Timor-Leste: Constitutional Provisions, Political Conventions and Legitimacy Under Strain

Abstract

Timor-Leste took a bold decision against mighty odds: to build a democratic polity. Competitive elections for a constituent assembly resulted in a new Constitution which was accompanied by the emergence of deep-rooted political conventions regarding the best organisation of political power that combine traditional political culture with modern liberal democracy requirements. The first three political cycles contributed to reinforce this dual nature of the political framework. However, the election of Lu Olo in 2017, at a time when democratic backsliding was enlarging its imprint in world politics, challenged established wisdom and inaugurated a period of uncertainty regarding the democratic credentials of the regime. This chapter begins with a discussion of constitutional norms and political conventions, moves on to an appraisal of the history of Timor-Leste since independence, and ends with a discussion of the authoritarian challenge facing the new nation.

In the transitional period between the UN self-determination referendum of 30 August 1999 and the proclamation of (the re-establishment) of independence on 20 May 2002, Timor-Leste took a bold decision against mighty odds: to build a democratic polity. The history of the last twenty-odd years is one of a bumpy journey along that road. Democracy has been installed by means of the local elite’s political agency supported by the international community, and its rooting in the Timorese social fabric has progressed amid hesitations, contradictions, achievements and shortcomings. Several critical junctures were positively overcome. However, in the last six years a major question mark hovered over the political landscape when fears of democratic backsliding became all too visible—and they have not been completely removed. So far, the political system put in place in 2002 has survived in its formal design, although some of its major norms have been questioned.

This chapter begins by discussing what a political system consists of, and what the nature is of what this volume designates by “norms”. Then, it moves to a brief presentation of the main features of the system as an historical whole, emphasising the importance that arrangements—which generate tough discussion in the early moments when the political system is defined and implemented in practice—assume for its future operation. The idea is put forward that in parallel to legal-constitutional provisions, Timor-Leste combined elements of deep-rooted traditional political culture, including a prominent presence of leaders endowed with Weberian charismatic legitimacy, with modern forms of organising the running of the state, generating a complex set of conventions. The plasticity of these arrangements holds part of the responsibility for the early success of democratic progress.

Over the last few years, roughly corresponding to the period inaugurated by the 2017 election of Francisco Guterres Lu Olo for the presidency in clear contravention to the established convention on presidential profile and status, a deviation from the norms governing the performance of different political actors has been noted, and is addressed in the next section of the chapter. Two specific issues are discussed: the abandonment of the notion that presidents discharge their function as “independent” actors not submitted to partisan logic or discipline but rather “above the party fray”; and the emergence of a clear clash between two different forms of legitimising political action—charismatic and legal-rational—which had previously combined in a unique local mix.

The last section retrieves conclusions from earlier points and discusses the extent to which, in a new world context characterised by democratic backsliding the rise of authoritarianism, Timor-Leste is currently prepared to address the challenges to its democratic credentials.

Political Systems and Their Norms

Political systems are social constructs whose anchor is the notion of legitimacy to participate in the decision-making process that affects the whole community. Each new system is defined by two main elements:

• (a) a broad legal-constitutional set of formal, codified provisions which offer a conceptualisation of its main tenets (monarchy or republic? authoritarian or democratic? presidential, parliamentary or semi-presidential? unitary or federal? and more) as well as fundamental arrangements such as the extent of presidential or parliamentary powers, the organisation of the judicial branch, the rules for electoral competition or the protection of civil rights. These are usually codified in a formal Constitution, although some countries (e.g. UK, Israel, New Zealand) have no written one. For comparative political analysis, constitutional provisions offer a sound initial basis for the classification of political systems; however, as Maurice Duverger (1980) has pointed out, when passing from a general view to the discussion of particular cases, the paradox of “similarity of rules, diversity of games” emerges and calls for a broader approach. For this reason, formal Constitutions by themselves are not sufficient to ground political analysis. Consideration is required for a complementary element.

