WE HAVE A LOT TO LEARN FROM INDONESIAN ELECTIONS

WE HAVE A LOT TO LEARN FROM INDONESIAN ELECTIONS

by Terence Mordeno Grana

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 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.

Chapter 8: Reflections – The Value of Participatory Democracy

As the election day drew to a close and the counting process began to wind down, I took a moment to reflect on everything I had witnessed. It was a unique privilege to observe a country like Indonesia in the midst of a pivotal transition—its first truly free election in 44 years. For a nation emerging from decades of authoritarian rule, this election was not just a political exercise, but a collective assertion of self-determination. It was, in every sense, a fresh start.

The Indonesian people had participated not only in the act of voting but in the larger story of reclaiming their democratic voice. This was democracy in its most raw, genuine form—not shaped by media campaigns or political machines, but by the everyday citizen who showed up to the polling places, stood in line, and cast their vote.

There were no overwhelming spectacles to distract from the core of what mattered. No grand promises. No celebrity candidates. It was simply an election. But there was something deeply profound about that simplicity. There was an undeniable beauty in the quiet, methodical process that we observed. Each voter was respected, and each vote was counted—meticulously, transparently, and fairly.

In many ways, Indonesia’s election was a mirror of the kind of democracy that we, too, had fought for in the Philippines. While our democratic history had been longer and more established, the struggle for true participatory democracy remained ongoing. The lessons we learned from Indonesia were humbling. They reminded us that democracy is not about grand gestures or political theater; it is about real, everyday participation. It is about citizens taking responsibility for their future and engaging in the process with respect for its integrity.

The idea of participatory democracy, where citizens actively engage in the political process—not just during elections, but in all aspects of civic life—was something I had always believed in. But seeing it in practice in Indonesia, so raw and unembellished, gave it new meaning. Here was a country that, despite its tumultuous past, had chosen to move forward, step by step, together.

Watching the Indonesian elections unfold before me also reminded me of how fragile democracy can be. No matter how successful an election may seem, it is only the beginning of a much larger, more complex journey. The real work begins after the votes are counted. It’s in how the elected officials govern. It’s in how the people continue to engage, to question, and to hold their leaders accountable.

I remember speaking with a local woman, a schoolteacher, who had voted for the first time that day. She told me, with a mixture of pride and nervous excitement, that her vote was her voice, her contribution to shaping the future of her country. She was determined, like many of her fellow citizens, to be a part of the process—not just as a passive observer but as an active participant in her nation’s political life.

Her words stayed with me. Democracy is not a spectator sport. It’s not something we can leave to others to manage for us. It’s something we must all take part in, whether by voting, advocating for change, or simply staying informed.

What struck me most was the realization that this election was just the beginning of Indonesia’s journey. The election itself, no matter how smoothly conducted, didn’t guarantee that everything would be perfect. But it was a step in the right direction. It was the beginning of a new era—one built on hope, on trust, and on the collective will of the people.

As I reflected on these thoughts, I also recalled the challenges my own country faced during its own transitions to democracy. We had endured periods of authoritarianism, corruption, and electoral fraud. But we, too, had made a commitment to progress. And like Indonesia, we had to rebuild our trust in the system and in each other.

In the end, the lesson was clear: democracy is a continuous journey. It requires constant effort, constant vigilance, and constant participation. It is not something that can be taken for granted, no matter how many years have passed since the last election. The Indonesian people had shown me that, through their commitment to free, fair, and transparent elections, they were willing to rebuild their democracy, step by step.

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

As I continued to observe the Indonesian election, I couldn’t help but reflect on the critical role that international election observers played in ensuring the integrity of the process. We, as observers, were not there to influence the outcome. We weren’t there to support one candidate or political party over another. Instead, our role was simple yet significant: to monitor the election and verify that it was free, fair, and transparent.

The presence of international observers helps to lend credibility to the election process. It acts as a safeguard against fraud, intimidation, and other forms of electoral malpractice. In Indonesia, it became clear that the authorities understood this—and they welcomed it. There was no attempt to conceal or manipulate the process in the presence of foreign observers. In fact, they actively sought to demonstrate their commitment to fairness, even when no one was looking.

This was a lesson in itself. Many countries, especially those with a history of political turmoil, often view foreign observers with suspicion. In some places, observers are treated with a certain amount of hostility, as though their mere presence undermines national sovereignty. But in Indonesia, there was a sense of pride in their newfound democracy, and that pride was reflected in their openness to scrutiny.

While it may seem that the act of observing an election is passive, the reality is that it requires vigilance and thoroughness. Every detail matters—from the conduct of the electoral officials to the treatment of voters to the handling of ballots. As we moved from one polling station to the next, it was essential to not only watch but also to ask questions, to engage with the local election staff, and to ensure that procedures were being followed.

In many ways, the observer’s role is akin to being a witness to a historical moment. We are there to document, to record, and to share what we have seen. It is a duty that is often taken for granted, but it is also a profound responsibility. By ensuring that elections are conducted with integrity, we are helping to safeguard democracy itself.

During the Indonesian election, I was particularly impressed by the manner in which the authorities cooperated with international observers. There was a shared understanding that the success of the election was not just a matter of national pride—it was about securing the legitimacy of the entire democratic process. By allowing observers to monitor the elections without restriction, the Indonesian government demonstrated confidence in their system and a desire to ensure that their democracy was taken seriously by the international community.

It’s important to recognize that the presence of observers does more than just provide oversight. It also offers an opportunity for knowledge exchange. While we were there to observe, we also had the chance to learn from the Indonesian process. We could see how they managed the logistics of the election, how they dealt with challenges on the ground, and how they engaged the public in a meaningful way. These lessons were invaluable, not just for us as individuals, but for our countries as well.

It’s also worth noting that the work of an election observer doesn’t end when the ballots are counted. We spent weeks following up on the post-election period, ensuring that all procedures were followed correctly and that the results were reported accurately. The final report of an observer mission serves as an essential document, providing a transparent record of the election’s conduct, and offering recommendations for future improvements.

By the end of the Indonesian election, I had gained a deeper appreciation for the role of international observers. It is a task that requires impartiality, integrity, and dedication. It is a role that upholds the very principles of democracy and ensures that elections are conducted with fairness and transparency.

In many ways, our work as observers is an extension of the work done by the citizens themselves. The people of Indonesia, just like the people of the Philippines, had shown up to protect their democracy. Our task was simply to help ensure that their efforts were not in vain, to safeguard the process, and to ensure that the voice of the people would be heard loud and clear.

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

One of the most striking aspects of the Indonesian election system was its simplicity. The process, while thorough and well-organized, lacked the complexity and bureaucracy that often bog down elections in other countries, including my own. The Indonesian electoral system was a study in how efficiency can be achieved through clear guidelines, simplicity, and a focus on the basics.

