As the aircraft lifted off the runway in Jakarta and ascended into the clouds, I found myself looking out the window, pondering not just what I had observed but what I was bringing home. Beyond the detailed reports and formal observations we were expected to submit, there was something else—something less tangible but far more important: a collection of lessons that, if taken to heart, could help elevate the conduct of elections back in our own country.
First and foremost, I saw how discipline—civic discipline—can shape an entire democratic experience. The Indonesian people, despite their diverse ethnic and religious backgrounds and the historic volatility of their political landscape, displayed remarkable orderliness throughout the electoral process. There were no last-minute rushes to post campaign materials. The streets were cleaned up promptly after the campaign period ended. Polling precincts opened and operated with clockwork precision. It made me reflect on how, in the Philippines, the fervor of our democratic participation sometimes spills into disregard for order or respect for electoral rules.
This sense of discipline wasn’t just procedural—it was cultural. It came from an internal understanding that elections are sacred civic rituals, not just partisan contests. From the 45-minute opening prayer at each polling station to the quiet dignity of voters waiting for their turn, every moment was steeped in meaning. In our country, where elections are often marred by noise, spectacle, and unfortunately, violence or vote-buying, this was a sobering contrast.
Second, I was struck by the humility of their electoral officials and volunteers. In Indonesia, I met university deans, teachers, and community leaders serving as KPPS officers, working without fanfare or entitlement. They weren’t there for prestige or perks—they were there because they believed in the process. Their quiet sense of duty reminded me that the credibility of elections often rests not in complex technology or international certifications, but in the honesty and integrity of the people running it.
Third, and perhaps most inspiring, was the Indonesians’ collective belief that change was possible—that they were, in fact, participating in history. The long shadow of Suharto’s authoritarian regime had not broken their spirit. Instead, it had deepened their resolve. And this resolve was visible in the eyes of every first-time voter, every grandmother who walked for miles to cast her vote, every election officer who counted the ballots by hand. Democracy, to them, was not just a word—it was a promise.
This is where the real parallel with the Philippines comes into focus. We, too, have faced our share of political upheavals. We, too, have seen democracy bruised and battered. And yet, like the Indonesians, we remain a people of hope. What their example offers us is not a model to copy blindly, but a mirror in which we can examine our own practices.
We must ask: Why do we tolerate electoral impunity? Why do we normalize vote-buying and violence in some areas? Why is the spectacle of elections so often prioritized over its substance? These are difficult questions, but they must be asked if we are to evolve as a democratic society.
What I brought home, ultimately, was not just admiration for the Indonesian elections—it was a call to action. A call to instill greater civic responsibility, demand accountability, and model the kind of electoral conduct that reflects maturity and integrity. It was a challenge to both voters and officials to treat elections not merely as an event, but as a cornerstone of nation-building.
As we landed back in Manila, I felt a renewed sense of purpose. The trip to Indonesia had reminded me that the soul of democracy is not in the grandeur of political speeches or the size of crowds, but in the quiet commitment of ordinary citizens who believe that their voice matters.
And that, I knew, was something worth sharing with every Filipino.
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