• (b) a stable framework for informal, non-codified features to emerge, often associated with “grand historical narratives”, that play a role in fine-tuning the formal system’s overall features in line with each country’s history and political culture. Giovanni Sartori (1997) suggested that these be considered as “material constitution”—un-codified established practices rooted in some form of “tradition”, political culture and/or historical legacy, which are widely recognised as guiding principles of public life. They may also be referred to as “political conventions” whose relevance stems from its broad acceptance as legitimate instruments in the exercise of power. Legitimacy may thus derive both from formal and un-codified sets of rules—and the aim of political analysis is to make sense of the whole process and to move beyond the strictures of formal constitutional debates.

John M. Carey (2000) has argued that political norms—that is, both those prescriptions that are formally codified in Constitutions and those that embody precise forms of political culture or historically rooted conventions, as suggested in this volume’s editors introduction—that emerge or crystalise at the time of the establishment of a new regime, often forged by lengthy and deep negotiations, have the potential to endure and reproduce themselves over time. They constitute a sort of “genetic code” encapsulating a political DNA (Medeiros Ferreira, 1981; Passarelli, 2020). It has also been argued that such arrangements fuel the emergence of “grand historical narratives” with significant normative implications (Elgie & Passarelli, 2020) that run parallel to the constitutional text and entertain complex relations with its prescriptions. One may recall Douglass North’s concept of “path dependence” or “a way to narrow conceptually the choice set and to link decision making through time” (1990: 98). Human agency and political choice are not disregarded, but informal benchmarks are established that provide stronger incentives to achieve some outcomes over others.

The Birth of Timor-Leste’s Political System

In the transitional period between the self-determination referendum of 30 August 1999 and the proclamation of independence on 20 May 2002, Timor-Leste underwent a serious negotiation process and defined the main tenets of its political system. For one, it created a Constitution defining the country as a democratic republic based on political pluralism and free and fair regular elections providing the basis for a “legal-rational” model of political legitimacy.

As if anticipating Arend Lijphart’s (2004) seminal article on “constitutional design for divided societies”, in which he strongly supports the need to create power-sharing mechanisms, the emerging Democratic Republic of Timor-Leste (DRTL), took a number of bold decisions. Arguably, the notion of power-sharing and its correlate idea of broad political inclusion inspired constitutional provisions such as the design of an electoral system based on apportioning elected officials on a proportional representation basis (contributing to institutions such as the National Parliament being composed of multiple political families and preventing the growth of disenfranchised protest), or the adoption of a semi-presidential form of government (a feat I have underlined since my 2012 article in the journal Democratization—see Feijó, 2014a, 2014b, 2016a, 2016b, 2020). Against formidable odds of democratic survival, the new country has fared relatively well over the twenty-odd years since independence (Feijó, 2022b).

The fundamental reason why power-sharing has been so important in this process derives from the very nature of Timor-Leste’s recent history and its structurally pluralist nationalism. In fact, independence was achieved after a long a traumatic process initiated when the colonial power was shaken by the Carnation Revolution of 25 April 1974 and redefined its international policies embracing decolonisation. At that time, three different political formations emerged, each one espousing a “nation of intent” (Leach, 2023), that is, a particular vision for the future of the territory.

The process of self-determination was halted by the military takeover by the neighbouring Republic of Indonesia, which gave a positive response to one form of nationalist sentiment—even though it never seemed to be the dominant one. In the face of the Indonesian annexation, one important part of the East Timorese organised a fierce Resistance (illuminated by the ideals of independence) whereas others offered support and co-operation to the foreigners. With the passing of time, however, the barbaric nature of Indonesian rule (documented by the UN-sponsored Commission for Reception, Truth and Reconciliation—see CAVR, 2013) drove many Timorese to alter their initial favourable position and switch to the camp of the increasingly more popular Resistance.

A telling case in point is that of the Timorese Catholic Church, a former conservative pillar of the colonial regime, highly critical of what it perceived as “radical” political stances in some nationalist quarters, and sympathetic to the idea of integration with Indonesia. The bishop of Dili, Dom José Joaquim Ribeiro, is supposed to have said of the Indonesian paratroopers: “I saw them descending from heaven as angels – only to realize they were devils sent from hell” (A Paz é Possível em Timor, 1996: 6). The Timorese Catholic Church would make a significant move from its early support to a fierce opposition to Indonesian rule, a process during which it emerged as a critical rallying point for a new national identity.

