How Cocoon started
Beginnings are fascinating and mysterious. We love to know
how things start. Perhaps that’s why people often ask us how Cocoon was birthed.
When Lishan and I first arrived in Dili in July 2007, we knew we wanted to start an educational project named Cocoon. It was to be a vehicle of transformation, through education, especially the learning of English. We wanted to focus on children and youth. The vision came from Lai Kheng Pousson, our project director then. That much we knew. Everything else – where to start, who to work with, when that would happen – we didn’t know at all.
Dili was a rather dangerous place in 2007. The country had been rocked by civil unrest in 2006. People from the eastern and western districts attacked one another, due to unhappiness over allegations of discrimination in the armed forces. Even the army and police force faced off with one another, with gunfights breaking out. The violence dragged on as Timor-Leste held parliamentary elections in 2007, which sparked more episodes of unrest. On top of that, martial arts gangs fought one another in the different neighbourhoods across Dili. Young men launched attacks on rival gangs based in other neighbourhoods, throwing rocks and shooting traditional arrows at one another. Passing vehicles would be stoned by restless youth. I still remember sitting in taxis, alert, hunched over, eyes darting left and right, getting ready to duck in case rocks came flying at our vehicle.
Were we scared? Looking back, I can say no honestly. I think I was more saddened at the state of affairs. People were living in internally displaced camps throughout the city, in parks, the airport, and even in the compound of the national hospital. The blare of police sirens on UN vehicles became background noise. The sight of smoke rising up in the sky from the burning of tyres became commonplace. People kept to themselves and did not wander far from where they lived. There was a sense of stoic acceptance that this was reality, and we went about our daily activities with some vigilance, but without fear.
About three months after we arrived in Dili, Lishan wanted to visit a house with the words “El Diablo” spray painted across the front. “El Diablo” means “the devil” in Portuguese. I wasn’t exactly keen as you might imagine. When we were in Singapore, she remembered reading a report on youth gangs in Timor-Leste, and El Diablo was supposedly a good gang. She was very curious to find out more. So one afternoon, we visited the house located in a local suburb called Bairo Pite.
There was no one around except a young man (I think I was rather relieved!). He received us politely. His name was Miguel. We asked if he was part of the gang. He said no. Where were the members then? Miguel said they had all fled, and he was just occupying the house temporarily. Because of the crisis, many people had been displaced and were living as squatters.
Miguel asked what we were doing in Timor-Leste. We told him we hoped to teach English to children and young people. Upon hearing that, his face lit up and he said, “You must meet my big brother, Vicente. He’s an English teacher at the university.” Since we had already stepped into the devil’s house and were unharmed, I thought, why not, let’s meet this man.
Vicente turned out to be a very soft-spoken and mild-mannered man in his mid-thirties. He was married, with three children then. He worked for UNICEF and taught English part-time at the only state university in Dili. We shared with him our hopes to teach English. He listened, and agreed that it was very much needed. He said that the youth needed wholesome activities to take their minds off the violence that had become so much a part of their lives. He invited us to teach at his neighbourhood.
Lishan and I walked away from that encounter, amazed at the turn of events. Yet, we knew we had to test Vicente’s commitment. We were due for a visa run and were going to Bali. We agreed to meet again after we returned from Bali. Two weeks later, we went to Vicente’s house again. Sure enough, he was there, waiting for us.
We talked more in depth about teaching English at Bairo Pite. Vicente guided us, sharing invaluable local wisdom and insight. He suggested that we could use a local primary school located at the junction of two main roads. He said it was a prominent landmark, and accessible to youth coming from different places. You have to remember that young people were scared to venture too far away from main roads in case they strayed into enemy territory and got beaten up. He took us to meet the village chief and other local leaders, as well as the director of the primary school, to ask for permission to use one classroom.
I have vivid memories of one meeting with the local adviser of the village, Mr Gill. He had a huge and bushy moustache and looked like a Spanish matador. He was seated under a portrait of an old man, probably his father, who sported a moustache just like his. Mr Gill spoke like machine gunfire. I could barely understand what he was saying.
Lishan and I decided that this was the right time, and that Bairo Pite was the right place to launch Cocoon. So over two days in November 2007, we held an orientation session for interested students, officially sharing the vision of Cocoon. We explained the lifecycle of the butterfly as the inspiration for our work, using a poster that Lishan hand painted. (We still have it!) All these, we managed to communicate in Tetun, after about three months of intensive language learning with an excellent private tutor. Interestingly, we found him around the same time as we met Vicente. God was connecting us with key people, and moving the work along without any striving on our part. Looking back, it is clear to me now that as we set our hearts to become incarnational missionaries focusing on language and culture learning, God sovereignly opened the doors and expedited the work.
Me with the students who came for the orientation sessions. Miguel is in the last row on the extreme left, looking sideways at the camera (probably trying to look cool).
Vicente is on the extreme left.
Lishan and her students presented a musical item at the first graduation ceremony. Vicente's two daughters were part of the first batch of students. Today, they are both in university.
The first batch of students graduated in March 2008, over the Easter weekend. I gave a speech in Tetun to the students and friends who had gathered for a simple ceremony. I look back on that as a milestone in my language learning. When people ask me how long it took me to learn Tetun, I tell them that with serious learning and effort, one can become fluent enough in 6-8 months.
And this is the account of how Cocoon was birthed.
