VI00001331

Tebe-tebe is one of the most widely practiced and deeply cherished traditional dances in Timor-Leste. Rooted in communal identity and spiritual expression, it is performed during a wide range of ceremonies—rituals of healing and harvest, weddings, sacred house gatherings (uma lulik), and commemorative events that bring entire communities together. At its core, tebe-tebe is a line or circle dance performed by groups of people—often with women and men linking arms or shoulders—who step and sway in unison to the beat of traditional instruments like the babadok (a hand-held drum). The movements are deliberately grounded and rhythmic, characterized by stomping feet, subtle sways, and communal gestures that convey strength, connection, and balance. The dance is accompanied by chanted songs, usually performed in a call-and-response style. These songs are often rich in metaphor, addressing themes of unity, gratitude, remembrance, or negotiation with the spirit world. The lyrics, sung in Tetun or other local languages, carry encoded histories, ancestral teachings, and emotional expressions that elevate the dance beyond entertainment into the realm of cultural storytelling. Tebe-tebe plays a vital role in moments of social and spiritual transition. It may be performed to welcome guests, to celebrate a marriage, to honor the dead, or to invoke protection and blessing during a harvest ceremony such as sau-batar. In each case, the dance serves to activate communal energy and connect the visible world with the ancestral realm. The inclusive nature of the dance—performed by people of all ages and social backgrounds—reflects its egalitarian spirit. It is not restricted to professional dancers or experts; rather, it is meant to be shared, learned through observation and participation from a young age. In many villages, elders pass on the steps and songs during festivals and ceremonies, and school programs and cultural centers are increasingly incorporating tebe-tebe into youth education to ensure its survival. While variations exist across regions, the essence of tebe-tebe remains consistent: it is a dance of the people, by the people, and for the people. In its rhythm and repetition, the community finds both cohesion and catharsis—expressing sorrow, joy, solidarity, and reverence through a single, unified movement. Today, tebe-tebe continues to evolve. It is performed not only in rural rituals but also on national stages, international cultural events, and heritage festivals. And while some modern adaptations have emerged, the traditional forms are still held with deep respect, especially by elders who carry the memory of its ceremonial power. In every echo of the babadok and every synchronized step of the dancers, tebe-tebe tells a timeless story—of a people connected to one another, to their ancestors, and to the living land they call home.

15:36
Timor-Leste 2024

VI00001330

In the communities of Viqueque, particularly among the Tetun-Terik-speaking people, fai-akar—the production of sago flour from the akar palm—is not merely a method of food preparation; it is a cultural ceremony that blends labor, rhythm, and collective identity. At the heart of this tradition is the Tali-Bole dance, a dynamic performance woven seamlessly into the act of pounding sago, transforming a daily task into a vibrant expression of heritage. The process of making fai-akar begins with harvesting the inner pith of the akar palm tree, which is then ground and washed to extract starch. This labor-intensive task is done in groups, mostly by women, using long wooden pestles to pound the fiber in large mortars. But what sets this practice apart is the way pounding becomes performance: the coordinated movement of the pestles rises and falls to the beat of chanting and drumming, and the Tali-Bole dance emerges from the rhythm of the work itself. Dancers move in synchrony with the pounding, often stepping in and out of the work line, twirling or waving cloth, and responding to sung verses. The term tali-bole can be interpreted in various ways—some connect it to the image of “binding cords,” others to the swinging motion of the pestles themselves—but in all meanings, it emphasizes connection, unity, and the shared pulse of community labor. Songs sung during the pounding and dancing are passed down orally and are rich in metaphor and memory. One of the most well-known verses, Lakaleok, is sung toward the end of the session, signaling closure and expressing gratitude. These lyrics often tell stories of ancestors, landscapes, and social values, ensuring that cultural knowledge is preserved even in the most practical of activities. Traditionally, fai-akar and Tali-Bole were performed during rites of passage, funerals, house inaugurations, and communal feasts. Participation was seen not only as a contribution of labor but as an affirmation of cultural belonging. The rhythmic beat of the pestles and the voices of the singers created a space where work, ritual, and performance blended into one. Although the practice remains alive in some villages, it faces growing challenges. The availability of processed food, the decline of communal labor traditions, and the migration of youth to urban areas have all contributed to its reduced presence. Yet, in places where it continues, fai-akar and Tali-Bole are embraced as sources of pride, often featured at cultural festivals and heritage events to showcase the strength and creativity of traditional life. To witness Tali-Bole is to see cultural memory in motion—where hands work, feet dance, and voices carry the wisdom of generations. In every stomp and song, the community reaffirms its bond with the land, its past, and one another.