Alongside this institution, other social groups made themselves present in the national liberation struggle. For instance: the growth in urbanisation and the increase in schooling generated a novel student movement which assumed a precise and independent role. All in all, by 1998 a conference was convened that decided to create the National Council of the Timorese Resistance (aka CNRT) under which a plurality of actors—individuals and organisations of different size and scope—accepted to work towards a common goal: independence. Contrary to many late colonial situations in which a front or a hegemonic party emerges that claims to represent the whole nationalist movement, in Timor-Leste this was not the case: nationalism was essentially pluralist (Bermeo, 2022; Feijó, 2016a).

After setting the constitutional provisions by means of an elected special assembly, which represent the formal element of the political norms (the Constitution of the Democratic Republic of Timor-Leste/CDRTL), Timor-Leste organized the first elections even before Independence Day. In April 2002 direct popular elections were held for a president to serve within the framework of the chosen semi-presidential model, and this election would produce fundamental consequences in the emergence of political conventions parallel to the constitutional provisions. The electors overwhelmingly chose Xanana Gusmão (82.7% of the vote), the Resistance leader who had no party affiliation but disposed of undisputed charismatic legitimacy, over the man who had been appointed president in the very brief moment of the first declaration on independence back in 1975, Francisco Xavier do Amaral, aka Avô Xico (Grandad Xico).

This founding election rises above its singularity. First, it sealed a precise perspective not so much on who could, but on who should run for president, that is, on the presidential candidate’s preferred profile which is compatible with the constitutional prescriptions, but tends to narrow the legal options. CDRTL contemplates a number of conditions under which a presidential candidacy may be presented to the electorate—section 75 deals precisely with the “eligibility” for the post—but these should be considered as minimal requirements opening up a vast arena for citizens’ initiative. What this election actually did was to set a precedent for the suitability of any candidate’s profile rather than the mere possession of legal clearance. Whereas Francisco Xavier do Amaral chose to run as a flag-bearer of his party (ASDT), Xanana Gusmão refused partisan affiliation and although he received the endorsement of many political organisations he proclaimed his “independent status”. In the run-up to the election, he threatened to withdraw his bid should the electoral rules imply that partisan symbols be placed next to the candidates picture in the ballots. A significant precedent was thus generated that would have important consequences in the way the political system operates in this country. One of these features is that, paraphrasing Bachelot and Haegel (2015) political parties tend to be “prime-minister seeking organizations”, organised around alternative candidates for the premiership rather than the presidency—unlike other semi-presidential countries like France (Duverger, 1996), but similar to Portugal (Jalali, 2011). Another one is that the notion of “presidential party” in the sense given by Passarelli—i.e. “the organization that selected and supported a candidate who ran on its ticket and subsequently became president” (2020: 88)—tends to be alien to the established convention.

Second, it represented a convergence between two distinct and powerful forms of political legitimation. Max Weber (2013 [1922]) proposed to view political legitimacy in articulation with three models—traditional, charismatic and legal-rational—a distinction that seems pertinent in contemporary Timor-Leste. Xanana Gusmão brought together the charismatic and the legal-rational forms of legitimacy, and laid the foundations for these to coexist peacefully in the years ahead. The convergence of models did not imply that any particular individual bestowed with charismatic legitimacy would discharge a specific function, nor that individual state institutions would be better prepared to perform under one model rather than another. Ultimately, electoral competition provides solutions for the clash of different agendas, but the relevant fact in Timor is that, for a large number of years after independence, the system was able to perform in an inclusive manner that secured the vast majority of actors imbued with different sources of political legitimacy a place in the decision-making process.

Third, the consecration of the notion that presidents are supposed to perform “above the party fray” as “independent” agents together with the willingness to articulate charismatic and legal-rational legitimacies (a feature one might expand to “traditional” forms as well, namely at the level of local power structures—Feijó, 2019), lent support to a precise view of the presidential function. The president is (was?) supposed to be a political figure who appeals to a wide, diversified constituency as an “independent president” notionally does. He may thus represent to all stakeholders a form of guarantee against exclusion from the central political arena. This is all the more important in the Timorese context where echoes still resonate of the traumatic 1974–1975 period which is often regarded as having been prone to an excess of partisanship that drives important contemporary figures to prefer not to be associated with any formal party, even though they are keen to be active in the civic sphere. In fact, important as they are, political parties are not hegemons and do not represent the whole of the civic intervention instruments.

