June 7, 1999. Election day in Indonesia.
From the moment the sun broke across the Jember skyline, I sensed something different in the air—an almost sacred stillness, as though the entire town had collectively paused to breathe before taking a momentous step forward. The streets were calm, almost reverent. Gone were the campaign caravans and loudspeakers. In their place stood orderly lines of voters, many of whom had arrived even before the polling stations opened.
Polling began precisely at 7:00 a.m. Not a minute early. Not a minute late. That detail stayed with me—it was emblematic of the discipline and solemnity with which the Indonesian people were approaching this historic election. Time, in this case, was more than logistics. It was principle.
Before the first ballot was even cast, each polling precinct opened with a 45-minute prayer. Forty-five minutes. That’s not a figure of speech—it was exactly that long. Led by the KPPS (Kelompok Penyelenggara Pemungutan Suara), Indonesia’s equivalent of our Board of Election Inspectors (BEIs), the prayer was earnest and communal. It asked for peace, order, and divine guidance. All party representatives, known locally as saksi, joined in the solemn ceremony. It was democracy, grounded in faith. The spiritual and the civic were intertwined in a way that felt both deeply cultural and remarkably disciplined.
Following the prayer, the KPPS members and the saksi took their oaths—a public pledge of impartiality and fairness. This wasn’t just a symbolic gesture; it was a formal commitment made before God and community. It reminded me of our own practices back in the Philippines, but with a tone of almost monastic reverence that I had rarely encountered at home.
Voter flow was tightly regulated. At any given time, only 25 voters were allowed inside each TPS (Tempat Pemungutan Suara, or polling place). Their names were called via bullhorn, and replacements were allowed entry only when others had finished casting their votes. Outside, the list of registered voters was prominently displayed for verification, making it easy for citizens to confirm their eligibility and reducing the chances of confusion or fraud.
The act of voting itself was fascinating in its simplicity. Each voter was handed a ballot and a six-inch nail—yes, a literal nail—which they used to punch a hole beside the symbol of the political party of their choice. It was a tactile and deliberate act, far removed from the impersonal scanning of barcodes or pressing of electronic keys. It felt more human, more participatory. When a vote was cast, it left a mark you could see and feel.
After voting, each person dipped their finger in a bottle of indelible ink—not just a dab on the cuticle, but a full dip. This, I was told with some pride, was an innovation borrowed from the Philippines. To hear that our electoral practices had contributed in some small way to Indonesia’s democratic rebirth filled me with quiet pride. Here was proof that despite our own imperfections, we still had something meaningful to offer.
Throughout the day, I visited polling places across the twelve assigned kecamatans, watching closely but silently, noting the consistency of procedures, the respectful conduct of voters, and the calm professionalism of the KPPS. The security presence was minimal. Military personnel remained in their barracks, as per policy, while local police maintained a discreet but steady watch at the polling places.
It was clear that the sanctity of the ballot was being honored, not just in form, but in spirit. Voters were not just participating—they were witnessing a national transformation, one vote at a time.
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