5:53
Timor-Leste 2024

VI00001329

The Babadok is a traditional percussion instrument of Timor-Leste, central to the soundscape of communal dance, ritual, and celebration. With its deep, resonant rhythm, the babadok doesn’t just keep time—it sets the emotional pulse of an event, weaving together the steps of dancers, the cadence of songs, and the energy of the gathered community. Typically made from a hollowed-out log or wooden tube covered at both ends with animal skin—often goat or cowhide—the babadok is lightweight and portable. Struck with the hands or sometimes with short wooden sticks, it produces a sharp, dry beat that is both grounding and expressive. The drumheads are stretched tightly and tied securely with natural fiber ropes, sometimes decorated with paint or carved patterns. Over time, each instrument develops its own distinct tone, shaped by use, climate, and craftsmanship. In traditional ceremonies, particularly dances like tebe-tebe or tebe-lilin, the babadok is the heartbeat of the performance. It provides tempo, signals changes in movement, and helps dancers synchronize their steps. More than a musical tool, the babadok becomes a channel through which emotions—joy, sorrow, gratitude—are communicated and shared. During ritual gatherings, it may accompany singing, recitation of oral histories, or moments of spiritual invocation. The instrument is most often played by women, though in some regions both men and women participate. Its accessibility is part of its charm—anyone with rhythm, respect, and a sense of the tradition can learn to play. Children often grow up hearing the babadok played at family ceremonies or village festivals, absorbing its patterns and rhythms before they ever try it themselves. Crafting a babadok is itself an act of cultural care. The choice of wood, the drying and stretching of the skins, and the tying of the drum all follow methods passed down through generations. Elders often guide young artisans in this process, emphasizing not just the technique but the responsibility that comes with creating something used in sacred and social spaces. Despite its enduring importance, the babadok—like many traditional instruments—faces challenges in modern times. Mass-produced drums and changing musical preferences mean that fewer young people are learning to make or play it. Still, efforts are being made to preserve the tradition, with community performances, school programs, and cultural events placing the instrument back at the center of public life. In the rhythm of the babadok, one can hear more than music: it is the sound of continuity, of people moving together, of ancestors remembered and futures imagined. Whether echoing across a dusty dance circle or softly beating in a sacred house, the babadok remains a powerful symbol of Timor-Leste’s living heritage.