Within a broad system of checks and balances that derives to a large extent from the diarchy of powers that Sartori (1997: 121) considers as a definitional feature of semi-presidentialism, the presidential function has been viewed as the exercise of a so-called “moderating power” ontologically diverse from executive, legislative or judicial power (Feijó, 2020), and a pillar for horizontal accountability (a much needed one in a country where other relevant elements of this sort of accountability such as the parliament and the judicial sector are clearly underdeveloped) (Bacelar de Vasconcelos, 2011).

The legacy of the foundational election was mostly upheld by the presidents that succeeded Xanana at the helm (José Ramos-Horta, 2007–2012 and Taur Matan Ruak, 2012–2017). A non-legally binding convention, or “invented tradition”—i.e., “a set of practices, normally governed by overtly or tacitly accepted rules and of a ritual or symbolic nature, which seek to inculcate certain values and norms of behaviour by repetition” in the words of Eric Hobsbawm and Terence Granger (1983)—was born that proved successful in securing a mostly smooth process of democratic consolidation. Political developments after 2017 brought a novelty whose wisdom is not clear. To these we turn now.

Departing from Convention

The presidential elections of 2017 witnessed a novelty. Francisco Guterres Lu Olo ran for the third time as the flag-bearer of a specific political party (FRETILIN). Unlike the two previous attempts to secure the presidency, in which his party had decided to not to enter any pre-electoral coalition, this time Lu Olo was supported by a broad convergence of the main parties which had joined forces in the first ever “government of national convergence” (2015–2017) under the premiership of Rui Maria de Araújo. He won the ballot in the first round with 57% of the vote.

Ever since 2002, Xanana Gusmão had sought to oppose what one of his senior aides (Agio Pereira) called “belligerent democracy”—democracy based on open partisan competition—and promote “consensual forms of democracy” inspired by the example of the Resistance’s umbrella organisation, CNRT. As president, he had pressed the majority party of that era, FRETILIN, to lead a “government of national inclusion”—but he failed to convince Prime Minister Mari Alkatiri of the wisdom of his stance. Years later, after securing himself a second term as prime minister in the 2012 legislative elections, Xanana Gusmão returned to his initial idea, and eventually stepped down mid-term to pave the way for a new government supported by an original political arrangement: all parliamentary parties were represented in the executive, in which Xanana Gusmão reserved a position of minister (Feijó, 2016c). Also, they all agreed a “generational turnover” was necessary in a country whose main leaders were among the fundamental actors of the decolonisation period of 1974–1975 (the so-called Gerasaun Tuan)—and consequently chose a member of the New Generation (Gerasaun Foun) who had emerged during the Indonesian annexation, Dr. Rui Maria de Araújo, to chair the executive. As it happened, the new prime minister, who had served in previous governments in an “independent” capacity, had moved on and joined FRETILIN of whose central committee he was member. Despite having lost the 2012 elections to Xanana Gusmão’s party, FRETILIN was able to secure the premiership of “government of national convergence” intent on promoting a generational turnover and initiate a new chapter in the country’s history. This was the background to the presidential elections of 2017, and the general assumption was that Lu Olo would be in tune with those goals. It proved to be a wrong assumption.

Following constitutional procedures, the normal course of events posited the organisation of legislative elections a few months after the presidential ones. All parties supporting the government of Rui Maria de Araújo ran independent campaigns. In the July poll, FRETILIN won the plurality of the vote but well short of an overall majority (23 seats in 65). In the wake of these results, its leader Mari Alkatiri (an illustrious member of the Gerasaun Tuan) claimed the premiership for himself, showing the agreement sustaining Rui Maria de Araújo's choice to have elapsed. Xanana Gusmão, who headed the second largest parliamentary party (22 seats), reacted angrily, refused to enter a coalition under Alkatiri, and eventually managed to make a deal with two other parties—Taur Matan Ruak’s People’s Liberation Party (8 seats) and KHUNTO (5 seats)—to support a coalition government with majority support (35 seats in 65) in parliament. The best Alkatiri managed to secure was the support of the Democratic Party (7 seats), not enough to grant him conditions to govern.

