My Indonesian Elections Experience Essay Format

We Have a Lot to Learn from the Indonesian Elections

By Terence Mordeno Grana

June 18, 1999 — Observation Mission, Indonesia

Chapter 1: Introduction

Chapter 2: Arrival in Jakarta – A Nation on the Brink of Change

Chapter 3: Clean Campaign Culture – A Lesson in Civic Discipline

Chapter 4: Deployment to East Java – Immersion in Local Democracy

Chapter 5: Election Day – Order, Prayer, and Precision

Chapter 6: The Counting Ritual – Transparency in Every Tally

Chapter 7: A Warm Welcome – How Indonesians Embraced the Filipino Observers

Chapter 8: Reflections – The Value of Participatory Democracy

Chapter 9: The Role of Observers – Guardians of the Electoral Process

Chapter 10: The Indonesian Electoral System – A Study in Simplicity and Efficiency

Chapter 11: Lessons for the Philippines – What We Can Learn from Indonesia

Chapter 12: The Impact of Free Elections on a Nation's Development

Chapter 13: The Role of International Observers – A Vital Check on Fairness

Chapter 14: A Comparison of Campaign Styles – The Influence of Culture and History

Chapter 15: Election Day – A Test of Democracy’s Resilience

Chapter 16: The Vote Count – Transparency in Action

Chapter 17: Lessons in Civic Discipline and Clean Elections

(Chapter content to be added here. Already provided in earlier parts.)

Chapter 18: The Plywood Ballot Box – Simplicity with Integrity

Chapter 19: A Warm Welcome – The Filipino Observer Experience

Chapter 20: Reflections at the Airport – A Farewell Full of Meaning

Chapter 21: What We Bring Home – Lessons for the Philippines

Chapter 22: Building Bridges – Democracy as a Shared Experience

Chapter 23: The Role of Civil Society – Guardians of the Electoral Spirit

Chapter 24: Reflections in the Mirror – Democracy, Discipline, and the Filipino Identity

Chapter 25: A Personal Democracy – Lessons That Transcend Borders

WE HAVE A LOT TO LEARN FROM INDONESIAN ELECTIONS

Chapter 1: Introduction 

It was in the summer of 1999 when I found myself part of something truly historic—an international electoral observation mission in a neighboring country standing on the threshold of democratic renewal. Indonesia, the world’s fourth most populous nation and Southeast Asia’s largest democracy, was preparing for its first free general elections in over four decades. After years under Suharto’s authoritarian regime, the Indonesian people were finally reclaiming their right to vote. It was a moment pregnant with political possibility, not just for Indonesia, but for democratic advocates across the region.

The Philippines, having had its own democratic struggles and triumphs—most notably the People Power Revolution of 1986—was invited to witness this democratic reawakening. At the behest of Indonesian President B.J. Habibie, our government sent a 108-member delegation from the National Citizens’ Movement for Free Elections (NAMFREL). This was not merely an official gesture of regional solidarity. It was a heartfelt contribution of experience, empathy, and vigilance from one democracy to another. The delegation was headed by NAMFREL Chairman Jose Concepcion, with retired General Thelmo Cunanan as deputy chief of mission. I was one of the volunteers honored to be included.

For someone like me, whose professional life had been steeped in the intricacies of legislation and public policy in the Philippine House of Representatives, the opportunity to observe another nation’s electoral process up close was both humbling and illuminating. It meant stepping beyond the walls of the Batasan complex and into the heart of an unfolding democratic experiment. Though my expertise was legislative work, I understood that democracy did not end with the crafting of laws. It began—always—with the consent of the governed, expressed through the ballot.

This mission was a chance not just to observe, but to learn. It was also a chance to reflect: on what Indonesia was gaining, what we in the Philippines may have lost, and what we might still recover. And as I would soon discover, the lessons were many—and deeply resonant.

Chapter 2: Arrival in Jakarta – A Nation on the Brink of Change

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.