5:46
Timor-Leste 2024

VI00001328

Elegant, joyful, and rooted in everyday village life, Bidu Lensu-Mutin—the White Handkerchief Dance—is one of the most beloved traditional dances in the Suai Loro community of Covalima, Timor-Leste. Performed by young girls with white scarves in hand, the dance is a celebration of welcome, harmony, and feminine grace, passed from mother to daughter over generations. The name lensu-mutin comes from the Tetun words for “white handkerchief,” which the dancers carry as they move in coordinated steps and gestures. The origin story, widely shared in oral tradition, speaks of seven girls who danced with white scarves to welcome their community members back from a corn harvest. Their spontaneous joy and coordinated movements captured the spirit of unity and gratitude, and the dance has been cherished ever since. Performed during weddings, religious celebrations, community gatherings, and rituals involving sacred houses (uma lulik), Bidu Lensu-Mutin carries layers of meaning. The white scarf symbolizes purity, blessing, and good intentions. Dancers use it to wave, twirl, and gesture in graceful arcs, often moving in circular or serpentine formations that reflect the flowing rhythm of traditional life. Accompanied by soft babadok drumming and gentle singing in the Tetun-Terik language, the dance creates an atmosphere of warmth and welcome. The songs, often metaphorical, may include blessings for the couple in a wedding, prayers for peace in a community, or expressions of joy and connection. In some versions of the performance, older women sing while the younger girls dance, creating a multigenerational moment of transmission. Learning the dance happens organically within families and the community. Young girls imitate their older sisters, mothers, and aunts at ceremonies or home gatherings. In recent years, schools have also incorporated the dance into cultural programs and performances, ensuring its continued presence in the lives of younger generations. What sets Bidu Lensu-Mutin apart is its gentle spirit and universal appeal. It does not require elaborate costumes or formal training—just the willingness to move together with grace and intention. The dance represents a form of cultural continuity that is deeply tied to everyday experiences and shared values: welcoming guests, honoring ancestors, and expressing collective joy. Though still widely practiced in Suai Loro and surrounding communities, cultural leaders recognize the importance of continued teaching and celebration. As modern influences shape young people’s interests and identities, Bidu Lensu-Mutin offers a graceful reminder of the beauty found in tradition and the strength found in unity.

5:33
Timor-Leste 2024

VI00001327

Chewing bua-malus—a combination of areca nut (bua) and betel pepper leaf (malus)—is a widespread and deeply symbolic cultural practice throughout Timor-Leste. While it is often seen as a daily habit, its role goes far beyond oral tradition and personal enjoyment. Bua-malus is inseparable from the fabric of Timorese life, marking every major social, spiritual, and ceremonial moment with its presence. At its simplest, the practice involves chewing pieces of areca nut wrapped in a fresh green betel leaf, often accompanied by a pinch of slaked lime (ahu) to release the active compounds and deepen the flavor. The mixture produces a distinctive red juice and is known for its mildly stimulating effects. But in cultural terms, bua-malus acts as a form of communication—an offering, a blessing, a welcome, and a bridge between generations. In marriage ceremonies (barlake), bua-malus plays a key ritual role in exchanges between families. During funerals, it may be offered to the deceased or distributed among mourners as a sign of shared respect and continuity. When sacred houses (uma lulik) are built or restored, or when a newborn baby undergoes a fase-matan (eye-opening) ritual, elders may gently rub a paste of bua-malus onto the baby’s eyelids and forehead to protect them and spiritually anchor their life. Elders and ritual leaders (lia-nain) often carry small pouches filled with the ingredients and use them to open or conclude negotiations, calm disputes, or honor guests. Offering bua-malus is a profound gesture of hospitality and peace—it signals trust, respect, and the intention to share one’s truth openly. Refusing it, in some contexts, may even be considered a subtle social offense. The act of chewing is often done communally, accompanied by conversation, storytelling, or silence. The red-stained lips and relaxed posture of those gathered in a shaded courtyard or under a tree reflect a rhythm of life tied to land, time, and relationship. Many communities regard bua-malus not just as a habit but as a living heritage—something that must be handed down with care and intention. Despite its enduring presence, the practice is evolving. Urbanization, health concerns, and shifting social norms have altered how and where people chew bua-malus. Younger generations may engage with it more selectively, and some of the ritual meanings risk being diluted or forgotten. Nonetheless, the cultural power of bua-malus remains strong. Whether offered to welcome a guest, seal an agreement, or bless a new life, this humble bundle of nut, leaf, and lime carries the weight of centuries of wisdom. It connects people not only to each other but to their ancestors, their land, and the values that continue to guide communal life in Timor-Leste.