From the moment we arrived in Indonesia, it was clear that their system, though not without challenges, was designed with the intent of ensuring a smooth electoral process. The voting system itself was relatively straightforward: each voter was given a paper ballot with the logos of the political parties, and all they needed to do was mark an “X” next to the party they wished to vote for. The indelible ink was applied to ensure there was no possibility of double voting, and the ballots were placed in large transparent boxes, making it clear that the process was open and transparent.

The simplicity of the system also extended to the polling stations. While some countries, including the Philippines, have long and complex processes involving multiple types of ballots and electronic voting machines, the Indonesian system was much more basic. There were no electronic voting systems, no touch-screen panels or complicated machines. The ballots were paper, and the vote was counted by hand.

At first glance, one might think this would lead to inefficiencies or errors, but it was the opposite. The use of paper ballots allowed for a direct connection between the voter and the voting process. Each ballot was counted manually at the precinct level, and the results were posted publicly, ensuring transparency at every stage. The entire process was also incredibly fast—by early afternoon on election day, the ballots had already been counted and preliminary results began to emerge. In a world where many countries still struggle with delayed results, this was a remarkable achievement.

One of the most striking aspects of the Indonesian system was the role of the polling station committees, or KPPS. These local committees were composed of ordinary citizens who volunteered to oversee the election process. They were tasked with ensuring that the election was conducted fairly, that voters were registered, and that the ballots were counted accurately. These committees, often made up of people with little formal election training, demonstrated an incredible level of dedication and responsibility.

What made the system even more remarkable was the level of public participation. Indonesians took pride in the election process, not just as a civic duty, but as a way to shape the future of their country. This was not a passive act; it was a deeply engaged and involved experience. From the moment voters entered the polling station, they were treated with respect, and the process was designed to minimize any confusion or disruption.

Even the small details contributed to the overall efficiency of the system. For example, the strict control over campaign materials ensured that the day before the election was a peaceful one. Election posters and propaganda were all taken down as soon as the official campaign period ended. There was no clutter on the streets, no overwhelming signs plastered on every available surface. This allowed the focus to remain on the importance of the election itself, rather than being distracted by last-minute campaigning.

The Indonesians also exhibited remarkable discipline when it came to election-day behavior. Voters queued patiently outside the polling stations, and there was no sign of impatience or disorder. In the Philippines, where long lines and chaos often characterize election day, this calm and orderly conduct was an eye-opener. It reflected the high level of civic pride and respect for the process that the Indonesians had cultivated in their transition to democracy.

Perhaps the most impressive element of the Indonesian electoral system was its transparency. In contrast to many other elections around the world, where fraud and manipulation are common, the Indonesian election was marked by an unwavering commitment to transparency at every level. This was evident in the presence of international observers like us, as well as the clear and open methods of vote counting. Each stage of the process—from the casting of the ballot to the tallying of votes—was done in the open, with party representatives (saksi) and observers present to ensure fairness.

The simple yet effective approach to Indonesia’s electoral system was a testament to the country’s commitment to making their democracy work. It was a lesson for all of us—sometimes, the most effective systems are not the most complex ones. By focusing on transparency, simplicity, and public participation, Indonesia was able to conduct an election that was not only free and fair, but also one that the people could genuinely trust.

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

As a Filipino observer witnessing the Indonesian elections, I couldn’t help but draw comparisons between the election systems of our two countries. Despite the differences in our histories, cultures, and political landscapes, there were valuable lessons to be learned from the Indonesians’ approach to democracy—lessons that could help improve the electoral process in the Philippines.

One of the most significant takeaways was the simplicity and transparency of the Indonesian electoral system. In the Philippines, elections are often marred by complications—complicated ballot designs, malfunctioning voting machines, long queues, and often, a general lack of transparency. In contrast, Indonesia’s system, while not without its challenges, was remarkably straightforward. Voters simply marked a symbol on the ballot and placed it in a transparent box. The votes were counted by hand and publicly posted in each polling station. There was no room for ambiguity, and every part of the process was visible to the public and monitored by party representatives and international observers.

This transparency should be a model for us. Too often in the Philippines, the results of elections are shrouded in mystery, with accusations of fraud, vote buying, and manipulation running rampant. If we adopted the same level of openness seen in Indonesia—public posting of results at every stage, transparency in vote counting, and openness to international observers—we could begin to rebuild trust in our electoral system.

Another key lesson from Indonesia was the discipline and respect that voters exhibited on election day. In the Philippines, election day is often marked by long lines, confusion, and occasional violence. Yet, in Indonesia, voters waited calmly and patiently, showing a deep respect for the process. The voting experience was orderly and peaceful, with no reports of violence or disruptions at polling stations. This level of civic maturity and engagement is something we need to cultivate in our own citizens.

The Indonesian example also highlighted the importance of clean campaigning. In the days leading up to the election, I noticed that once the official campaign period ended, all political advertisements, posters, and banners were immediately removed from public spaces. There was no clutter, no leftover campaign materials hanging around. The streets were clean and free from the usual eyesores of political advertisements that linger long after the campaign ends in the Philippines. The immediate cleanup not only reflected the discipline of the Indonesians but also allowed the focus to remain on the importance of voting, not the spectacle of electioneering.

The simple act of removing campaign materials immediately after the official campaigning period ended may seem like a small detail, but it speaks volumes about the level of civic responsibility exhibited by the Indonesian public and the political parties involved. It is a lesson we could apply in the Philippines, where the streets are often littered with posters and streamers long after the election is over, contributing to a sense of disorder and wastefulness.

Perhaps the most important lesson, however, is one that speaks directly to the heart of democracy itself: the role of the citizen. In Indonesia, I witnessed ordinary people—teachers, farmers, students—taking the time to vote, to ensure that their voices were heard. Voting was not seen as a mere obligation but as an opportunity to shape the future of their country. This sense of civic duty is something we must strive to cultivate in the Philippines, where voter apathy and low turnout rates remain persistent problems.

Indonesia’s commitment to democracy, as evidenced by their first free election in over four decades, shows the power of ordinary citizens coming together to decide their future. It is a reminder that democracy is not a passive state; it is a dynamic, living system that requires the active engagement of all its members. As Filipinos, we should embrace this ideal, recognizing that our votes do not just affect us as individuals but shape the future of our entire nation.

Lastly, the Indonesian election demonstrated that democracy, while messy and imperfect, is something worth fighting for. Indonesia has had its own struggles—economic crises, political instability, and authoritarianism—yet it has emerged from these challenges with a renewed sense of hope and determination. The Indonesian people have shown that no matter how difficult the journey, democracy is worth the effort.

In the Philippines, we too have faced our own share of struggles. But the lesson from Indonesia is clear: the road to a better democracy is long and difficult, but it is a road we must walk if we are to build a more just and equitable society. By learning from Indonesia’s example, we can begin to address the flaws in our own electoral system and move toward a future where every Filipino’s vote is respected, counted, and valued.

