We landed in Jakarta on June 3, 1999, four days before the election. Even as we disembarked at the Sukarno-Hatta International Airport, there was a distinct energy in the air—a sense of anticipation that crackled like static before a coming storm. The streets of Indonesia’s sprawling capital were alive with motion and color, but more than anything, with purpose. It was a country on the move, politically and spiritually, bracing itself for a future it had long been denied.
As our bus rolled through Jakarta on the way to our hotel, we were immediately greeted by a sea of red. Crowds lined the streets in vibrant red clothing, chanting party hymns, raising banners, and waving flags with fierce pride. It was the designated day for the campaign rally of PDI-Perjuangan, the party led by Megawati Sukarnoputri—daughter of Indonesia’s founding president, Sukarno, and now, a central figure in the country’s post-Suharto democratic movement. Their supporters had taken to the streets not with fear or anger, but with joy. It was a kind of festive militancy, orderly and passionate at once, reminiscent of the EDSA People Power Revolution back home.
What struck me most was the disciplined conduct of the rallyists. Despite the size of the crowds and the emotional fervor of the event, there was no chaos, no violence. People danced, sang, and marched in peaceful solidarity. It was a powerful visual metaphor for a nation rediscovering its democratic voice—not with clenched fists, but with open arms and lifted spirits.
The following day, Golkar—the long-dominant political party closely associated with the Suharto regime—held its own rally. While the turnout was still significant, the mood was markedly different. Less celebratory, more subdued. This was perhaps a quiet reflection of the changing political tides. Friday, June 4, marked the official end of the campaign period, and with it, the last public expression of party support until the ballots would be cast.
But perhaps the most astonishing sight came not during the rallies themselves, but in the immediate aftermath. As the campaign period officially closed, party members and supporters took to the streets once more—not to continue rallying, but to clean up. They removed posters, swept the roads, and ensured that no trash from the previous days lingered. There was no trace of the typical post-campaign mess that we’ve sadly come to expect in the Philippines. The streets were spotless, as though the nation were preparing itself—physically and symbolically—for a fresh start.
That simple, civic-minded act struck me profoundly. It spoke volumes about a political culture grounded in respect, not just for institutions, but for the electoral process itself. It was the kind of quiet discipline that could only come from a people who had fought hard for this moment and were determined to honor it.
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