President Lu Olo, however, valued the fact that FRETILIN—his own party—had the largest number of seats in parliament and installed a coalition cabinet led by Alkatiri. In so doing he was using his political discretion as provided in CDRTL section 106.1 that reads:

The Prime Minister shall be designated by the political party or alliance of political parties with parliamentary majority and shall be appointed by the President of the Republic, after consultation with the political parties sitting in the National Parliament.

This was the first move in a protracted tug-of-war that would dominate the years to come.

In Timor-Leste semi-presidential system, the government depends both on the president and the parliament, as per section 107:

The Government shall be accountable to the President of the Republic and to the National Parliament for conducting and executing the domestic and foreign policy in accordance with the Constitution and the law.

This dual accountability means that the parliament has a role to perform in the acceptance of any new government. The new government is statutorily mandated to present its programme to the House, but needs not to seek a favourable vote, investiture being secured in case no opposition is raised. However, as per section 109.3, a rejection motion may be tabled that “shall require an absolute majority of the Members in full exercise of their functions”. If approved, the government fails its investiture. That was precisely what happened.

Faced with the first ever rejection of a government programme and the consequent failure to secure investiture, the prime minister could opt to present a second programme—likely doomed to the same fate. He chose not to, nor did he formally step down. It was up to President Lu Olo to make a call. His options were basically two: to appoint a figure from the coalition that clearly controlled the majority of parliament (amounting to follow the precedents set in the wake of the 2007 and the 2012 elections), or to keep Alkatiri as caretaker prime minister until fresh elections would be called, a solution endorsed by FRETILIN and PD but vociferously opposed by all other parties. He chose the latter, and delayed by several months the official dissolution of parliament. Elections were called for May—ten months after the regular ones.

FRETILIN once again stood alone at the polls, and was unable to capitalise on the alleged advantage that incumbents notionally have, securing the same number of seats it previously had (23). Its junior partner in that cabinet, PD, lost two seats. The electorate did not endorse their adventurous stance. On the other hand, the coalition that brought down Alkatiri’s minority cabinet ran together, and obtained an absolute majority (34 seats), vindicating its political options. Another coalition of three smaller parties elected three deputies.

Room for presidential manoeuvre was limited—but nevertheless it was still present. President Lu Olo accepted to install a new government headed by a figure issued from the ranks of the winning coalition—former president and PLP leader Taur Matan Ruak (whose parliamentary basis—8 seats—was the second within his coalition after Xanana Gusmão’s party with 21 seats, and the third overall, being also smaller than FRETILIN’s 23 seats). For the first time in Timor-Leste, the president and prime minister were affiliated to rival parties, a situation generally referred to as “cohabitation”.

In this unprecedented context, Lu Olo again used his discretion following section 106.2 that stipulates that the members of government other than the prime minister “shall be appointed by the President of the Republic following a proposal by the Prime Minister”. In the president’s view, this section grants him wide discretionary powers, and he refused to accept a dozen names for ministerial positions formally proposed by the prime minister. True, this was not unprecedented, as José Ramos-Horta and Taur Matan Ruak are known to have acted in the same way, albeit in a much more limited way. However, not only was the scope of the rejection unmatched, but almost all names belonged to the Xanana Gusmão party. This amounted to a political veto and diminished the weight of that party in the council of ministers, that is to say, in the government’s internal balance. It also impaired the government’s capacity to fully discharge its mandate, as key ministers (Finance, Health, Natural Resources and more) were not appointed. When one accounts for the fact that the economic fabric of Timor-Leste is heavily reliant on public spending, and on a functioning public administration, the abnormal situation of the government generated increased difficulties.

The tug-of-war between FRETILIN represented by President Lu Olo and Xanana Gusmão attained new intensity. Between mid-2018 and January 2020 both sides refused to compromise. In fact, there was virtually only half a government in place, with severe consequences for its ability to discharge normal functions. The situation was difficult to sustain. Prime Minister Taur Matan Ruak sought to find a balance and did not press for a solution in line with his partners claims.