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

The 1999 Indonesian general elections were a defining moment for the country, but their significance extended beyond the immediate results. The elections were not just about choosing leaders—they were about Indonesia’s transition from an authoritarian regime to a functioning democracy. This transformation had profound implications not just for Indonesia’s political system, but for its social and economic development as well.

As observers, we were not only witnessing the procedural aspects of the election; we were witnessing a nation on the cusp of a new chapter in its history. After decades of military dictatorship under President Suharto, Indonesia was making a monumental shift toward greater political freedom and participatory governance. The elections symbolized the collective desire of the Indonesian people for a better future—one where they had a say in how their country was run.

This shift had already begun to manifest in the months leading up to the election. The excitement and anticipation surrounding the election were palpable. Citizens, especially the younger generation, were eager to take part in shaping their nation’s future. It was clear that, despite the challenges of the past, there was a sense of optimism and pride in Indonesia’s future.

The elections themselves were a moment of empowerment for the people. In a country where the previous political environment had been characterized by restrictions on free expression, the ability to freely choose leaders was an achievement in itself. It gave ordinary Indonesians a sense of ownership over their country’s future, an opportunity to voice their concerns and hopes, and to choose a path that aligned with their values and aspirations.

But beyond the immediate political implications, free elections have the power to shape a nation’s development in more subtle but no less important ways. Free and fair elections are the cornerstone of democratic governance, and they create the conditions for good governance. When citizens believe that their votes count, they are more likely to hold their leaders accountable, to demand better policies, and to engage in the civic life of their country. This fosters a culture of accountability and transparency, which, over time, leads to better decision-making, stronger institutions, and ultimately, sustainable development.

For Indonesia, the 1999 elections were a step toward rebuilding the trust between the government and the people. The trust that had been eroded under decades of authoritarian rule could only be rebuilt through a process of engagement and transparency—qualities that the election demonstrated in abundance. The presence of international observers, the use of transparent vote-counting procedures, and the active participation of the public all contributed to a sense that the elections were fair and credible. This, in turn, strengthened the legitimacy of the elected government and increased its capacity to govern effectively.

For the Philippines, there are lessons to be learned in how elections can be used as a tool for strengthening democratic institutions. While we often focus on the immediate results of elections—who won and who lost—it is important to understand that elections are also a long-term investment in a country’s democratic health. By ensuring that elections are free and fair, and by engaging citizens in the process, we help lay the foundation for more effective governance and more meaningful participation in the future.

In Indonesia, the impact of free elections has been evident in the years following the 1999 polls. The country has continued to evolve politically, socially, and economically. It has faced challenges, to be sure, but the fact that these challenges are now addressed within a democratic framework speaks volumes about the resilience of Indonesia’s democratic transition. The lessons from Indonesia’s experience are important for us in the Philippines, where we, too, continue to struggle with political challenges, social inequality, and governance issues.

It is important to recognize that elections alone do not guarantee progress, but they are an essential part of the process. Elections are the means by which people can shape their own future, by which they can demand better policies, better leadership, and better governance. In this sense, the Indonesian elections of 1999 were more than just a political event—they were a pivotal moment in the country’s journey toward sustainable and inclusive development.

As I reflect on the experience of observing the Indonesian election, I am reminded that democracy is not a destination, but a journey. It requires constant effort, vigilance, and commitment from both the leaders and the citizens. The progress that Indonesia has made since that historic election is a testament to the power of democracy to drive social and economic change. It is a reminder that, no matter how difficult the road may seem, the pursuit of a more just, equitable, and democratic society is always worth the effort.

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

As part of the NAMFREL delegation, one of the most important roles I played during the Indonesian elections was that of an international observer. Observing the electoral process from an external perspective not only allowed me to witness firsthand the conduct of the election but also gave me a deeper appreciation for the importance of international monitoring in ensuring the fairness and credibility of elections.

International observers play a vital role in providing an impartial and transparent review of the electoral process. Their presence serves as a safeguard against potential irregularities, ensuring that the elections are free from manipulation, fraud, and any undue influence. In Indonesia’s case, the presence of international observers was especially critical given the country’s recent history of authoritarian rule and its ongoing transition to a democratic system.

One of the most impressive aspects of the Indonesian election process was the willingness of the government and election officials to allow international observers to freely observe all aspects of the election. As a NAMFREL volunteer, I was given access to various polling stations, where I was able to monitor the conduct of the election firsthand. We were allowed to speak freely with voters, election workers, and local officials, ensuring that the process was transparent and that any issues could be raised immediately.

Indonesia’s openness to international observers demonstrated a level of commitment to transparency and fairness that was commendable. In many countries, especially those with less robust democratic systems, the presence of international observers can sometimes be met with resistance or suspicion. However, in Indonesia, the government recognized the value of external oversight in building trust in the electoral process. By allowing international observers to monitor the election, the Indonesian authorities signaled their willingness to be held accountable and to ensure that the elections were conducted in accordance with international standards.

As an observer, I was particularly struck by the sense of professionalism displayed by the Indonesian election officials. They were clearly well-prepared, having undergone thorough training to ensure the smooth conduct of the elections. From the very beginning, it was clear that the election officials were dedicated to the success of the process, and their attention to detail was evident in every aspect of the election. From the accurate voter lists to the secure handling of ballots, the entire process was designed with a focus on fairness and integrity.

The role of international observers is not just about identifying potential problems; it is also about providing reassurance to the public that the election process is being conducted properly. The presence of international observers sends a powerful message to voters that their votes will be counted fairly and that their voices will be heard. It helps to build confidence in the electoral system, ensuring that citizens feel secure in the knowledge that the election will be free from fraud or manipulation.

In the Philippines, where elections are often marred by accusations of fraud and voter manipulation, the presence of international observers could help address some of the public’s concerns. By having external parties monitor the election process, we could ensure that the elections are held in a transparent and impartial manner, and that any attempts at rigging or cheating are exposed and addressed. This would go a long way in restoring public trust in the electoral system and in strengthening the legitimacy of the results.

One of the most interesting aspects of observing the Indonesian elections was the way in which the international observers interacted with the local election officials. We were not just passive bystanders; we were engaged in an open dialogue with local authorities about the conduct of the election. If we noticed any potential irregularities, we were able to raise them immediately with the election officials, who were receptive to our feedback and suggestions. This collaborative approach helped ensure that any issues that arose were addressed promptly, allowing the election to proceed smoothly.

In Indonesia, the collaboration between local authorities and international observers demonstrated the power of transparency in fostering an election process that was both fair and credible. This mutual respect and cooperation were crucial in ensuring that the elections were seen as legitimate by the public. It was a process that emphasized the importance of both local ownership and international oversight in maintaining the integrity of the electoral process.

In the end, the role of international observers is not just about ensuring fairness on the day of the election; it is about reinforcing the foundations of democracy. By supporting the credibility of the election process, international observers help to build a stronger, more resilient democracy, where citizens can trust that their votes matter and that their leaders are chosen fairly.

