similar patterns are found in both media. These tattoos ensured a safe journey to the next world after death. See Maxwell, Robyn, op. cit., 1990, pp. 109-110
45 Barnes, Ruth, op. cit., in Barnes, Ruth and Joanne B. Eicher (Eds.), op. cit., 1993, pp. 38-39
46 Other rituals involved those associated with childbirth, circumcision and burial. Expensive in terms of production and time, elaborate cloths were used as funerary shrouds. Many were also buried with the corpse – occasionally shredded to deter grave robbers, but usually intact. The value of these cloths accompanied the deceased after death, and the symbols woven into the cloth provided a guide as to one’s identity. Tais were also used to wrap corpses prior to burial. Tais also played a role in weddings, being used both as bridal gifts and as decoration for the bridal chamber.
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ceremonial betel-nut pouch, beaded neck-piece, and a plain sash and headcloth. Red was the predominant colour for the headhunter’s costume, representing war, blood, courage and victory. Rather than using the example of the headhunter to demonstrate the use of textiles in Timor, this example is more relevant when used to explain the concept of complementary duality. The new warrior’s wife would wear the very same costume, her husband’s ceremonial headhunting costume, upon the birth of their first child. After a one to two month period of seclusion immediately following the birth (relating to the complementary opposites of inside and outside, tame and wild), the new mother would emerge from confinement, resplendent in her husband’s headhunting attire. The symbolism here is clear – she too had attained her first ‘head’, in the form of their new child. Leaving the house signified their survival of a dangerous period, and the re-entering of the community.
The primary themes associated with headhunting related to maturity and readiness for marriage, and fertility, of both the body and the land. Just as Timorese men were required to become warriors and to take a head before they were considered eligible for marriage, weaving and the knowledge it required was a necessary prerequisite before a Timorese woman could marry. Labelled by Maxwell as ‘women’s war’ [47] , weaving was “…an activity that may be seen as analogous to the male pursuit of headhunting: as the producers of textiles they manipulate and transform.” [48] Gittinger also discusses the important distinction that headhunting made between the opposition of male and female; “[T]he creation of textiles and childbearing were seen as analogous to men’s creative functions in headhunting and,
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47 Maxwell, Robyn, op. cit., 1990, p. 107
48 Barnes, Ruth, op. cit., in Barnes, Ruth and Joanne B. Eicher (Eds.), op. cit., 1993, p. 38
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indeed, certain steps in the preparation of the yarns were called the ‘warpath of the women’.” [49]
Figure 2.3 Gittinger includes an undated photo of a new mother in her husband’s headhunting costume in her Splendid Symbols: Textiles and Traditions in Indonesia.
Active headhunting was pre-eminently a male preoccupation in which young men sought emblems of renown, prowess and above all, masculinity. This domain was conceptually opposed to the world of women, symbolized here by the headhunters' wives. Warfare and masculinity stood in complementary opposition to
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49 Gittinger, Mattiebelle, op. cit., 1990, p. 32
50 Photo from Koninklijk Instituut voor de Tropen, Amsterdam, in Gittinger, Mattiebelle, op. cit., 1990, p. 33
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peace and femininity. This explicit dualism represented metaphorical prerequisites for the maintenance of life.[51]
As indicated, the ritual importance of headhunting was related to increasing fertility. In his work on the Atoni, Schulte Nordholt says, “the power of fertility and the power of hostility are associated with the harvest… After a raid the heads were brought into the sacred house with the same hooked instrument that the first fruits of the harvest were brought into the sacred house at harvest time…Headhunting was seen as just as necessary as the harvest…” [52] The importance of headhunting and the accompanying rituals in Timor did not occur in isolation, but were instead practiced widely throughout the archipelago. The ramifications of such links between Timor and its wider context will be discussed at length in the following chapter.
