By 2:00 in the afternoon, as scheduled, voting had ceased and the counting of ballots began. There was no delay, no waiting for special orders, no extension requests. The process moved with a rhythm that felt almost choreographed—streamlined, confident, and transparent.
The KPPS members, still in the same modest polling places where the ballots were cast, initiated the counting. This was not done in some distant government office, nor behind closed doors—it happened in full view of the public and the party representatives, the saksi, each of whom had a critical role to play. The transparency of the process was not just for show. It was practiced and enforced down to the last detail.
One by one, each ballot was held up for all to see. The KPPSchairman would read aloud the vote on the ballot, and then clearly show it to the observers, particularly the saksi, who were seated close enough to verify every single mark. There was no rush. Each vote was given due attention, each tally called out with care. Democracy, here, was deliberate.
The saksi recorded the votes themselves—by hand, with pen and paper. These were not passive onlookers but active watchdogs of the electoral process, keeping their own records and cross-checking with their counterparts. There were seven saksi present in most of the polling places I observed, each representing a different political party, all signing the final tally sheet once the counting was done. No signature meant no validation. It was a collective affirmation that the will of the people had been properly and faithfully recorded.
The ballots themselves were rudimentary—no watermarks or barcodes, just printed sheets with party symbols. The ballot boxes, too, were simple: made not of steel or heavy plastic, but of plain plywood. Yet despite their basic appearance, these boxes were massive and sturdy, difficult to tamper with or steal. In fact, their size and bulk were intentional. Their very design discouraged fraud. There was something refreshing about the humility of it all—no flashy technology, no need for expensive equipment, just a clear, honest process that everyone could see and understand.
Watching the count unfold, I was reminded of the very core of democracy. Not the grandeur of elections or the spectacle of campaigns, but the solemn dignity of people watching their choices come to life—literally, on paper, right before their eyes. In those quiet barangays and village halls, with no television cameras and no political operatives whispering in the background, democracy was alive and well.
It struck me then that trust in elections doesn’t come from complexity. It comes from clarity. From people being able to see what’s happening and understand it. From systems that are built not just for efficiency, but for confidence.
In every polling station I visited that afternoon, I saw Indonesians protecting their democracy with a calm, determined presence. There were no shouting matches, no walkouts, no disruptions. Just the methodical, faithful recording of their collective will.
As the sun dipped below the horizon and the final ballots were tallied, I stood quietly to one side and felt a wave of respect wash over me—not just for the process, but for the people. For their patience. For their order. For their resolve.
And I thought, once again: we have a lot to learn from them.
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