12 years on, the El Diablo house has been reclaimed by its owners and the graffiti painted over. After a few years, we lost touch with Miguel. I suspect he went overseas to find work. Vicente went on to have three more children. His next son was named after a youth who was killed in a gang fight. We have watched all his children grow up. I don’t know what became of Mr Spanish Matador. I shall find out.
When Lishan and I first arrived in Dili in July 2007, we knew we wanted to start an educational project named Cocoon. It was to be a vehicle of transformation, through education, especially the learning of English. We wanted to focus on children and youth. The vision came from Lai Kheng Pousson, our project director then. That much we knew. Everything else – where to start, who to work with, when that would happen – we didn’t know at all.
Dili was a rather dangerous place in 2007. The country had been rocked by civil unrest in 2006. People from the eastern and western districts attacked one another, due to unhappiness over allegations of discrimination in the armed forces. Even the army and police force faced off with one another, with gunfights breaking out. The violence dragged on as Timor-Leste held parliamentary elections in 2007, which sparked more episodes of unrest. On top of that, martial arts gangs fought one another in the different neighbourhoods across Dili. Young men launched attacks on rival gangs based in other neighbourhoods, throwing rocks and shooting traditional arrows at one another. Passing vehicles would be stoned by restless youth. I still remember sitting in taxis, alert, hunched over, eyes darting left and right, getting ready to duck in case rocks came flying at our vehicle.
Were we scared? Looking back, I can say no honestly. I think I was more saddened at the state of affairs. People were living in internally displaced camps throughout the city, in parks, the airport, and even in the compound of the national hospital. The blare of police sirens on UN vehicles became background noise. The sight of smoke rising up in the sky from the burning of tyres became commonplace. People kept to themselves and did not wander far from where they lived. There was a sense of stoic acceptance that this was reality, and we went about our daily activities with some vigilance, but without fear.
About three months after we arrived in Dili, Lishan wanted to visit a house with the words “El Diablo” spray painted across the front. “El Diablo” means “the devil” in Portuguese. I wasn’t exactly keen as you might imagine. When we were in Singapore, she remembered reading a report on youth gangs in Timor-Leste, and El Diablo was supposedly a good gang. She was very curious to find out more. So one afternoon, we visited the house located in a local suburb called Bairo Pite.
There was no one around except a young man (I think I was rather relieved!). He received us politely. His name was Miguel. We asked if he was part of the gang. He said no. Where were the members then? Miguel said they had all fled, and he was just occupying the house temporarily. Because of the crisis, many people had been displaced and were living as squatters.
Miguel asked what we were doing in Timor-Leste. We told him we hoped to teach English to children and young people. Upon hearing that, his face lit up and he said, “You must meet my big brother, Vicente. He’s an English teacher at the university.” Since we had already stepped into the devil’s house and were unharmed, I thought, why not, let’s meet this man.
Vicente turned out to be a very soft-spoken and mild-mannered man in his mid-thirties. He was married, with three children then. He worked for UNICEF and taught English part-time at the only state university in Dili. We shared with him our hopes to teach English. He listened, and agreed that it was very much needed. He said that the youth needed wholesome activities to take their minds off the violence that had become so much a part of their lives. He invited us to teach at his neighbourhood.
Lishan and I walked away from that encounter, amazed at the turn of events. Yet, we knew we had to test Vicente’s commitment. We were due for a visa run and were going to Bali. We agreed to meet again after we returned from Bali. Two weeks later, we went to Vicente’s house again. Sure enough, he was there, waiting for us.
We talked more in depth about teaching English at Bairo Pite. Vicente guided us, sharing invaluable local wisdom and insight. He suggested that we could use a local primary school located at the junction of two main roads. He said it was a prominent landmark, and accessible to youth coming from different places. You have to remember that young people were scared to venture too far away from main roads in case they strayed into enemy territory and got beaten up. He took us to meet the village chief and other local leaders, as well as the director of the primary school, to ask for permission to use one classroom.
I have vivid memories of one meeting with the local adviser of the village, Mr Gill. He had a huge and bushy moustache and looked like a Spanish matador. He was seated under a portrait of an old man, probably his father, who sported a moustache just like his. Mr Gill spoke like machine gunfire. I could barely understand what he was saying.
Lishan and I decided that this was the right time, and that Bairo Pite was the right place to launch Cocoon. So over two days in November 2007, we held an orientation session for interested students, officially sharing the vision of Cocoon. We explained the lifecycle of the butterfly as the inspiration for our work, using a poster that Lishan hand painted. (We still have it!) All these, we managed to communicate in Tetun, after about three months of intensive language learning with an excellent private tutor. Interestingly, we found him around the same time as we met Vicente. God was connecting us with key people, and moving the work along without any striving on our part. Looking back, it is clear to me now that as we set our hearts to become incarnational missionaries focusing on language and culture learning, God sovereignly opened the doors and expedited the work.
The first batch of students graduated in March 2008, over the Easter weekend. I gave a speech in Tetun to the students and friends who had gathered for a simple ceremony. I look back on that as a milestone in my language learning. When people ask me how long it took me to learn Tetun, I tell them that with serious learning and effort, one can become fluent enough in 6-8 months.
And this is the account of how Cocoon was birthed.
12 years on, the El Diablo house has been reclaimed by its owners and the graffiti painted over. After a few years, we lost touch with Miguel. I suspect he went overseas to find work. Vicente went on to have three more children. His next son was named after a youth who was killed in a gang fight. We have watched all his children grow up. I don’t know what became of Mr Spanish Matador. I shall find out.
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