6:00
Timor-Leste 2024

VI00001326

The Kaiui—also known as fui or be’u in different regions—is a traditional bamboo flute of Timor-Leste, cherished for its gentle, evocative sound that once echoed across rice fields, hilltops, and quiet village evenings. Long associated with solitude, emotional expression, and storytelling, the Kaiui is more than just a musical instrument—it is a vessel of memory and connection. Traditionally crafted from au-fafulu, a specific type of bamboo, the Kaiui features seven tone holes and is often about the length of a forearm. A key part of its design is the use of a corn cob or similar material to block part of the internal chamber, modifying the flow of air and shaping the distinctive tone. The player blows across the top opening while controlling the pitch with their fingers, producing melodies that are haunting, meditative, and subtly expressive. For generations, the Kaiui was used by boys tending livestock in the fields, especially in the early mornings or during midday rest. It was played to pass the time, soothe animals, or simply to ease loneliness. Others used it to express feelings of longing—especially in matters of love, separation, or remembrance. In many communities, the flute is considered a deeply personal instrument, capable of giving voice to emotions that are otherwise difficult to speak. The art of playing Kaiui is learned informally, typically by observing and mimicking older siblings, parents, or elders. There is no standard notation; the music lives through imitation, memory, and improvisation. Songs vary from region to region and even from player to player, with some tunes tied to seasonal rhythms or traditional events like sau-batar (harvest ceremonies) or rites of passage. The Kaiui also plays a role in certain rituals and ceremonies, where its sound is believed to create a space of calm, welcome ancestral spirits, or accompany reflective moments. Its simple construction and natural materials reflect a worldview grounded in harmony with the environment—a flute made entirely from what the land provides, played under the open sky. Today, however, the practice of making and playing the Kaiui is increasingly rare. As younger generations turn to electronic music and imported instruments, the quiet music of the bamboo flute is fading from everyday life. In some communities, it survives primarily as a cultural demonstration during festivals or heritage programs. Efforts to preserve the Kaiui are now underway through workshops, school projects, and intergenerational exchanges. In these spaces, the flute is not only played but celebrated—as a living symbol of Timor-Leste’s musical heritage and a gentle reminder of how sound, memory, and identity are woven together in the simplest of forms.

6:27
Timor-Leste 2024

VI00001325

In the rugged landscapes of Timor-Leste, where dry seasons can stretch long and food insecurity remains a reality for many, the people have long relied on their deep knowledge of wild, resilient crops. Among them is Koto-Tisi—a hard, dark wild bean that offers vital sustenance but must be carefully prepared to remove its natural toxins. What might appear at first glance to be just another seed is, in fact, a symbol of survival, ecological wisdom, and ancestral resilience. The bean is typically found growing on hardy, thorny shrubs or climbing vines in semi-wild areas. It is gathered primarily by women, who know when the pods are ready to be picked and how to handle them safely. The challenge lies not in harvesting but in transforming Koto-Tisi into something edible—an intricate cooking process that has been passed down through generations. Preparation begins with repeated boiling and rinsing, sometimes up to five or six times. Each round helps to leach out the toxic compounds present in the bean. The water must be discarded each time, and the beans carefully watched to ensure that they soften without disintegrating. After boiling, the beans are often sun-dried and stored for later use, to be boiled again before eating or ground into a starchy paste. The process is labor-intensive and demands both patience and precision. Elders in the community emphasize that the knowledge of how to process Koto-Tisi is not written in books—it lives in memory, movement, and the rhythms of daily life. To rush the process or ignore the sequence could lead to poisoning. For this reason, children are taught to observe closely, assisting their mothers or grandmothers and gradually learning the delicate balance between danger and nourishment. In times of drought, scarcity, or natural disaster, Koto-Tisi becomes a lifeline. Its ability to grow in harsh conditions, with little water or care, makes it a dependable fallback when cultivated crops fail. But it is more than a survival food—it is also a testament to how culture and ecology intertwine. The knowledge required to use it safely reflects a deep respect for the land, a skillset honed through centuries of careful experimentation and oral transmission. Today, as dietary patterns change and imported food becomes more available, the practice of preparing Koto-Tisi is fading in some areas. But in others, it remains a respected tradition—especially among elders who see it not only as food but as a story, a ritual, and a reminder of community strength in the face of adversity.

