One afternoon, I was helping my father in the garden when he went to get mail from the letterbox. He returned looking rather puzzled, but with a smile on his face. “Look,” he said, “a card so Papa can vote!”. Probably at the time I did not exactly understand why that was so special, and I can’t remember that my Dad said anything about it. But instinctively I knew it was extraordinary – in Indonesia, my father was not allowed to vote.

When election day came, my Dad took me with him as he cast his vote. As long as I can remember, he never missed a chance to do so. He was able to enjoy that right in a country that was not his, while the country of his birth denied him to do so.

And every time I get a chance to vote, I do. And I think of that afternoon, when the flowers bloomed.

Ken Setiawan
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