Reverend Natan Tabuni’s discerning eyes locked on Tomas Karma’s movements from the moment he had entered the village. Natan had learned from others associated with the Council of Churches’ missionary activities that Tomas had often been sighted mingling with Jakarta’s dreaded Special Forces and members of BRIMOB, the brutal Mobile Police Brigade. During an earlier visit when he had challenged Tomas, the thirty-year-old, self-appointed ondoafi, or traditional head, had simply shrugged off the question, leaving Natan sceptical as to the man’s sincerity in supporting the OPM. The Reverend’s travels occasioned visits to Tomas’ home area of Sentani where whispers of the large numbers of Papuans killed were directly accorded to Tomas’ association with the Indonesian military. Natan considered the man an enigma; deeply concerned that Dutch-educated Tomas harboured a secret political agenda which could threaten the overall independence movement.
Natan continued to eye the visitor who sat crouched, squatting on haunches, arms crossed, seemingly absorbed by youngsters wrestling in the flickering campfire light. Natan’s attention was momentarily distracted by Bennie, as the light-skinned child wrestled his opponent, Jules, to the ground in laughter.
Natan never tired of watching the adopted seven-year-old boys at play, content that they had integrated successfully into village life. As the boys frolicked Jules gained the advantage over his adversary Bennie. Unable to break his hold Bennie yielded to Jules who rose to his feet and playfully beat his chest.
Natan smiled, the moment reviving a memory he wished he could put to rest.
Several months had passed since news of the Dutch missionary’s slaughter had reached Natan’s village. The elder had hurried to the scene and, upon viewing the carnage, had his men bury the Dutch woman where she had died. Julius had been taken to Natan’s community in the highlands to be cared for until, as Natan had mistakenly assumed, the authorities would repatriate the child. As the months passed the infant became part of the village mosaic; his assimilation into Natan’s community unobserved to the outside world.
The village elder considered the two children. It was not uncommon for mixed ethnicity to be evident in Papuan families. During the Dutch presence there were numerous liaisons with native women. And, as the Dutch society across the Indies perceived a mixed marriage a greater evil than concubinage, and men married to native women and their offspring were barred from returning to Europe, the fruit of these relationships were invariably left behind.
Natan’s thoughts turned to Bennie who had been delivered into his hands by Brother Tobias, following the disappearance of the American explorer Michael Rockefeller.
Charged with keeping Bennie’s origins secret, Natan had undertaken to never reveal the truth of Bennie’s parentage; the boy’s past would remain buried, a pact sworn with the missionary, Tobias.
* * * *
Tomas Karma moved closer to the camp fire, shadows flickering across his figure when a villager stoked embers to life.
‘Before I leave,’ he addressed the older men, ‘I remind you again what is expected of this village.’ Assured of their attention he continued. ‘Soon there will be others who will come. These will be representatives of the great world power, the United Nations who will oversee the plebiscite. You must do as they say.’
With the majority of the elders’ eyes dropping subserviently, Tomas remained confident knowing that yet another village community would comply with the voting procedures he had adumbrated earlier in the day. With his connivance, West Irian would remain a fiefdom to the Javanese.
Long after Tomas Karma had departed on his continuing quest to convince West Papuans that the model proposed to conduct the plebiscite would provide fair representation, the Reverend Natan Tabuni remained deeply troubled. He ruminated through the night as he considered the ramifications of the proposed, flawed-voting procedures which would undoubtedly deliver the three hundred Papuan tribes into Indonesian arms. Natan accepted that the Papuans would be tempted to take the line of least resistance, having been subjected to partial Indonesian occupation since the betrayal of 1963, when Jakarta mobilised large concentrations of rapacious military personnel to the territory. He had witnessed Indonesia’s denigration of the Papuan people; the degradation by racial discrimination. It was clear to Natan that the Javanese looked down upon the indigenes as being inferior because of their darker skin and lack of civilized attributes. He had seen how the presence of Indonesian troops had placed an unendurable burden on the local economy with military commanders plundering produce creating life threatening shortages of fruit and vegetables, crucial to the local population for their survival.
Natan had learned that the occupying armed forces had mobilised close to ten thousand troops in West Irian, the bulk belonging to the Cenderawasih, Hasanudin, Brawidjaja, Siliwangi and Merdeka Divisions with a support group of Mobile Brigade police. Faced with such formidable forces he accepted that it would simply be a matter of time before the occupying forces mopped up the fractured elements of resistance, as his people had few modern weapons, ammunition or supplies.
He prayed that a groundswell of world opinion would prevent the ongoing brutal repression. However, as Jakarta had never heeded the international community when crushing other secessionist movements in the past, Natan was far from optimistic. When his thoughts returned to what might lay ahead for Papuans, he rested his chin on calloused hands and prayed.
Saddened by what appeared to be inevitable, Natan continued his silent deliberations, sitting alone in the village square whilst others slept, until crowing roosters broke the silence of dawn.
* * * *
Akumuga Mining Site
Makoe Mountain Range
Sitting amongst the high slopes of the Makoe Mountains within the Akumuga Mine complex, Brother Tobias gazed moodily across the improvised school grounds, wondering how the children could maintain their playful activities, in the oxygen-starved outpost.
The missionary unconsciously fiddled with a loose overcoat button until it dangled then fell to the floor. Cursing painful joints as he bent down to recover the chipped, wooden disc the movement exacerbated the headache resulting from a mixture of high mountain air, and the remnants of a bottle of home-brewed arak.
Tobias rose and leaned back in his wobbly, plastic chair now stretched under his oversized frame, his thoughts distracted by a child standing forlornly watching others at play. The image resurrected past events and his mind momentarily tracked back to the fair-skinned child born seven years before. Recollections of the young American dragged from crocodile-infested, muddy reaches along the Asmat shores, reminded Tobias of events that he hoped would remain buried and forgotten.
Michael Rockefeller had been mauled and not expected to survive. Limited medical resources were available to tend to his wounds however, under the attentive eyes of the village women the man gradually recovered.
Several weeks convalescing had passed when, suddenly, approaching Christmas Eve, Michael Rockefeller disappeared without any trace. It was as if he had never existed. Or at least, not in that village.
Neither Tobias nor the villagers were aware of the American’s importance until foreign teams appeared and scoured the mangrove-ringed coastline searching for the missing heir, Michael Rockefeller. Tobias had never understood why Rockefeller had not revealed his identity, arriving at the conclusion that this was withheld, because the wealthy and educated explorer knew that his family name would have no significance, in this distant and unfamiliar corner of the planet.
When one of the village women, who had been in close attendance with the handsome explorer later died giving birth to a light-skinned child with obvious Caucasian features, the elders took