Chapter 3: Clean Campaign Culture – A Lesson in Civic Discipline

Of all the memories etched into my mind from that mission, the post-campaign cleanup in Jakarta remains one of the most vivid. It was more than just a cleanup—it was a gesture of responsibility, a ritual of renewal. As soon as the campaign period ended, supporters from various political parties moved in unison to strip away every banner, poster, and leaflet that had once shouted their political aspirations from walls, bridges, and lampposts. By nightfall, the city had returned to a semblance of normalcy, the streets as orderly as they had been before the rallies began.

This was not mandated by law or enforced by police patrols. It was, instead, a collective act of civic duty—an unspoken agreement among citizens that democracy did not end with campaigning. It carried a sense of decorum, of knowing when to speak and when to be silent, when to promote and when to reflect. The entire political community seemed to understand that elections were not just a time to persuade, but also a time to prepare the country, in spirit and in space, for the sanctity of the vote.

As a Filipino, I could not help but feel a pang of reflection—perhaps even regret. In the Philippines, our campaign seasons are notoriously loud, colorful, and, unfortunately, often wasteful. Streets remain plastered with posters and flyers long after election day. Political jingles continue to blare from roving vehicles, and public spaces are left in disarray, a chaotic aftermath that mirrors the often unruly tone of our politics. Rarely, if ever, do political supporters here take it upon themselves to clean up after their own campaigns.

What I witnessed in Jakarta was something that could—and should—be emulated. It was not about money, not about resources, but about mindset. About the kind of political maturity that sees the electoral process as a shared civic ritual, rather than a mere contest of popularity and power.

I saw teenagers scraping off campaign stickers, elderly men folding up banners, and women sweeping up paper confetti from the streets. These were not professional street sweepers; they were volunteers, loyal to their party but loyal even more to their nation. There was no sense of loss in their faces, only a quiet pride. Their part in the campaign was done. Now it was time for the voters to speak—and for democracy to work as it should.

This kind of campaign culture, rooted in discipline and dignity, held a mirror up to our own practices in the Philippines. It made me question why we tolerate so much disorder in our political life, and why we so easily accept that chaos is just part of democracy. The Indonesians had shown us otherwise. That order could exist in freedom. That respect could accompany passion. That cleaning up could be just as patriotic as campaigning.

And most importantly, they showed us that when the campaign ends, the real work of democracy begins.

Chapter 4: Deployment to East Java – Immersion in Local Democracy

Two days before the elections, our delegation was deployed to different regions across Indonesia. I was among the twenty-three volunteers assigned to East Java, one of the country’s most populous provinces and a key political battleground. From the capital, we boarded a domestic flight to Surabaya, the bustling heart of East Java. It was a smooth, hour-and-a-half journey—but it felt like entering another layer of Indonesia, one further from the political pageantry of Jakarta and closer to the pulse of the everyday voter.

From Surabaya, four of us—myself, a university dean, a businessman, and a priest—were sent even farther out to the small city of Jember. It was a quiet, modest city about four hours by land from Surabaya. The drive was smooth, the roads flanked by rice paddies, low hills, and the occasional glimpse of rural life: children playing by the roadside, old men chatting outside small roadside stalls, motorbikes weaving their way through local traffic with practiced ease. Here, far from the capital’s headlines, democracy felt quieter—but no less important.

Each of us had a specific assignment. I was tasked to observe twelve kecamatans, the Indonesian equivalent of municipalities or towns. It was a considerable area to cover, but I welcomed the challenge. After years of tracking legislation in the halls of the Philippine Congress, I found the idea of monitoring the frontlines of democracy both exciting and grounding.

Accompanying me was a local team composed of an Indonesian driver, an interpreter, and an election monitoring officer (EMO) from Forum Rektor, Indonesia’s local counterpart to NAMFREL. They were warm, professional, and as committed to the mission as we were. From them, I learned the intricate details of how their electoral process functioned, how preparations were handled at the grassroots level, and how community trust was being built—after decades of centralized control and political opacity.

