It is dusk and a hundred or so black-pyjama-clad youths have gathered on a patch of dust the size of a basketball court on the outskirts of Dili. Standing in tight rows, they make a pledge of allegiance before spreading out and practising kicks and punches in the gloom. Shaolin monks they aren't. Limbs flail and sweat mingles with dirt but as they soldier on into the darkness, dimly illuminated by a single light bulb dangling from a wire. There is a tangible spirit of discipline and determination.
In a fledgling nation defined by poverty and instability, it seems they are not so much venting frustration as grasping for a sense of purpose and self-respect.
This is a training session of Persaudaraan Setia Hati Terate, or Sacred Heart, just one - albeit one of the largest - of dozens of martial arts groups in East Timor.
Since independence in 2002, martial arts have emerged as a nationwide cult. Almost every young person belongs, or at least has loyalties, to a group. With 60 per cent of the nation's 1 million population below the age of 18, there is no shortage of recruits eager for a sense of belonging, not to mention a boost to their street credibility.
Sacred Heart, which originated in Java and arrived in Timor in the early 1980s, boasts 30,000 members; Seti Seti (Seven Seven), a group rooted more in clandestine Timorese magic than karate kicks, claims 11,000 members; Korka, with Catholic leanings, has 20,000. There are other groups named Five Five, Kung Fu Master, Aqui Jaz, Sagrada Familia and more. Even those youngsters who don't belong to a group have a name derived from martial arts culture - Zero Zero.
Until recently, walls all over the rubble-strewn capital were daubed with confrontational martial-arts-themed graffiti. Much of it has been painted over in an effort to quell the gang rivalries blamed for numerous outbreaks of violence in recent years.