The only thing I knew about Timor Leste was that it was a country previously known as East Timor.

—–

We were up before sunrise. I was half asleep with a takeaway coffee as we pulled up to a house in the Melbourne suburb of Coburg. Cameras, stands and microphones had already been loaded into the house. I walked upstairs, said ‘g’day’ to the cameraman Rod and helped set up, arrange a colourful backdrop, and get the cameras focused.

My small role involved affirmation: “Yep, that looks good, I think.” And sitting very still. I was lucky to be here by association, to watch and learn from this media moment.

We were there to conduct an interview for the US production company Persistent Productions, as a part of a series speaking with small nation, female global change makers. Kirsty Sword Gusmão was already there, sitting in the next room while we set up.

Kirsty is more than just the former First Lady of a free, independent Timor Leste, more than just a human rights activist. She played a pivotal role in the resistance movement against Indonesian occupation of Timor Leste throughout the 1990s, operating under an alias – Ruby Blade.

She travelled from Australia to Jakarta in 1992, sneaking into Cipinang prison under the guise of visiting her uncle. She had actually come to meet Xanana Gusmão, the leader of the Timorese resistance, who was then serving a life sentence in an Indonesian prison. “That really galvanised my will,” she said, “I decided that rather than being a bystander, I needed to be more engaged.” It was at this time that ‘Ruby Blade’ was born.

—–

By this time in the interview, I was sitting in the corner with my eyes wide, my jaw on the floor.  I had forgotten about waiting for a gap in the interview to have a sip of my coffee.

Kirsty dedicated her life to supporting the Timorese resistance, camouflaging herself as an ordinary foreign national. She couldn’t tell her family. She couldn’t tell other foreigners. She couldn’t tell any of the locals.

At one point, the interviewer asked about her years in Jakarta and what her day-to-day life was like. Kirsty answered quietly and humbly.

“I associate it with a period of living on adrenaline, really,” she said. “It was an exciting time. It was a scary time at particular moments.” She described helping smuggle a group of young Timorese men who feared for their lives into foreign embassies, recounting it in the way someone would describe a tough day at work.

“That was the key to my survival, being very discreet about my unofficial activities. So yeah, it was a fairly lonely period.”

I was staring at Kirsty trying to make sense of what I’m hearing.

—-

I am 22 years old, and I grew up on social media. My understanding of activism, if I’m being honest, was sharing posts, attending protests, and platforming issues that need to be discussed. Something visible that can be commented on or shared. I believed activism required an audience, and large audiences at that. What we’re doing needs to be seen.

Kirsty had no audience. She had a cause, an alias, and limitless discipline.

There weren’t cameras following her, no one writing a memoir alongside her. The number of people who knew what she was doing, she could count on one hand. You cannot do covert work loudly. She described the loneliness in such an ordinary fashion, but it wasn’t a byproduct of her mission, it was what made it possible.

Sitting in that corner, trying not to move, I couldn’t help asking myself how I would have coped with the risk, the isolation, the constant anxiety if I were in her shoes.

I wouldn’t have.

Kirsty was just answering questions about a period in her life. A period where she risked everything for a country that wasn’t hers. She was working towards an outcome that was well over a distant horizon, one that was never guaranteed.

Her work ultimately paid off. After years of putting her life on the line and working with the Timorese resistance, Xanana Gusmão was finally released from prison in 1999 after United Nations sponsored efforts, and Timor Leste won independence in a historic referendum. Kirsty and Xanana married the next year, and he was elected President in 2002, with Kirsty running the now free Timor Leste alongside him. They separated in 2015, and Kirsty is raising their three teenage boys.

—-

The cameras stopped rolling. I swooped in to help pack up and carry stands and tripods down the stairs. I was lucky enough to have a quick talk with Kirsty about democratic erosion around the world before we left.

On the drive home there wasn’t much to say. I don’t think I had the words for it then and I’m not sure I do now. I was left with an overwhelming numbing feeling, as I tried to imagine all the other nameless, faceless heroes we may never meet. Many that weren’t as lucky as Kirsty.