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

One of the most interesting aspects of observing the Indonesian elections was the stark contrast in campaign styles between the political parties and candidates. As someone who had been immersed in the Filipino electoral landscape, I couldn’t help but compare the methods and strategies used by Indonesian political parties to those that have become familiar in the Philippines. The differences were not only a reflection of the unique political environments of each country, but also an indication of how deeply culture and history shape the way elections are conducted.

In Indonesia, the election campaigns were marked by a noticeable level of discipline, respect, and orderliness that stood in stark contrast to the often chaotic and colorful campaigns in the Philippines. Indonesian political rallies, while spirited and enthusiastic, were much more focused and restrained. There were no massive caravans of vehicles blaring loud music or extravagant street parties. Instead, rallies were smaller, more focused events where candidates and their supporters engaged in conversations and discussions about policy rather than engaging in spectacle or pageantry.

One of the most striking things I observed was the overall cleanliness and organization of campaign events. As I mentioned earlier, once the campaign period ended, all traces of political advertisements and materials were immediately removed from public spaces. In the Philippines, this is often not the case. Election-related posters, tarpaulins, and billboards continue to clutter streets and public spaces long after the campaign period has ended, often leaving a trail of garbage and disorganization in their wake. The Indonesian commitment to cleaning up after the campaign period was a small but powerful gesture that reflected a higher level of civic responsibility and respect for public spaces.

Moreover, the Indonesian elections were characterized by a certain level of political maturity that was reflected in the way the candidates presented themselves and interacted with their constituents. There were no mudslinging attacks or personal insults between candidates—something that is all too common in Philippine elections. Instead, candidates focused on policy discussions, with a clear emphasis on their vision for Indonesia’s future. Even in the heat of campaigning, the tone remained largely respectful, with candidates appealing to voters based on their qualifications and policies rather than on personal attacks.

This focus on policy over personality was a welcome change from the often personality-driven campaigns in the Philippines. In our country, elections are frequently about the candidates’ public personas rather than their actual platforms. Candidates with the most money, name recognition, and media presence often dominate the race, regardless of their qualifications or positions on important issues. In contrast, the Indonesian campaign style placed more importance on the candidates’ policy positions and their ability to deliver a vision for the future.

Another key difference was the level of voter engagement and participation in the campaign process. In Indonesia, political parties and candidates made a clear effort to engage with the people on a personal level. The rallies and events were not just about candidates speaking to a crowd, but about fostering a two-way dialogue between the leaders and the people. Candidates took the time to listen to the concerns of their constituents and to address their issues directly. This made the campaign feel less like a spectacle and more like a genuine effort to understand and address the needs of the people.

In the Philippines, voter engagement can sometimes be more transactional. While there are certainly instances of candidates engaging with the public on a personal level, the overall tone of campaigns is often focused on “giving away” or “handing out” favors in exchange for votes. This dynamic contributes to the culture of patronage politics in our country, where votes are sometimes bought with promises of material rewards rather than with meaningful policy proposals.

The difference in campaign styles also reflected the differing political environments in both countries. In Indonesia, the transition from authoritarian rule to democracy created an environment in which parties and candidates had to prove their commitment to democratic principles, good governance, and the rule of law. As a result, the focus was on creating a sense of political maturity and professionalism that could appeal to a public eager for a change from the past.

In the Philippines, the political environment is shaped by a long history of democratic practices, but also by the continuing challenges of corruption, inequality, and political dynasties. The electoral process in the Philippines often feels more like a contest for power than a contest of ideas, with many candidates focusing on personal appeal and name recognition rather than on policy platforms or governance.

While the differences between the two countries’ election campaigns are stark, there are lessons to be learned from Indonesia’s approach. By emphasizing discipline, focus on policy, and genuine engagement with voters, the Indonesian political system has set a standard that the Philippines can aspire to. There is no reason why we cannot adopt some of these practices in our own electoral processes. The key lies in shifting the focus from spectacle to substance, and from personality to policy.

It is also worth noting that while the Indonesian campaigns were generally more disciplined and orderly, they were not without their flaws. Like any country, Indonesia faces its own challenges in terms of political engagement, corruption, and social inequality. However, the willingness to engage in a respectful, focused, and substantive election process is something that we can all learn from. It is a reminder that the true purpose of elections is not simply to win votes, but to foster a healthy and functional democracy where the interests of the people are placed at the forefront.

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

Election day in Indonesia, June 7, 1999, was a momentous occasion not only for the country but also for me as a volunteer observer. As a member of the National Citizens’ Movement for Free Elections (NAMFREL), I was part of a team that was deeply involved in monitoring the election process, ensuring its integrity, and observing how the Indonesian people participated in this historic event. Having witnessed numerous elections in the Philippines, I expected the day to be filled with challenges, and while there were certainly obstacles, it was also a testament to the resilience of democracy.

The day began early. Our team had been deployed to various locations across East Java, and I found myself in Jember, a small city a few hours away from Surabaya, the capital of the province. Our task was clear: monitor the polling stations, verify that the procedures were followed correctly, and report any irregularities or problems we observed. Despite the relatively calm atmosphere, there was an underlying sense of anticipation, as the election would determine not only the next leaders of Indonesia but also the future direction of the country.

The early morning was peaceful, and the electoral process began promptly at seven in the morning, as scheduled. The fact that everything started exactly on time stood in stark contrast to the often delayed openings of polling stations in the Philippines. The election officials were well-prepared and organized, and there was no sign of disorganization or confusion. The polling stations were set up efficiently, with separate areas for voters to cast their ballots, and clear signs indicating where to go and how to proceed.

One of the most striking aspects of the Indonesian election was the sense of discipline and respect that permeated the day. Voters queued up in an orderly fashion outside the polling stations, waiting their turn to cast their ballots. The atmosphere was calm and respectful, with no signs of impatience or tension. This was a stark contrast to the sometimes chaotic and tense scenes that unfold in the Philippines during elections, where long lines, overcrowded polling stations, and occasional violence can mar the process.

I was particularly impressed by the security measures in place. While there were military personnel stationed at various points, they remained inside their barracks during voting, and the role of maintaining order was left to the police. The police presence was unobtrusive yet visible, ensuring that voters felt safe without being intimidating. It was clear that the authorities were committed to ensuring that the election process remained peaceful, and their efforts paid off as the day proceeded without any major incidents.

Another aspect of the Indonesian election process that stood out was the smooth handling of the voting procedure. Voters were allowed to cast their ballots one at a time, and the process was done efficiently to avoid long waits. There were strict protocols in place to ensure that only registered voters could vote, and each person’s name was checked against the electoral roll before they were allowed inside the polling stations. Once inside, voters had to confirm their identity and then cast their vote using a unique ballot system. The use of indelible ink to mark the voters’ fingers was a measure to ensure that no one could vote more than once, a common challenge in many elections around the world.