The presence of the Pasar Tais in Dili indicates the production of tais for economic reasons – they are now a source of income for East Timorese weavers. However, tais were not originally produced for economic benefit. The majority of tais were produced to fulfil personal needs, relying on limited and raw technologies. An Indonesian source, “Traditional Handicrafts of East Timor”, argues that because these textiles were not produced to be sold, there was little impetus for the weavers to vary their repertoire of techniques, designs or colours.[53] However, variety and complexity of symbols, designs and colours did exist; textiles that were not intended to participate in economic transactions were valued as personal possessions and for the role they played in ritual gift exchange, particularly prior to and during the marriage ceremony. Patsy Thatcher has argued that the marital gift exchange is “[…] a uniquely Timorese way of spreading wealth. East Timorese society [and] politics [are] all intricately bound up with the marital alliance systems to which every
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51 Mc William, Andrew, op. cit., 1994
52 H. G. Schulte Nordholt in Fox, James (Ed.), op. cit., 1980, p. 266
53 Departmen Pendidikan dan Kebudayaan, op. cit., 1993-1994, p. 6
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Timorese owes their first loyalty to.” [54] Stevens expands on this gift-giving ceremony: “The bride’s family buy or have made a set of male and female tais, which have a certain value. For instance, most groups say that the set (in Portuguese times) was worth approximately five or six cows. The price was agreed one, and usually depended on the social standing of the family. While the bride’s family supplied the tais for the wedding, the groom’s family supplied the cows.” [55]
Whilst tais were not typically active participants in economic exchange, they did have important economic benefits for the weaver and wearer. Produced from home and worn wrapped around the body, a tais required simple instruments and few basic materials. Made with cotton and natural dyes, these tais were of such high quality that they lasted a long time indeed. As will be discussed in Chapter Four, tais have gradually extended from fulfilling personal and family needs to being produced for a wider market
With the establishment of a woven-fabric tradition, various motifs and symbols emerged. Designs that even now recur throughout the island transcend ethnic-linguistic diversity and “[…] reflect an overarching unity in Timorese aesthetics.” [56] The image most frequently seen in both East and West Timorese textiles is the crocodile, a creature of central importance in Timorese ancestral legends. The whole form of the animal may be shown on the textile, or in some cases, the texture of its skin may be represented in a geometric design. Murray and Maia [57] demonstrate variations on the crocodile motif, ranging from the readily recognisable to the heavily
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54 Personal communication with Patsy Thatcher, January 2002
55 Personal communication with Melanie Stevens, June 2002
56 Bennett, James, op cit., 1998, p. 44
57 Murray, Alison, and Veronica Pereira Maia, “Motifs in East Timorese Art”, Inside Indonesia, Vol. 41, 1994, p. 31
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stylised, depending on the technique employed and the stylistic preference of the weaver.
Figure 2.4 Dili’s Sports Stadium has been freshly painted with pictures such as the one above. The childrens’ words translate as “Hey look at this! Timor has peace already, cool hey!” (translation from the Tetum courtesy of Melanie Stevens, 4 June 2002, personal communication.) The crocodile is here used as a symbol for the new nation of East Timor. There is a traditional story in East Timor told about a boy and a crocodile: “According to this creation story, a young boy came across a sick crocodile, burning in the sun. The boy took pity on the crocodile and carried it to the sea. To repay the boy’s kindness, the crocodile took the boy, as was his wish, on many long journeys across the sea, carrying the boy on his back. Despite being tempted to eat the boy, the crocodile kept his promise and let the boy ride safely. They journeyed until the crocodile became old. When he realised he was dying, the crocodile said to the boy ‘I will change into a land where you and your descendants will live from my fruits, as payment for your kindness.’ And according to Timorese tradition, that crocodile became the island of Timor, and the Timorese are the descendants of that boy.” [58] (Photo: Natali Pride, February 2002)
The importance of ancestral ghosts and the creatures which act as a medium between the spirits of the dead and the living within Timorese cosmology is portrayed
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58 Leaving the Crocodile: The Story of the East Timorese Community in Sydney, (Exhibition Catalogue) Liverpool Regional Museum, August 2001, p. 4
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in their textile motifs. The forms of the animals who render this service, seen as possessing magical powers, are frequently used not only on textiles, but also on a range of other everyday items such as pottery, lime containers for betel chewing, carved spoons and basketry.[59] The ancestors themselves are frequently portrayed, either as recognisably human figures with arms and legs extended, [60] or as anthropomorphic shapes depicted in a stacked or ‘nesting’ configuration, suggested to portray the cycle of generations. [61]