5:52
Timor-Leste 2024

VI00001324

Simple in design but rich in cultural significance, the Lakadou is a traditional musical instrument made entirely from bamboo, found in various rural communities of Timor-Leste. Often carved from a single stalk, it stands as a testament to the ingenuity of ancestral craftsmanship—an instrument that produces sound not with strings or metal, but with tensioned strips of its own body. The process of making a Lakadou begins with selecting the right kind of bamboo—neither too young nor too old—so that it is flexible yet strong. Using only a knife or a small carving tool, the outer layer of the bamboo is partially sliced into thin, horizontal strips along the stalk, which remain attached at both ends. These strips act as the instrument’s “strings.” Small wooden pegs or bridges are then inserted beneath them to lift the strips slightly, allowing them to vibrate when plucked. When played, the Lakadou emits a warm, buzzing resonance that can be heard clearly in quiet, open-air settings. The tones are soft yet sharp, melodic yet earthy—reflecting both the material and the environment from which it is made. Each Lakadou has its own pitch and personality, depending on the size of the bamboo and the placement of the tuning pegs. Traditionally, the Lakadou was played during rituals, agricultural festivals, and informal gatherings. It could accompany dance, storytelling, or simply be enjoyed as a solo instrument under the shade of a tree. It was sometimes played to express emotions—joy, longing, or sorrow—or to pass the time during communal labor in the fields. What makes the Lakadou especially significant is its status as a self-contained instrument. It does not require any additional materials beyond the bamboo itself—no strings, no nails, no external fasteners—just natural design and human skill. This reflects a traditional ethos of sustainability and resourcefulness, values still highly regarded in rural Timorese life. While the instrument is still known in some communities today, its presence is fading. Younger generations are more familiar with modern instruments, and the skill of crafting Lakadou is no longer widely practiced or passed down. In some places, only a handful of elders remember how to make and play it, and the sound of the Lakadou has become rare in daily village life. Efforts to preserve the Lakadou are growing, however. Cultural festivals, school workshops, and local storytelling events have begun reintroducing the instrument as a piece of Timor-Leste’s musical heritage. Some artisans are even experimenting with new forms, adapting traditional techniques to contemporary performances. As a musical tool, the Lakadou is humble. But as an expression of cultural identity, it speaks volumes. In its structure, sound, and spirit, it tells the story of a people who shaped their art from the land around them—and who, with care, may yet continue to do so for generations to come.

6:22
Timor-Leste 2024

VI00001323

Sau-Batar is one of Timor-Leste’s most cherished agricultural ceremonies, marking the successful harvesting of corn—batar, the staple crop that lies at the heart of both sustenance and spiritual life for many communities. Far more than an agricultural routine, this ritual reflects a worldview where nature, ancestors, and community are deeply intertwined. The ceremony typically begins with a symbolic act called “taking out the old corn and bringing in the new.” This signifies a transition between agricultural cycles and expresses gratitude to the spirits of the land for their blessings. Families gather at their sacred houses (uma lulik), bringing both harvested corn and cooked rice to share in a ritual meal that reaffirms communal bonds. Central to the ritual is the lia-nain—a customary elder responsible for oral tradition and ritual practice—who recites prayers, chants, and invocations handed down through generations. These words are not merely spoken; they are believed to activate ancestral protection and ensure future abundance. The corn offered during the ceremony becomes sacred, often preserved in specially designated granaries or placed on altars within the sacred house as a gesture of respect to the ancestors. Music and dance are vital parts of Sau-Batar. Performances of Tebe Lilin (Candle Dance) and other local dances transform the occasion into a festive gathering, where movement and rhythm mirror the unity and joy of a successful harvest. The babadok drum keeps the beat as men and women, elders and children, participate in a shared expression of thanks and renewal. The ceremony also involves the symbolic sharing of corn among relatives and neighbors, emphasizing that harvest is not an individual achievement but a collective gift. In some cases, leftover corn from the previous season is burned or ceremonially discarded to make room for the new yield, representing a fresh start and spiritual cleansing. Beyond its religious and social meanings, Sau-Batar also serves as a moment of informal education. It is during this event that younger generations hear the stories of how rituals are performed, why they matter, and what each gesture or offering means. Through active participation, children and youth absorb the knowledge of land stewardship, spiritual ethics, and cultural identity. In recent years, as commercial farming methods expand and traditional schedules shift, Sau-Batar has faced challenges. Yet in many rural areas, the ceremony continues to be practiced with dedication, often with support from local schools and cultural preservation initiatives. For the communities that uphold it, Sau-Batar remains a vital link between past and present, the visible and the invisible, and the land and its people. It is a ceremony not just of harvest, but of harmony—a living tradition that continues to nourish both body and spirit.