In early 2020 Xanana sought to clarify the situation by forcing the prime minister to take sides. Eventually the coalition supporting Taur Matan Ruak fell apart, and the prime minister tendered his resignation, which was not immediately accepted. Xanana negotiated with other parliamentary parties, managed to strike a deal, and was formally presented to President Lu Olo as the new post-electoral coalition’s candidate for the premiership.

The onset of the Covid-19 pandemic would bring significant developments (Cabasset & Feijó, 2021). First, all parties agreed to allow the president to declare the state of emergency, as per the Constitution. When they were faced with the proposal for a renewal of the emergency, Xanana raised objections and voted against. He and his partners had not consulted and his coalition in waiting did not survive.

In the meantime, Lu Olo had manoeuvred to find a new solution: the prime minister would be kept in place, but the parliamentary basis of his cabinet would be deeply modified: the few CNRT ministers resigned and FRETILIN and PD that had been kept out of the executive following the 2018 elections took a considerable number of seats in the cabinet. A political alignment between the president and a post-electoral parliamentary majority had finally been brokered at the expense of breaking up a coalition that had won the election.

A significant episode took place in 2020. Nineteen CNRT MPs brought charges against the president in the Court of Appeals (acting as Constitutional instance). They claimed the president had overstepped his constitutional mandate in a variety of ways, from failing to swear in ministers with adequate political backing to refusing to accept the coalition headed by Xanana Gusmão when it commanded a majority in the House. The response of the Court took them—and indeed most observers and analysts—by surprise: in order to challenge presidential actions one must initiate a process of impeachment (which requires the vote of no less than two-thirds of the House). Failing that, the court would summarily dismiss the case.

The political weapons in the hands of presidents were increased significantly by this court ruling. A president may infringe a given rule, but unless an overwhelming two-thirds majority of parliamentarians rallies against him, the president will survive attempts to overrule him. President Lu Olo emerged from this court case significantly empowered and able to assert a new status for presidents for years to come, which is prone to intertwine the presidency and the government in ways not anticipated. The result was an alignment between FRETILIN and its two leading figures—the chairman and President of the Republic and the secretary general and actual leader Mari Alkatiri—with Taur Matan Ruak (serving as prime minister) and several smaller parties apparently masterminded by Lu Olo from the presidential palace. If formal democratic procedures were followed, and legal-rational legitimacy could hardly be challenged, the impact of denying the winners of a popular election the right to form government (as is arguably the case) raises significant question marks over the transparency of democratic institutions working methods.

Casting a bird’s eye view over Lu Olo’s presidency, it has been a particularly turbulent period: the first minority government to be sworn in, the first government to be defeated in the House, the opposition denied the right to present an alternative prime minister, the first ever early election, the appointment of a government without key ministers, long delays in the approval of state budget, a sequence of political alliances that were formed only to break apart shortly, politicians jockeying for position regardless of electoral commitments, an attempt to curb independent press reporting by means of “defamation” legislation. All this took place in parallel to the increased centrality of the president in the political scenario, and a marked aggrandisement of presidential power coupled with the fading the mechanisms of checks and balances and thus of horizontal accountability. All this is in clear contrast with the political conventions crafted right after Timor-Leste's accession to independence.

As argued above, one of the most prominent features of the Timorese process of democracy rooting was the combination and convergence of different models of political legitimacy. Xanana Gusmão epitomises such a feature: he is the undisputed Resistance leader, affectionately addressed as Maun Boot (lit, Big Brother), a revered figure disposing of

certain quality of individual personality, by virtue of which he is set apart from ordinary men and treated as endowed with supernatural, superhuman, or at least specifically exceptional powers or qualities. These are such as are not accessible to the ordinary person, but are regarded as of divine origin or as exemplary, and on the basis of them the individual concerned is treated as a leader. (Weber, 2013, chapter III, paragraph 10)—in a nutshell, charisma

At the same time, Xanana played the political game by strict constitutional rules, acquiring legal-rational legitimacy with which he served in the sanctum sanctorum (holy of holies) of Timorese elite: first President of the Republic (2002–2007) after independence, Prime Minister (2007–2012 and 2012–2015), minister (and kingmaker) (2015–2017), leader of post-electoral majoritarian coalition (2017–2018) and again leader of a pre-electoral winning coalition (2018–2020). That is to say: he held different positions ranging from top ones to relatively secondary ones, always included in the perimeter of the major decision-makers.