The combination of ancestral images with geometric patterns is most evident in the “ubiquitous” [62] hooked diamond design (a diamond or lozenge shape, from which branches spirals or hooks), symbolising harmony within the community. [63] Although the techniques used by weavers tend to produce, of necessity, angular rather than rounded shapes, the extensive use of geometric figures suggests that what may originally have been a design limitation has in fact been manipulated and amplified to become the preference throughout the entire island. Support for this theory is derived from the fact that in other art forms not subject to these restrictions, the geometric art form predominates. These motifs may be used in their pure geometric form, or in the stylised representation of human or animal shapes. They may also be used as a
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59 The gecko, which carries messages regarding travel and journeys by chirping from the left or right-hand side of the house, is frequently represented. Birds too have powers of augury and may be seen as the dominant ornament, or in association with the human figures whose spirits they are said to have carried off after death. See Gittinger, Mattiebelle, op. cit., 1990, p. 176, and Van Hout, Itie, “Bird Motifs in Ikats from Sumba and Timor”, in Oriental Art, Vol XLV, no. 2, 1999, pp. 75-81
60 Kartiwa, Suwarti, Tenun Ikat, Jakarta: Penerbitan Djambatan, 1987, p. 5
61 Maxwell, Robyn, op. cit., 1990, p. 129
62 Leibrick, Fiona, op. cit., 1994, p. 30
63 Gittinger writes that another geometric design which is frequently encountered in Timorese textiles, usually marking the end of a design, is the isosceles triangle shape. The most recent mechanism for its introduction are the elaborate double ikat patola cloths from Gujarat in India, used as bartering cloths of particular merit by the Dutch East India Company. The high status thus acquired was transferred to textiles which used elements from the design. Isosceles triangles have however been employed as decoration from Neolithic times, so it is likely that the patola served to simply reinforce and enhance the reputation of a motif already well-established in the artistic repertoire. See Gittinger, Mattiebelle, op. cit., 1990, p. 45
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framing device, through which other elements are viewed, [64] and are sometimes so abstract as to be virtually indiscernible.
While some of the influences for motifs are generated from prevalent social customs, in other cases textile motifs came from other societies altogether. Various geometric motifs which appear in East Timorese textiles are said to have derived from those of the Dongson culture, a style which evolved in Vietnam in the seventh century, finding its greatest expression on bronze objects. Twenty-six bronze drums, believed to originate from the Dongson culture, have been excavated from sites throughout the Indonesia archipelago, with designs on them similar to many of the designs found on textiles throughout the archipelago. By drawing upon a Vietnamese tradition, the weavers of East Timor connected themselves with weavers throughout the Indonesian archipelago, establishing a link between East Timorese and Indonesian histories. Many of these motifs have survived long after the conditions which originally gave rise to them. Despite declining knowledge regarding the original meaning of these motifs, they remain an important component of East Timor’s fabric tradition.
Most prominent in the Pasar Tais are the long scarves, which hang from the roof of each stall in colourful disarray. It is difficult to find one which does not contain the woven words Timor Leste or Timor Lorosae, indicating the primary function of these items as tourist products. However, this textile continues to play a functional role, and is typically worn draped across the shoulder, with variations depending on which origins of the wearer, and personal preference. This textile is
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64 Leibrick, Fiona, op. cit., 1994, p. 30
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known by various names throughout East Timor, selendang – an Indonesian word - being the most common.
Inside the stalls, each wall is covered in large, flat pieces of woven fabric, and available bench space piled high with even more. Most of these cloths are in the style of the tais mane, a large, flat rectangular piece of cloth typically worn by men. It is made by joining two or three woven panels at the selvage, and worn unstructured, wrapped about the hips and knotted at the waist, so that the fringe falls in front. A second similar cloth is worn over the shoulders to protect against the morning and evening chill in the mountains [65]. During the heat of the day, this second cloth is also wrapped around the waist, over the first cloth. These heavy cotton textiles are cinched into place by a long narrow cloth belt with carefully wrought tapestry and twined designs at the ends. These local belts have increasingly been replaced by leather imports. A betel pouch, worked in a manner similar to the decorative part of the belt, is suspended from the shoulder or attached to the waist - this bag is such a vital element of a man’s costume that it once represented the owner at his funeral.
Tais feto, an uncut, tubular piece of fabric, are harder to find; despite the time that is invested by the weaver in each piece, they are not as highly valued as tourist items because they are less versatile. The tais feto is worn by women, and is similar in style to the Indonesian sarong, in that it is a narrow, uncut tubular length of fabric, folded at the top and knotted over the breast. Two loom widths may be used, but longer garments of three and four loom widths, often making a tube as long as two and a half metres, are used for formal occasions. The excess material is folded outward and down, and either knotted at the breast or folded so that pleats below the breast-line secure the tube in a decorative fashion. For everyday wear women in most
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65 Etiquette demands that a man of lesser rank who is wearing his shoulder cloth immediately drop it to his waist when meeting a superior. This dates back to times when a peaceful man would have to demonstrate he carried no concealed weapon.