The indelible ink used in Indonesia was a measure that was introduced to prevent voter fraud, and it was something that I, as a Filipino observer, was particularly familiar with. The Philippines had used indelible ink in its elections for many years, and it was encouraging to see that Indonesia had adopted this system as well. The ink was applied to the finger of each voter after they cast their ballot, a simple but effective safeguard against double voting.

While the voting process was smooth, there were some challenges that we observed. For one, there were occasional glitches with the voting machines in certain areas. In some polling stations, the ballot boxes were temporarily full, causing a slight delay in the voting process. However, these issues were addressed promptly by the election officials, who acted quickly to resolve the problems and ensure that voters were able to cast their ballots without undue delay. These moments of disruption were minor in the grand scheme of things, but they highlighted the importance of preparedness and flexibility in ensuring the smooth conduct of elections.

As the day wore on, the excitement and anticipation in the air grew. The sense of unity among the Indonesian people was palpable. It was clear that this election represented much more than just a political contest—it was a chance for the Indonesian people to prove that they had overcome decades of dictatorship and were now ready to embrace democracy. There was a shared understanding that this election would set the tone for the future of the country, and the stakes were high.

The election day experience in Indonesia was a reminder of the resilience of democracy, even in the face of challenges. The Indonesian people, despite their relatively recent transition to democracy, showed a remarkable level of commitment to the electoral process. From the disciplined behavior of the voters to the efficient handling of the election process by the officials, it was clear that the country was well on its way to building a robust democratic system.

For me, as an observer, it was a day of reflection. I couldn’t help but compare the Indonesian election process to that of the Philippines, where election day is often marred by delays, logistical problems, and, in some cases, violence. The Indonesian experience showed that a country can hold free and fair elections without the chaos that often accompanies elections in our own country. It was a reminder that elections should not just be about voting; they should be about creating a peaceful, orderly, and transparent process that reflects the will of the people.

As the day drew to a close and the polls began to close, there was a collective sense of relief and pride. The Indonesian people had participated in a democratic process that was, by all accounts, a resounding success. The election may have been a new experience for many Indonesians, but it was a testament to the country’s commitment to democracy and its determination to build a future rooted in freedom and fairness.

Chapter 16: The Vote Count – Transparency in Action

As soon as the polling centers in Indonesia closed at 2:00 PM, the focus shifted swiftly and seamlessly to the next critical phase: the counting of votes. Unlike in some parts of the world where the canvassing process is delayed or done behind closed doors, in the polling precincts I observed in Jember, East Java, the vote counting began on-site and immediately—openly, publicly, and in full view of both party watchers and ordinary citizens.

This level of transparency was one of the most inspiring aspects of the Indonesian electoral process. In every polling station I visited, the Komite Pemilihan Pemungutan Suara (KPPS), or the local Board of Election Inspectors, prepared for the count with an almost ceremonial seriousness. Before any ballots were touched, they conducted a brief but solemn prayer—an earnest invocation for peace, fairness, and truthfulness to prevail. This simple act of collective supplication, reminiscent of the Indonesian people’s deep spiritual grounding, set the tone for what was to follow.

The ballots were then unsealed in full view of everyone present. Each vote was read aloud by the KPPS and held up for verification. A row of party representatives, known as saksi, closely observed every move. They took down the results individually, each one maintaining their own independent record. There were no loud objections, no attempts to disrupt the process, and certainly no hint of intimidation. The saksi sat in patient scrutiny, ready to challenge any perceived irregularity, but they did so with a quiet dignity and restraint that was both commendable and rare in my own experiences back home.

The process was slow and methodical—but that was its strength. The KPPS and the saksi ensured that every vote was properly recorded and verified. The Indonesian ballots were unique in that they used symbols for each political party rather than just names, and the voter would use a six-inch nail to punch a hole through the symbol of their chosen party. While initially this seemed crude, it proved to be surprisingly effective, especially in ensuring clarity and minimizing error. There was little room for misinterpretation, as the puncture made by the voter was a definitive mark.

When comparing this to the Philippine method of voting at that time, I was struck by how simple yet sensible the Indonesian approach was. Our ballots in the Philippines had long been criticized for being prone to ambiguity, overvotes, and even manipulation. Here in Indonesia, despite using basic materials—ballot boxes made of ordinary plywood, handwritten tally sheets, and minimal technology—the system worked because it was anchored on trust and public verification.

Another detail that impressed me was the finality of the count. After the tallying of votes, all results were documented in multiple copies, and each of the seven party saksi had to sign off on the final election return. It wasn’t just the electoral officials who took accountability—it was the parties themselves. This collective affirmation of the results, on the spot and in public, reduced room for disputes later on.

While watching the vote count unfold, I could feel a deep respect for the process welling within me. It was democracy practiced not just in form, but in spirit. Every step was observed, every procedure followed, and every vote respected. The absence of sophisticated election technology did not diminish the credibility of the process—in fact, it enhanced it. The people could see for themselves how the election unfolded, how their votes were counted, and who won or lost in their communities.

It was also heartening to note how citizens lingered after voting, choosing to witness the counting process. This active civic participation showed a growing political maturity, a sense that democracy is not just about casting a ballot but about staying vigilant throughout the process.

As a Filipino who has witnessed elections that sometimes end in violence, chaos, or controversy, I was deeply moved. Transparency and simplicity, I realized, are the keys to trust in the electoral process. The Indonesians had embraced these principles with admirable discipline and grace.

This chapter in their history, this day of reckoning for democracy, was not just an administrative event—it was a communal celebration of political empowerment. And for us, as Filipino observers, it served as a lesson: that democracy need not be loud to be legitimate, nor complex to be credible. Sometimes, the best systems are the ones that rely not on machines or money, but on people—committed, honest, and united in purpose.

Chapter 17: Lessons in Civic Discipline and Clean Elections

As we wrapped up our observation of Indonesia’s 1999 general elections, one particular lesson stood out—not from the voting procedure or the mechanics of the ballot, but from the culture of civic discipline that surrounded the entire process. It was something deeply humbling and enlightening to witness: the Indonesian people’s quiet but firm commitment to a clean, peaceful, and respectful exercise of democratic rights.

The campaign period had ended just days before the election, but what struck me most was the immediate transformation of the streets and public spaces. The morning after the final day of campaigning, not a single party streamer fluttered from lamp posts, no litter of leaflets scattered on sidewalks, no remnants of what had been an intense political rally the day before. It was as if the entire nation had collectively decided to cleanse itself of political debris to prepare for a solemn democratic exercise. And they did so without needing prodding from authorities. The party members themselves took responsibility for cleaning up—removing posters, sweeping streets, restoring the city’s order.