5:32
Timor-Leste 2024

VI00001322

Tara-Bandu is one of Timor-Leste’s most enduring systems of customary law—an ancestral method for maintaining harmony between humans, nature, and the spirit world. Practiced across many municipalities, this tradition involves the collective setting of social and environmental rules by the community, enforced not by police or government, but by deep-rooted respect for customary authority and ancestral belief. The term “tara-bandu” itself means “to suspend” or “to declare a prohibition.” At its core, it is a communal agreement to protect certain aspects of life—be it sacred forests, clean water sources, agricultural land, or interpersonal relationships. Violating a tara-bandu is believed to bring not just social disapproval, but also spiritual misfortune, such as illness, crop failure, or even death. The process of establishing a tara-bandu involves an elaborate ceremonial act led by lia-nain (customary custodians), elders, spiritual leaders, and village chiefs. At the heart of the ritual is the symbolic installation of the prohibition. This may take the form of hanging a tree branch, an animal skull, or even a bound bundle of leaves at the boundary of a protected area. These symbols serve as visible markers that the space or behavior they refer to is off-limits. Each tara-bandu is tailored to local needs. In some communities, it may prohibit cutting down trees from a specific forest. In others, it may regulate marriage customs, resolve conflicts, or prevent theft and violence. The process is highly participatory: villagers gather in large open-air meetings to discuss the rules, agree on penalties, and publicly reaffirm their commitment to uphold the communal values. The ceremony itself often includes the sacrifice of an animal—commonly a pig, goat, or chicken—as an offering to the ancestral spirits. A traditional oath is spoken, and traditional liquor (tua sabu) is sometimes poured on the earth as a gesture of sealing the agreement. These rituals symbolize not only human consensus but a spiritual pact between the living and the unseen world. Beyond its legal implications, tara-bandu has an environmental and ethical function. It teaches respect for natural resources, encourages collective responsibility, and reinforces peaceful coexistence. It also represents an indigenous system of governance, reminding the Timorese people that long before modern institutions, their ancestors had mechanisms to resolve disputes and protect what mattered most. In the years following independence, tara-bandu experienced a significant revival. Communities, NGOs, and government bodies alike have recognized its value—not as a relic of the past, but as a living, adaptable tool for building resilient societies. It is now being integrated into conservation projects, natural resource management plans, and even civic education programs in schools. Still, its continued vitality depends on intergenerational transmission. Elders must be supported in sharing their knowledge, and younger generations must be empowered to see the relevance of tara-bandu in today’s context. As both law and ritual, tara-bandu is a shining example of how intangible cultural heritage can guide communities in shaping a sustainable, respectful, and united future.

