One of the more curious yet memorable details of Indonesia’s 1999 elections was the ballot box itself. In the precincts where I observed, these weren’t made of reinforced steel, tamper-proof plastics, or high-security aluminum. Instead, they were made of ordinary plywood—plain, square, and painted white. At first glance, they seemed almost too simple, even vulnerable. But what struck me was not their material—it was the symbolic weight they carried, and the trust that the Indonesian people placed in them.
In the Philippines, we often pride ourselves on the “security features” of our electoral paraphernalia: padlocks, serial numbers, carbonized paper trails, even biometric systems. But these layers of protection, while useful, can sometimes feel like armor to guard against the very people they are meant to serve. In contrast, the Indonesians seemed to understand something deeper: that the credibility of an election lies not in the thickness of the box, but in the transparency of the process and the honesty of the people running it.
The plywood boxes were massive—large enough that snatching them or stuffing them surreptitiously was simply impractical. But beyond their size, it was the public nature of the voting and the counting that protected the integrity of the ballots. Everyone could see the boxes; everyone could see them opened, sealed, and emptied during the tally. There was no hidden room, no opaque process. Everything was done in full view.
And that, I realized, is the best safeguard of all: openness.
It reminded me of how sometimes, in our zeal to modernize or secure the electoral process, we might lose sight of the most basic element—trust. A ballot box can be made of titanium, but if the people don’t believe in the system, if they fear manipulation or doubt the neutrality of the officials, no amount of hardware can redeem the process.
In Indonesia, that belief seemed to be growing. After decades of authoritarian rule and suppressed democracy, the people were reclaiming ownership of their electoral process, and they were doing so with remarkable composure. The use of simple, accessible, and even handmade tools symbolized a deeper truth: democracy doesn’t have to be expensive, complicated, or outsourced to high-tech vendors. It just has to be honest.
The image of the humble plywood ballot box stayed with me long after I left Jember. It wasn’t just an object—it was a metaphor for everything the 1999 Indonesian elections represented. It was about rebuilding trust from the ground up, using what was available, and focusing not on appearances but on substance.
If I could bring home one enduring lesson to the Philippines, it would be this: we don’t need to wait for the perfect tools to run honest elections. What we need is the political will, the civic discipline, and the cultural shift that places people’s voices above political gamesmanship. We need to trust the process—but even more, we need to be worthy of that trust ourselves.
In that simple ballot box made of plywood, the Indonesians held not just their votes, but their hopes, their courage, and their future.
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