In 2020, the Lu Olo masterminded government reshuffle resulted in his ousting from the circles of power. Xanana Gusmão formally kept his seat in the Council of State (ex-officio for former presidents), a consultation board to presidents with a mere advisory mandate, and his role as party leader—although his party was removed from the coalition that had secured the electoral victory. In brief: he was deliberately ostracised. More than a simple individual case, this attitude represents an emerging clash between different forms of political legitimacy. His is by no means a singular episode. During Lu Olo’s term in office the number of people replaced in their political positions was significant, and most derived from this rationale. Popular perception did not fail to notice a page had been turned, and the conventional convergence that sustained the exercise of power was openly challenged. The quality of democratic life was subject to intense strife. “Belligerent democracy” moved back stronger than ever, and a key to the success of a regime based on effective power-sharing encompassing different forms of political legitimacy was cast aside long before legal-rational mechanisms had the chance of asserting themselves as the only game in town (indeed, the obscure manoeuvres surrounding the formation of successive governments may preclude an early success for this goal).

Francisco Guterres Lu Olo ran as incumbent (with FRETILIN endorsement) for a second term in the 2022 presidential elections. No less than 15 other candidates challenged him, including figures officially backed by parties supporting the government he had installed (e.g., PD, KHUNTO) as well as the prime minister’s wife. He managed to secure his presence in the decisive second ballot where he faced previous president José Ramos-Horta who ran as “independent” (endorsed by Xanana Gusmão) on a platform pleading the return to the country’s political convention. Lu Olo was soundly defeated (37.9%), even if his vote progressed from the first round (22.1%). José Ramos-Horta (scoring 62.1% of the popular vote) was inaugurated for his second term on May 20, 2022.

One of the major question marks over José Ramos-Horta’s attitude as president related to a decision on the survival of the Taur Matan Ruak/FRETILIN government. It was generally assumed that Xanana Gusmão would want parliament to be dissolved and fresh elections called one year ahead of schedule. The novel president, however, did not bow to the alleged pressures of his supporter, and kept the government in place. Elections were eventually called for May 21, 2023.

Political tension rides high. The negative experience of pre-electoral coalitions being unable to survive long after the ballots seems to be driving parties to go alone in search of a stable majority. However, speculations run the risk of being disavowed as the volatility of the political scene is important. At the bottom of the electoral competition, however, the question is: to what extent do Timorese citizens endorse the course of action pursued under Lu Olo? Does his defeat in the presidential election herald a return to a set of norms from which he clearly deviated? Or is the new experience valued positively and a new mandate will be on offer to the current government? Will the landslide vote for the current president translate into a new parliamentary majority intent on promoting substantial modifications in political orientation? Far too soon to tell. However, one may reflect on the events of the last five years.

Reflections on Timor-Leste’s Recent Developments

The 2017 round of presidential and legislative elections inaugurated a new phase in the political landscape of Timor-Leste. Lu Olo, the first president to have a formal party affiliation, envisaged his presidential function as a defender of his own party rather than discharging a neutral role. Also, he offered comfort to a new attitude of pitting “legal-rational” legitimacy (as expressed in parliamentary arrangements) against “charismatic” legitimacy which had been a strong pillar of democratic development after independence. A clear break with a given political convention that seems to have embodied what Giovanni Sartori has termed “institutional witchcraft” (Sartori, 1997: 125; see also Feijó, 2018), helping to create a common house for citizens and political actors of different persuasions and legitimacy backgrounds, was thus implemented. The quality of democratic life was subject to intense strife.

The days of the “Third Wave of Democracy” (Huntington, 1991) under which Timor-Leste installed its democratic regime are now gone. Democracy is no longer the zeitgeist. The last few years have raised the spectre of a return to some form of autocracy—not necessarily in the classic form of a full breakdown of democratic regimes, but by virtue of a slow erosion of the basic tenets of the rule of law (Bermeo, 2016; Levitsky & Ziblatt, 2018). For a country historically dependent on the way the winds blow in the international arena, these are not good news.

