Berlin, 9.30 am, Saturday morning, April 13, 2019
I sit on the bus with my friend, behind me I can already hear the low chatter of Bahasa Indonesia. While my friend and I argue what lipstick colour looks better on her, another small group of Indonesia enter the almost empty bus.
It could just be a coincidence, I think to myself but lo’ and behold, as we get off at the final bus stop, half of the passengers were of the familiar skin tone and facial features I would see when I’m doing my biannual visits to my grandparents’ kampung.
As we got off, I see them clutching a piece of paper tightly in their hands, making sense of the directions on the map printed on it – the invitation letter to the elections. I already know all of them have the same destination: the location of the 2019 Indonesian Presidential Elections for overseas citizens.
I can feel them staring at us and us staring at them – observing and maybe judging their political preference by our appearance. My hijab must be giving away some sort of idea to my political alignment – I could already sense their idea of me in their heads, but I try not to think of it.
A small elderly duo splits up to walk down the streets, and as my friend couldn’t make sense of the given directions, we decide to follow them. Somehow, we got into talking to them, exchanging pleasantries in Bahasa. I mostly let my friend do the talking, as it’s still too early for my brain to comprehend and form the sentences in a language I’m not most familiar with (anymore). I should have brushed up my skills, I tell myself, but then again, I wasn’t very good with smalltalk anyway.
As it turns out, finding the community centre, where the ballot was held, is quite a task in itself. It is a group effort of navigating through google maps and picking up stray voters on our way, but alas, we found the place. As we marched up to the voting location, for the first time I felt a sense of community and equality amongst us – just a group of people, of all genders, ages and religions, living far away from their home country, trying to find the way to the place, where the future of their homeland can be decided.
For a Saturday morning, I thought, it was one of the most crowded places I’ve ever seen. Or maybe it’s just that I’m very much a late-sleeper, but the number of Indonesians milling in front of the community centre astounds me. Students, elderly, children… a lot of them were just standing around in their respective friend groups, laughing, talking obnoxiously with hands and feet as Indonesians do. I am amazed, I never seen such a diverse group of Indonesians besides the yearly Independence Day festivities held in my local consulate.
My friend is abruptly ushered into the community centre’s voting room and I stand outside, waiting and holding her bag and jacket. At the entrance stands a White guy, sharp in his suit with a red tie and a Christian cross necklace around his neck. He greets everyone in German and makes sure the voters know to leave their belongings in the wardrobe. The more time passes, the more people file in, some of them wearing kebaya or batik. I even see an elderly couple wearing all white with a red beanie. I smile.
My worries about the future of the country I was born in haunt my thoughts as I wait out in the cold. The cool morning air seeps through the layers of my clothes, but I feel something else creeping in my bones. It is obvious – the air is filled thick with tension and judgement of each other. A group of girls with handbags as small as a smartphone take a group selfie for Instagram before going into voting. The scent of clove cigarettes wafts through the cold morning air.