6:01
Timor-Leste 2024

VI00001321

Rooted in the ancestral traditions of the Fatumea and Fohorem communities in Covalima Municipality, Tebe Otas-Uluk is more than a dance—it is a collective act of memory, identity, and reverence. The name itself combines “tebe” (a traditional line dance) with Otas (ancestor) and Uluk (first or origin), signaling a ritual expression dedicated to those who came before. Traditionally performed by the elders of the community, this dance takes place during important communal gatherings such as ceremonies of healing, protection, thanksgiving, or agricultural celebration. Participants often wear traditional attire and move in side-by-side formations, linked by hands or shoulders, stepping rhythmically in unison to the beat of local drums, gongs, or the babadok (a hand-held percussion instrument). The dance circle forms a symbolic space where the living and the spirits of the ancestors meet. What sets Tebe Otas-Uluk apart is its solemn and purposeful character. The movement vocabulary is simple yet powerful: synchronized steps, grounded footwork, and fluid arm gestures that flow with the communal rhythm. Songs are chanted throughout the dance in the Tetun-Terik language, often carrying metaphorical meanings related to the land, family, and the ancestors’ wisdom. The lyrics function as oral archives, preserving knowledge and history that is not written but remembered through voice and motion. Because of its deep spiritual roots, this dance is only performed on specific occasions, often after traditional leaders conduct consultations with spiritual entities or conduct rituals to prepare the ground. Each gesture, each chant, is believed to activate a connection to the ancestral realm—inviting blessings, healing, or protection for the community. In recent years, however, the practice has become increasingly rare, with fewer young people learning the movements or understanding the embedded meanings. Despite this, dedicated elders continue to lead and teach the dance, ensuring its survival as a living heritage. For them, Tebe Otas-Uluk is not simply a performance—it is a prayer in motion, a ceremony that anchors the community to its origins and affirms its cultural continuity.

6:02
Timor-Leste 2024

VI00001319

Performed with grace, dignity, and deep cultural symbolism, Tebe-Lilin is a traditional dance that brings together members of a community in shared celebration, remembrance, and expression. It is practiced in several regions of Timor-Leste and is especially known for its emphasis on unity and peaceful co-existence. The word “tebe” refers to a communal line or circle dance, while “lilin” translates as candle or light. Together, the name evokes the image of people dancing around a source of light—both literal and symbolic—illuminating shared values such as harmony, hope, and continuity. Historically, dancers would carry actual candles or use candlenuts wrapped in cotton, creating a flickering trail of light as they moved through the night. Tebe-Lilin* is performed by groups of men and women—young and old—who link arms or shoulders and form lines or circles. They move rhythmically in unison, stepping to the beat of babadok drums and chanting in call-and-response style. The songs are often poetic and metaphorical, expressing themes of love, sorrow, longing, and reconciliation. Each verse is rich with meaning, serving not just as entertainment but as oral literature passed from generation to generation. The dance is deeply woven into ceremonial life. It features prominently during sau-batar (corn harvest celebrations), barlake (marriage exchanges), community healing rituals, and memorial events. In each setting, Tebe-Lilin helps strengthen the spiritual and emotional ties among participants. Its circular form is believed to create balance and connection, while the singing creates a space for open emotional expression—an opportunity to share joys and wounds alike. In some versions of the dance, the use of light is entirely symbolic. The “candle” represents the enduring spirit of the ancestors, the resilience of the community, or the moral light that guides people through challenges. The act of dancing around it becomes a ritual of reaffirmation—a moment when the community collectively reflects on its path forward while honoring its roots. Though Tebe-Lilin remains alive in certain communities, it faces challenges. Younger generations are increasingly detached from these communal traditions, and the ritual contexts in which the dance once thrived are becoming less frequent. Elders and cultural leaders continue to play a vital role in teaching the songs, movements, and meanings behind the dance, often through village gatherings, church events, and cultural festivals. In its form and spirit, Tebe-Lilin exemplifies intangible cultural heritage at its finest: it is an art form, a social practice, and a vehicle for transmitting identity. Every time the dance is performed, it brings light—not just to the night, but to the hearts and memories of those who dance and watch.

5:42
Timor-Leste 2024