Coming from a country like the Philippines, where campaign materials often remain long after elections have passed—cluttering walls, bridges, and even trees—this was, for me, a powerful visual of political maturity. Civic order was not enforced from above; it was internalized from within. Indonesians understood the importance of respecting the law and the sanctity of the electoral process. Even at the grassroots level, volunteers and party supporters knew when to switch from rallying to respecting the quiet dignity of the vote.

This spirit of discipline extended even to the conduct of political rallies. I recall with amazement the day we landed in Jakarta and witnessed a massive rally of the PDI-Perjuangan, the party of Megawati Sukarnoputri. The sea of red-clad supporters, singing and dancing in the streets, brought back memories of our own EDSA People Power movement—joyful, proud, and deeply participatory. But unlike the sometimes rowdy rallies we experience in the Philippines, theirs was a demonstration of solidarity and enthusiasm tempered by discipline. No violence, no vandalism, no confrontations. The city may have been filled with people, but it was not overrun by chaos.

Even the administration party, Golkar, held its rally the following day with a similar air of restraint and structure. Friday, the final day of the campaign period, ended without incident—and without any need for last-minute threats or penalties. The rules were clear, and they were observed. That clarity, coupled with discipline, turned what could have been disorder into an orderly transition from campaign to election day.

This commitment to electoral cleanliness did not end in the streets. It continued in the polling places. Voters arrived in an orderly manner, observed queues, and quietly awaited their turn. Election officers followed procedures meticulously, and party representatives maintained respectful conduct throughout. The absence of heckling, intimidation, or disorder was not the result of heavy policing—it was the fruit of a shared civic understanding that the election was not about personalities alone, but about process and principle.

What I witnessed was more than a democratic exercise. It was a reflection of a political culture that was reforming itself—moving away from authoritarianism not just by changing leaders, but by changing attitudes. And perhaps that is the greatest lesson we can learn from the Indonesians: democracy must be lived not just through institutions but through the daily habits of its citizens.

Back in the Philippines, many of our election-related problems—vote buying, harassment, political violence, and even apathy—stem not from a lack of laws but from a lack of civic discipline. We have electoral reforms on paper, but we struggle to implement them because we haven’t fully embraced the values that give life to democracy: honesty, accountability, and respect.

Indonesia, despite its political upheavals and economic challenges, showed the world—and showed me personally—that even a young democracy can set an example. By putting the common good above partisan advantage, by showing courtesy in competition, and by valuing the integrity of the vote over the ambitions of candidates, Indonesians reminded us that the real strength of a democratic society lies in its people.

That lesson, above all, remains with me today. It’s not just a lesson about elections—it’s a lesson about nationhood.

Chapter 18: The Plywood Ballot Box – Simplicity with Integrity

One of the more curious yet memorable details of Indonesia’s 1999 elections was the ballot box itself. In the precincts where I observed, these weren’t made of reinforced steel, tamper-proof plastics, or high-security aluminum. Instead, they were made of ordinary plywood—plain, square, and painted white. At first glance, they seemed almost too simple, even vulnerable. But what struck me was not their material—it was the symbolic weight they carried, and the trust that the Indonesian people placed in them.

In the Philippines, we often pride ourselves on the “security features” of our electoral paraphernalia: padlocks, serial numbers, carbonized paper trails, even biometric systems. But these layers of protection, while useful, can sometimes feel like armor to guard against the very people they are meant to serve. In contrast, the Indonesians seemed to understand something deeper: that the credibility of an election lies not in the thickness of the box, but in the transparency of the process and the honesty of the people running it.

The plywood boxes were massive—large enough that snatching them or stuffing them surreptitiously was simply impractical. But beyond their size, it was the public nature of the voting and the counting that protected the integrity of the ballots. Everyone could see the boxes; everyone could see them opened, sealed, and emptied during the tally. There was no hidden room, no opaque process. Everything was done in full view.

And that, I realized, is the best safeguard of all: openness.

It reminded me of how sometimes, in our zeal to modernize or secure the electoral process, we might lose sight of the most basic element—trust. A ballot box can be made of titanium, but if the people don’t believe in the system, if they fear manipulation or doubt the neutrality of the officials, no amount of hardware can redeem the process.

In Indonesia, that belief seemed to be growing. After decades of authoritarian rule and suppressed democracy, the people were reclaiming ownership of their electoral process, and they were doing so with remarkable composure. The use of simple, accessible, and even handmade tools symbolized a deeper truth: democracy doesn’t have to be expensive, complicated, or outsourced to high-tech vendors. It just has to be honest.

The image of the humble plywood ballot box stayed with me long after I left Jember. It wasn’t just an object—it was a metaphor for everything the 1999 Indonesian elections represented. It was about rebuilding trust from the ground up, using what was available, and focusing not on appearances but on substance.

If I could bring home one enduring lesson to the Philippines, it would be this: we don’t need to wait for the perfect tools to run honest elections. What we need is the political will, the civic discipline, and the cultural shift that places people’s voices above political gamesmanship. We need to trust the process—but even more, we need to be worthy of that trust ourselves.

In that simple ballot box made of plywood, the Indonesians held not just their votes, but their hopes, their courage, and their future.

Chapter 19: A Warm Welcome – The Filipino Observer Experience

Among the many eye-opening moments I experienced during my time as an international election observer in Indonesia, one memory stands out not for its procedural importance but for its emotional and cultural significance—the way we, the Filipino NAMFREL delegation, were received by the Indonesian people.

In any international mission, you expect professionalism, a degree of diplomacy, and perhaps a bit of detachment. But what we encountered in Indonesia was more than that. We were not just welcomed—we were embraced. There was a warmth and sincerity in how local officials, volunteers, and ordinary citizens received us that, frankly, went beyond the usual courtesies extended to foreign observers. It felt personal.

I remember arriving in Jember and being greeted by local organizers and election officers who treated us as partners, not mere guests. They introduced us with pride, ensured our comfort, and involved us in their daily routine—not out of obligation, but out of genuine hospitality. We were given access, but more than that, we were given trust.

Among the various international observer groups—Americans, Australians, Japanese, Europeans—it was the Filipino team that seemed to garner the most affection. There was a kinship between Indonesians and Filipinos that defied language and protocol. Perhaps it was our shared colonial history, our common Southeast Asian heritage, or our collective struggles for democracy. Whatever it was, it made our presence more than symbolic—it made it meaningful.

Local counterparts from Forum Rektor, the Indonesian version of NAMFREL, worked with us side by side. They didn’t just guide us; they listened to us, asked about our own experiences in the Philippines, and even shared stories about how the People Power Revolution inspired them. It was incredibly moving to know that our country’s democratic journey had left a mark beyond our borders. The admiration they expressed wasn’t just for our systems, but for our spirit—for the way ordinary Filipinos stood up to dictatorship and reclaimed democracy with their bare hands and unshakable will.

We also felt that respect reflected in the way people responded to our presence in the polling stations. Voters would nod or smile when introduced to us. Election officials went out of their way to show us each step of the process, explain every form, answer every question. And this wasn’t done out of fear of judgment—it was done with pride, as if to say, “Look at what we are building. Come and see.”