The literature on recent autocratisation trends—e.g., Lührmann and Lindberg (2019), Maerz et al. (2020)—and most organisations that report regularly about the state of political regimes around the world (Freedom House, Varieties of Democracy, The Economist Intelligence Unit and others) have all pointed to a trend towards democratic backsliding in recent years, and the surge of a “autocratisation wave”. The insistence in declaring states of emergency, curtailing civil liberties with the pretext of the pandemic, even in places where there was barely any critical situation have been pointed out as symptoms of democratic contraction (Maerz et al., 2020). Even though electoral mechanisms are not necessarily contested, the aggrandisement of executive power has been singled out as a major factor weakening democratic systems (Bermeo, 2016). Timor-Leste may be entering a new phase of its political life in a world where democratic contraction and the spread of autocratisation seem to be on the rise.

One may recall that serious doubts regarding Timor-Leste’s capacity to resist authoritarianism and uphold democratic principles were voiced at the early stages after independence when such “temptation” was assigned to the first FRETILIN government by a range of observers (Leach & Kingsbury, 2012; Siapno, 2006; Simonsen, 2006). Is this cloud hovering over Díli once again many years after being successfully put to rest? Is Timorese democracy backsliding?

Using an analytical framework proposed by Boese et al. (2021), one may regard the recent evolution of Timor-Leste under Lu Olo as representing a major first-stage problem of democratic resilience, with previous successes being undermined. But the outcome of the second stage of the process—the actual breakdown of democratic institutions—has a good chance of being avoided if a return to the established political norms, comprising both constitutional provisions and cultural conventions finds room to impose itself. The discourse of “democracy” still resonates in the country (and in its major international supporters), having succeeded to fend off alternative narratives (such as the “Asian values” one).

However, the critical upcoming legislative elections will be held against the backdrop of the extra-ordinarily polarising presidency of Lu Olo, whose defeat in 2022 may not have been definitive, and involve highly conflicting partisan agendas. Key to the elections will be whether there is sufficient democratic resilience to avoid the election offering formal legitimation to democratic backsliding, which is sometimes framed by a “vexing ambiguity” (Bermeo, 2016) leading to a hybrid or democratically “poorer” regime, or whether democratic resilience will prevail.

Modern processes of autocratisation need not be an event (like a coup d’État) but rather a more or less protracted and subtle process. “De-democratisation today tends to be incremental rather than sudden [and] troubled democracies are now more likely to erode than to shatter” (Bermeo, 2016: 14). The main factors identified in the relevant literature as capable of opposing the process of de-democratisation—a strong judiciary, an established tradition of democratic rule and a thriving civil society—are not present in Timor-Leste. The judicial sector has been regarded as the weakest link in the constitutional system of powers, not grounded on an independent capacity to intervene and lacking the human capital to make a difference. Civil society, for its part, does not possess the instruments that are common in liberal democracies such as a vibrant media reaching wide audiences. Democracy is a newcomer to the country which was long under colonial and neo-colonial rule by authoritarian powers. Although not long, the history of democracy in Timor-Leste's early independent years provides an important element of reflection.

The recent Covid-19 pandemic and the responses it has elicited have threatened public liberties while extending executive prerogatives in many parts of the world (Maerz et al., 2020). In Timor-Leste, the very serious concerns over public health offered a pretext for reducing constitutional guarantees by means of a protracted “state of emergency” not supported by a social or political consensus. Parallel to this, legislation limiting media freedom has weakened the fabric of democratic society. Political rhetoric has once again grown more violent, suggesting that the notion of a common house for all the Timorese is giving way to sectarian discourses. On the other hand, political institutions like the parliament seem to be prone to forms of politicking that are not transparent and may be regarded as distant from the choices of the electorate although they may be formally justifiable. This is a dangerous mix for a healthy democracy.

In this context, to abandon political norms that proved during the difficult first years of independence and democracy-building to successfully overcome major challenges (including the 2006 political crisis or the attempt on the lives of the president and the prime minister in February 2008), as was carried out under Lu Olo, may prove to be wrong medicine. The first step to redress the situation was given in the 2022 presidential elections. The process, however, is far from over.