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areas of East Timor have now adopted a blouse similar to that worn by the Javanese, with which they combine a local sarong or an inexpensive batik from Java. Women also occasionally use shoulder cloths for warmth and in dances.
Figure 2.5 These three selendang - scarves - are items marketed to tourists, and represent East Timorese identities in three different languages. From top, Timor Lorosae (Tetum), Timor Leste (Portuguese) and a souvenir from Lore 2 in English. Indonesian versions of the above could not be sourced. (Photo: Andrew Payne/ Nicki Harber, June 2002)
The way these garments are worn influences the techniques used to construct them. Since both sides of a man’s mantle are partially visible when it is folded and knotted on the body, decorative techniques that yield designs on both front and back of the cloth have been employed. Techniques which produce designs on both
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faces of the cloth are mostly employed, including warp ikat, tapestry weave areas, and small warp float structures. The same is generally true for the uppermost cloth panel of the woman’s sarong, where the reverse side appears as the cloth is folded over and knotted.
Figure 2.6 This 1930s postcard shows men, women and children in ceremonial costume. Tais mane and tais feto were worn by men and women respectively, along with feathers, silver jewellery and weapons. These clothes were not worn on a daily basis, but were used in rituals and ceremonies. The formal stance of these people suggests the photo was pre-organised. Such elaborate costumes are now rarely seen, except for staged performances. (Photo: http://www.etimortais.org)
Gittinger writes “… it is somewhat surprising that foreign trade influences seem to have left no mark on the local textile traditions. Weavers in the interior retained their design independence, and until fairly recently, did not alter their traditions. They grew their own short staple cotton and utilised dyes based on local plants…” [66] The use of foreign objects such as rifles and flags - surely indicative of ‘foreign trade influences’- as lulik firmly repudiates this statement, as does the frequent occurrence of Dutch and Portuguese iconography within the textile motifs. However, it is difficult to define what is foreign to and what is original in Timor, due
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66 Gittinger, Mattiebelle, op. cit., 1990, pp. 182-3
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the already heterogeneous nature of the island, which has been added to by a pattern of travellers who stayed. How can the historian justify the study, in isolation, of just one aspect of history, be it the history of one region, class, ethnic group or gender? There is clearly no clear-cut chronological history of East Timor, or of the history of textiles in East Timor. Attempts to determine whether the textile production techniques discussed here predate inputs from external sources are inevitably problematic; Lefferts warns against perpetuating the “[…] sterile discussion concerning the ‘origins’ of Southeast Asian cultures: are they products of indigenous developments OR products of outside influences?” [67] It is more helpful for the historian to look at textiles in terms of the changing roles they are playing. As expressions of a dynamic dialogue between various cultures and ethnic groups, these textiles are now being used by the East Timorese to perform in a variety of new roles. Whether or not theses new roles necessitate the construction of a separate, non-traditional list, or are included in the now incomplete list of traditional uses, is an issue which will be discussed in the following chapter.
The following chapter will also look at how aspects of East Timorese histories are being emphasised in an attempt to prove a tradition of a unified East Timor which extends long before the Portuguese-Dutch delineation of borders are evident. The variety of languages and ethnic groups across the island indicate a lack of unity. Yet factors such as social structures, textile motifs and cosmological concepts transcend these differences, suggesting a unity which negates current discourses promoting a distinct and separate East Timorese identity. Despite their passage through the waters of the Indonesian archipelago, the Timorese to this day regard themselves as people of the land, a role that has led the Timorese to historically rely on sea people to perform
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67 Lefferts, H. Leedom, op. cit., 1992, p. 409
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the roles of introducer, recorder, importer and exporter. In this way, Timor has many similarities with other land people throughout the Indonesian archipelago –Borneo’s Dayaks, the Torajans from Sulawesi, North Sumatran Bataks, the Seramese and the Balinese. A backwater of the Javanese, Malay, Arab and European sea highways, Timorese products [68] nevertheless ended up in other people’s societies. Whilst these products first drew travellers and traders to the island, the richness of East Timor’s textile heritage represents one of the most distinctive and recognisable of East Timor’s limited products. The presence of the Pasar Tais in Dili demonstrates the increasing use of textiles for gifts and trade. At the eastern end of so many trading routes, Timor has experienced centuries of textiles coming from the west. The textiles sold at the Pasar Tais are now responding to these centuries of influence, and being taken on their own journeys in the arms of foreign and domestic tourists and travellers.
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68 These included products native to the island, such as sandalwood, beeswax and deerskins, and imported products which were successfully grown on the island, the most successful being coffee, introduced by the Portuguese.
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