That human connection made the experience more than an academic observation. It became a cultural exchange, an affirmation of solidarity between two nations navigating their own paths to political maturity. And in those moments, I felt the true purpose of international observation—not merely to certify fairness, but to bear witness, to learn, and to grow together.

As we concluded our mission and prepared to return home, I carried with me not just notes and reports, but also stories, friendships, and a renewed sense of hope. The Indonesians had opened their doors to us, but more importantly, they opened their hearts. And for that, I remain deeply grateful.

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

As our mission came to a close, and the final leg of our observer duties wrapped up in the various precincts across East Java, there was a palpable sense of fulfillment among the members of the Philippine delegation. The day of our departure came swiftly. We found ourselves once again at the Sukarno-Hatta International Airport in Jakarta—this time not arriving with anticipation, but leaving with reflection.

Airports often mark transitions, but on that particular day, it marked something more for me. I stood there watching travelers shuffle past check-in counters, airport announcements echoing through the halls, and I thought back to the first moment I landed here—a stranger in a place rich with history and emotion. Now I was leaving with new insight, humbled by what I had seen and experienced.

While waiting to board our flight back to Manila, I mentally retraced the entire journey. From the vibrant rally of PDI-Perjuangan supporters dancing in Jakarta’s streets to the solemn, exacting discipline of election day in the small polling centers of Jember, every moment formed part of a greater tapestry of democratic awakening. I remembered the young volunteers in East Java who, despite logistical constraints, worked tirelessly to ensure a smooth process. I remembered the quiet voters who waited their turn under the sun, their patience an act of civic pride. I remembered the teachers, students, and police officers who believed that change was not just possible, but underway.

Most of all, I remembered the calm courage of the Indonesian people—embarking on a democratic exercise after decades of authoritarianism, yet choosing peace over provocation, order over chaos. It reminded me of our own struggles in the Philippines, our own journey from dictatorship to democracy, and the sacrifices made along the way. There was a shared spirit that connected us—not just politically, but culturally, as neighbors, as survivors, as people hungry for justice and dignity.

There was also a moment of personal introspection. As a public servant who had worked in the legislative branch of the Philippine government for decades, I had studied democracy in theory and seen it in practice. But this mission brought it to life in a different, deeper way. I witnessed democracy in the hands of the people—raw, vulnerable, but real. It wasn’t perfect. There were still growing pains and many logistical gaps. But it was moving forward—and that movement, in itself, was history being written in real time.

I glanced around at my fellow observers—tired but smiling—and knew that we were all carrying home something far more valuable than credentials or titles. We were carrying stories, lessons, and a renewed appreciation for the democratic values we often take for granted.

As the call for boarding echoed through the airport, I took one last look around. The people of Indonesia had opened their electoral process not only to observation but to participation in spirit. They welcomed us not merely as witnesses but as fellow dreamers of a better future.

With that, I stepped into the aircraft—hopeful, inspired, and forever changed.

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

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.

Chapter 22: Building Bridges – Democracy as a Shared Experience

One of the most profound realizations I had during the Indonesian election observation mission was that democracy, while deeply rooted in national context, is also a shared human experience. It transcends borders. It unites people from different cultures in their aspiration for fairness, representation, and dignity. And more than the technicalities of the vote, it’s this shared yearning that creates bridges across nations.

As a Filipino, I came to Indonesia carrying the weight of our own democratic struggles. I had witnessed the martial law years, the rise of the People Power Revolution, the challenges of post-authoritarian governance. I had seen both the promise and the pitfalls of democratic transition. And so, when I walked into polling centers in East Java or spoke with Forum Rektor volunteers in Jember, I wasn’t just an observer—I was a fellow traveler in the long and winding journey toward self-governance.

What amazed me was how naturally these bonds formed. There was no need for lengthy introductions or elaborate cultural exchanges. The language of democracy was already understood by all of us. When I spoke to an Indonesian election officer about how they prepared their precinct, he nodded with the same quiet pride I had seen in Filipino teachers serving as Board of Election Inspectors. When a young voter explained how she punched her ballot with a six-inch nail—a symbolic act of expression—she reminded me of the idealistic first-time voters in our own barangays.

Even the challenges they faced were familiar: confusion over voters’ lists, logistical lapses, concerns about political intimidation. And yet, there was a commitment to overcome these hurdles through collective effort. We were, in that sense, not just learning from each other—we were reinforcing one another’s belief that democracy, however flawed, is still worth defending.

It struck me how this kind of international solidarity is often missing in our national discourse. Too often, we treat elections as isolated events—one country’s internal affair. But in truth, the fight for democracy in one place strengthens it everywhere. When Filipinos stood up at EDSA in 1986, the world watched—and many were inspired. Likewise, when Indonesians cast their first free votes in 1999, the ripples reached us and reminded us of the work still to be done at home.

There’s something immensely powerful about this shared experience. It tells us that we are not alone in our struggles. It reminds us that democratic values are not abstract principles imposed from above—they are lived realities built and safeguarded by ordinary people across continents.

The experience also gave me hope for ASEAN cooperation beyond economic ties. Imagine a Southeast Asia where nations not only trade goods but also exchange democratic best practices—where election observers, civic educators, and governance reformers move across borders, strengthening institutions and empowering citizens. That is a future worth working toward.

Indonesia opened its doors to us—not just to observe, but to participate in the spirit of its democratic rebirth. And in doing so, they helped build a bridge: one not made of steel or concrete, but of shared values, mutual respect, and the collective desire to shape a better future.

As I look back now, I realize that this bridge is still growing. And it’s our responsibility—as citizens, as nations—to continue walking across it, hand in hand.

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

One of the most compelling aspects of the Indonesian electoral process in 1999 was the vital role played by civil society. Beyond the official structures of government—outside the authority of the Komisi Pemilihan Umum (KPU), their version of our Commission on Elections—it was the civil society organizations, universities, faith-based groups, and volunteers that breathed life into the democratic machinery.

As a volunteer of NAMFREL myself, I saw in Forum Rektor, Indonesia’s counterpart, not just a partner, but a reflection of our own journey. These were people who had never before been given such a powerful role in shaping a national democratic exercise, yet they stepped into the responsibility with a sense of ownership and deep patriotism. They understood that the integrity of elections is not the sole duty of governments; it is the collective commitment of the governed.

Our team was frequently guided and supported by local Forum Rektor volunteers, who helped us navigate polling precincts, interpret community dynamics, and even make sense of the nuances in how local traditions intertwined with the formalities of voting. These were educators, students, researchers—people who were not career politicians or seasoned bureaucrats, yet had chosen to invest their time, knowledge, and integrity to ensure the election’s success.