We were issued advanced communications equipment, including a high-tech handy phone that allowed us to report in real time. This device became my lifeline to the rest of the delegation and served as a symbol of how seriously Indonesia and its partners took the process of electoral transparency.

Upon our arrival in Jember, we were courteously received by the city’s chief of police. In a gesture of hospitality and precaution, he offered us each two personal police escorts. While we appreciated the offer, we politely declined, each of us feeling secure enough in the prevailing environment of peace and cooperation. There was something reassuring about being among people who, though still finding their way back to democracy, radiated goodwill and sincerity.

My days in East Java allowed me to see Indonesia not as a distant neighbor, but as a fellow traveler on the road to democratic maturity. Each town I visited, each election official I spoke to, each local resident I greeted—added layers to my understanding. This wasn’t just about checking whether votes were being cast correctly. It was about witnessing how a nation, long held in the grip of authoritarianism, was now learning to breathe again—slowly, cautiously, but with hope.

Chapter 5: Election Day – Order, Prayer, and Precision

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.

Chapter 6: The Counting Ritual – Transparency in Every Tally

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.

Chapter 7: A Warm Welcome – How Indonesians Embraced the Filipino Observers

In any international observation mission, one always wonders how the host nation will receive foreign eyes watching over their most sacred civic exercise. Will they be suspicious? Guarded? Will they see observers as allies in democracy—or as outsiders, perhaps even intruders?

In Indonesia, the answer was immediate and unmistakable.

From the moment we arrived, the hospitality extended to the Filipino NAMFREL observers was both generous and genuine. While observers from other countries—Americans, Australians, Europeans, and Japanese—were all treated with professional courtesy, our delegation received something more: warmth.

It was evident in the way local officials smiled when they learned we were Filipinos. It was in the way they spoke to us, not with polite distance, but with a kind of cultural closeness—as if we shared a history, a spirit, a common struggle for freedom and democracy. In many ways, we did.

There were nods of recognition when we mentioned NAMFREL, our grassroots electoral watchdog. Indonesians knew of its role in restoring Philippine democracy after the Marcos dictatorship. They respected its legacy. More than once, local election officers and civic leaders told us they had drawn inspiration from our 1986 People Power movement and the citizen-led vigilance that surrounded it. It was deeply humbling.

At the local level, in the precincts and communities we visited, that warmth was even more palpable. Whether we were in city halls or rural polling stations, people greeted us with smiles, handshakes, and sometimes even embraces. Conversations would often slip into the personal—where we were from in the Philippines, how we felt about Indonesian food, what similarities we saw between our peoples.

It wasn’t just the cultural or geographic proximity. I believe it was something deeper: a shared journey. Both our countries had endured long periods under authoritarian rule. Both had struggled to rebuild democratic institutions. Both had relied on the quiet courage of citizens to protect the ballot.

One local teacher in Jember told me, “You Filipinos know what it’s like to fight for your voice. That’s why we listen when you speak about elections.” I had never thought of it that way before—but in that moment, I understood why we were welcomed so openly. We weren’t just observers. We were fellow witnesses of what democracy costs—and what it’s worth.

This connection went beyond formality. It affected how we did our work. Doors opened more easily. Conversations flowed more freely. People were not just cooperative—they were eager to share, to show us how far they had come, to ask questions about how we did things back home.

As an international observer, it is easy to feel like an outsider. But in Indonesia, we felt like family. That emotional bond allowed us to do more than just watch—we were able to listen, to empathize, to exchange lessons with sincerity and respect.

At the end of each day, as we returned to our temporary lodgings, I often found myself reflecting on this rare privilege. We had come as volunteers, as technical monitors of a foreign electoral process. But we were leaving with something more enduring—a sense of solidarity, of shared purpose, of Southeast Asian democracies walking together into a new century, hand in hand.