David O’Shea was caught in the cross fire when East Timor erupted, but it was the local journalists who Had the worst of it.

"One!”

With his finger on the trigger, rebel leader Alfredo Reinado shouted to the government soldiers approaching just a hundred or so metres away.

He would give them to the count of 10 to retreat or he would fire.

“Two!”

I could hardly believe what I was witnessing.

I had just finished interviewing Reinado on a hill on the eastern outskirts of Dili, the capital of East Timor. Now, sprawled on the ground taking cover behind an abandoned house, he was threatening to shoot at his former colleagues.

The political crisis that had been brewing for weeks had clearly just reached boiling point – and I was stuck right in the middle.

“Three!”

Although I had mixed feelings about being there, Reinado was obviously happy there was a camera handy to record his moment of glory. "Function your camera,” he told me with an Aussie twang. I didn’t need to be told – I was already recording. There was no way I was going to miss capturing this drama.

“Four!”

The countdown took almost two minutes. Part of me still thought nothing would happen, but sure enough on “Ten,” Reinado screamed, “Fire!” and his men let loose.

I worried that Reinado would be unhappy that I had filmed him firing the first shots but that didn’t seem to bother him at all. At one point he claimed to have shot one of the soldiers. “He’s not moving anymore,” he said casually, before firing again.

I was also very conscious of the danger, especially when the government soldiers lobbed a grenade back at us.With that, it was clearly time to get out or get trapped. My fixer, local reporter Jose Belo, and I ran through a cassava field, then through the backyard of an empty house before climbing on to a dirt track heading uphill.

After running a couple of hundred metres, we had to cross a section of track that felt very exposed to the gunfire below. Sure enough, we had to hit the deck to avoid a volley of shots. I don’t know whose bullets they were; it was difficult to tell what was happening, but I know we were too close to the action for my liking.

As I filmed myself lying flat on the ground, I had the horrible sensation I might be about to film my own head being blown off. At least you would have known how it happened.

After a lull in the firing we made one last dash to relative safety behind a rise in the hill. The sound of gunfire below us went on for hours as we walked quickly along the track. At this stage I had no idea where we were heading. Once I felt safer I called SBS and explained my predicament. Before long the Australian embassy in Dili called and offered to send a car to pick us up.

But first we would have to trek four hours over the mountain to get to the rendezvous point. It was here we parted company with two of Reinado’s armed men and joined a group of civilians walking to the same place.

Along the way, there were sweeping views of the coast. If things weren’t so serious this would be a fine place for a picnic.

Youths with slingshots, darts and bows and arrows were gathering and made it clear they supported the rebels. More ominously, they identified themselves as Loro Monu people from the west of East Timor. All of a sudden their enemies were the Loro Sae people from the east. This was my first very real sense that this tiny country could split along ethnic lines.

Without doubt the most terrifying moment of the whole day was when I thought someone in our group, who was from the east, would be executed.

I can’t really go into detail. Thankfully it didn’t eventuate.

By now large numbers of refugees were on the move – frightened families packing their meagre possessions and fleeing once again. You could see the despair in their faces. Now, almost two months later, they are probably still waiting in some squalid refugee camp.

At the rendezvous point, three Australian soldiers arrived in heavy rain. As we drove back to Dili I hoped the downpour would calm things down. In the capital the roads were like rivers and children were playing and splashing about; quite surreal after our day in the hills.

But things rapidly deteriorated. Overnight, the police force disintegrated and some joined the rebel soldiers. We woke to gunfights and a ghost town. Dili had, literally, gone to the dogs.

The next few days were chaos. So much happened so quickly it was incredible to watch but a real challenge to film without exposing myself to more danger. It became difficult to move around town because of roadblocks, and it was near impossible to find a willing driver anyway.

There was so much confusion about who was on whose side that it was far too dangerous for locals to move around.

East Timorese journalists did it hard. Worried about their personal safety and trying to evacuate their families to refugee camps, they also had to try to somehow do their jobs. The east-west ethnic tension had made everyone nervous.

One night after the arrival of peacekeepers, we had to go out and rescue a local journalist who had been working with us. He called to say that he had just escaped from a gang who had stolen his motorbike and held him at knifepoint.

We coordinated a place to pick him up and set off in convoy to get him. As we arrived he stumbled onto the road, jumped in our car and we sped off.

After he shut the car door everyone’s skin and eyes started burning. The gang had poured so much chilli powder in his eyes it affected everyone in our car. He was in agony.

As well as watching their country fall to pieces, local reporters also had to deal with the arriving foreign peacekeepers. The first signs weren’t good.

After I left East Timor I was outraged to hear that a joint Australian Federal Police and Army team had arrested my journalist colleague Jose Belo, because he always seemed to be at the scene of trouble. They held him for four hours in handcuffs, refused his requests for water and laughed off his protests when he showed his Associated Press accreditation. Not what I call media friendly.

As I write this I am preparing to return to Dili. I have so many questions about the events of May and June, and am looking forward to going back and finding out what the hell was really going on.

David O’Shea is a video-journalist for SBS Dateline and has covered the Asia-Pacific for many years. His report “Four Days in Dili”, broadcast on May 31, documented the rapidly disintegrating country before peacekeepers arrived.