In Jember, for instance, I saw how community elders, local clerics, and even market vendors were all engaged in disseminating correct information. They encouraged voters to go to the polls, reminded neighbors of the proper conduct, and even policed their own neighborhoods to prevent any attempts at vote-buying or intimidation. It was democracy in motion, practiced not just inside the polling centers but in the very fabric of community life.

This reinforced for me the irreplaceable role of civil society in any credible democratic process. It is easy to think of elections as purely institutional undertakings, administered by commissions and watched over by party agents. But the truth is, no government—no matter how well-resourced—can guarantee clean elections without the participation and vigilance of the people.

In the Philippines, NAMFREL has long played this role. But our challenge has always been sustainability—how to keep citizen engagement alive beyond election seasons. Indonesia reminded me that civil society must be nurtured continuously, not just activated periodically. When people see their role as permanent stakeholders, rather than seasonal participants, democracy becomes more resilient.

Moreover, the credibility of civil society depends on its independence and inclusiveness. In Indonesia, we witnessed a deliberate effort to ensure that observer groups were composed of people from different walks of life—young and old, religious and secular, men and women. This diversity added moral weight to their efforts and lent greater legitimacy to the results.

We would do well to take note. As our own elections become increasingly complex and digitized, we must remember that no machine or software can substitute for the human spirit. Integrity, vigilance, and a deep sense of civic duty—these remain the strongest safeguards against fraud, coercion, and indifference.

At the heart of it, civil society is not just a sector; it is a soul. It is the soul of a democracy determined not to fail itself.

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

Long after the ballots had been cast, counted, and recorded, and even as the Indonesian people awaited the official proclamation of their newly elected representatives, I found myself deep in reflection—about them, yes, but also about us. Indonesia, in many ways, held up a mirror to the Philippines. What I saw in that reflection was both illuminating and humbling.

The most vivid image that stayed with me was the discipline of the Indonesian electorate. From the orderly queues at polling places to the dignified silence during the 45-minute prayer before voting began, it was evident that the people understood the sacredness of the act they were about to perform. Voting wasn’t treated as a chore, or worse, a spectacle—it was regarded as a responsibility, a duty to country and community.

In our own elections in the Philippines, discipline is often the first casualty. Campaigns overflow with noise and pageantry, and election day is sometimes marked by confusion, delays, and even disorder. While passion is undeniably part of our political culture, it is worth asking: does passion excuse chaos? Must spirited participation come at the cost of civility and order?

The Indonesians showed us that it need not be so. Passion and discipline can co-exist. And when they do, democracy flourishes.

Equally striking was their reverence for procedure. The fact that polls opened exactly at 7:00 a.m., not a minute earlier or later, was not just a logistical feat—it was a symbolic gesture of collective respect for the process. And when the KPPS officials conducted the opening rituals and oath-taking, there was no sense of routine or hurry. They moved with purpose, grounded by the belief that what they were doing mattered.

Do we, as Filipinos, still feel that sense of gravitas in our electoral proceedings? Or have our elections become so frequent, so transactional, that we’ve forgotten the deeper meaning behind them?

What stood out, too, was the Indonesians’ meticulous post-election clean-up. Campaign materials were removed promptly, with party members themselves taking responsibility. No posters littering lampposts, no streamers sagging across streets for weeks. There was an unspoken ethic of closure—that campaigning must give way to reflection, that the end of voting marked a transition from division to unity.

Contrast that with the Philippines, where political paraphernalia often remain long after the polls, as if clinging to the past. It’s a small thing, perhaps, but one that speaks volumes about our collective discipline and sense of accountability.

Yet, these comparisons are not meant to romanticize Indonesia or criticize the Philippines unfairly. Rather, they are a reminder that democracy is an evolving process. And like all processes, it requires constant introspection. We are not less capable than our Indonesian neighbors. If anything, we have shown time and again—from EDSA to countless peaceful transitions—that we too have the democratic spirit. What we sometimes lack is consistency, discipline, and a sense of civic mindfulness.

In observing the Indonesians, I saw not perfection but aspiration. And in that aspiration, I saw a path that we, too, could walk.

Democracy, after all, is not about who shouts the loudest or who garners the most followers. It’s about building systems and cultures where every citizen, no matter how humble, feels heard, valued, and empowered.

The mirror that Indonesia held up to us did not show a stranger. It showed a kindred nation—flawed, hopeful, and resilient. It reminded me that while our journeys may differ, our destinations are the same: a society where democracy is not just practiced, but honored.

Chapter 25: A Personal Democracy – Lessons That Transcend Borders 

As the wheels of the plane lifted off the tarmac at Surabaya’s Juanda International Airport, carrying me back home to the Philippines, I looked out the window and felt a strange mix of exhaustion, gratitude, and hope. My brief yet deeply immersive experience as a NAMFREL observer in Indonesia’s 1999 general elections had drawn to a close—but I knew its lessons would resonate far beyond the confines of that mission.

What began as an assignment had become a personal pilgrimage.

I had gone to Indonesia expecting to witness a historic moment, and indeed I did. But more than the logistics of vote counting, more than the innovations in polling protocols, what I truly witnessed was the spirit of a people reclaiming their voice. After decades of authoritarian rule, the Indonesian electorate approached the polls not with cynicism but with reverence. That, to me, was the most powerful testament to democracy’s enduring promise.

I returned to the Philippines carrying stories that deserved to be told—not just to policymakers or academics, but to every Filipino who has ever doubted the value of their vote. I wanted them to know that across the sea, our Southeast Asian neighbors had found ways to embrace democratic order with discipline and dignity. If they could do it, so could we.

What I learned in Indonesia wasn’t just about them—it was also a rediscovery of myself. I saw in their faces the same hunger for change that I once felt during our own people power revolution. I saw in their preparations the same dedication our own election volunteers show in the farthest barrios. And I saw in their unity a lesson we still need to relearn: that democracy is not a gift we receive, but a responsibility we renew—every day, every season, every generation.

In those few days spent in Jember, in cramped vans and crowded polling places, with interpreters and local volunteers, I experienced a kind of clarity rarely offered by everyday life. It was the clarity of perspective—of seeing your own country through the lens of another’s struggle.

That is the gift of international observation. It reminds us that democracy is both local and global. It is about the barangay and the kecamatan, but it’s also about the shared human longing for voice and dignity.

As I settled back into my duties at the House of Representatives, I found myself narrating the experience over and over again. Not just to colleagues, but to friends, students, even listeners on the radio. It became part of my mission—to tell this story until others could see, feel, and understand its meaning.

Yes, we have a lot to learn from the Indonesian elections. But more importantly, we have a lot to teach ourselves—about what kind of citizens we want to be, what kind of future we are willing to shape, and what kind of democracy we truly deserve.

Let this not be the end of the story, but the beginning of a deeper reflection. May it inspire in others the same realization it inspired in me: that no democracy, no matter how young or fragile, is beyond redemption. That the quiet, determined voices of ordinary people—be they in Jakarta or Jember, Manila or Butuan—will always matter.

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