The Roll Call

by Sahara Alia Jauhali Silongan

More than willing to participate at the local elections last summer, Koo-koo, my 15-year-old boyish cousin, gathered her strength and went to the nearest voting precinct. Standing outside the window of what happened to be an unfinished construction of an elementary school, Koo-koo observed the voting process as a group of men and women of all ages gathered around the area. A tall soldier in his camouflage uniform blocked the people from passing through the doorway. In his hand was a sheet of paper he held tightly as he read each name out loud.

            “Datu Ali Sarip!” the soldier called out.

            At once, a middle-aged man in his worn out shirt and faded jeans raised his hand and walked toward the soldier. “That’s me,” he said.

            The soldier let him in and called out the next name. From the wooden window, Koo-koo observed Datu Ali as he approached the table where another soldier handed him a ballot sheet. He took a seat in one of the chairs available, along with the other voters, and then filled up the sheet of paper. As soon as he finished, he submitted the ballot to the soldier in charged who had him sign the sheet of paper with his thumb mark.

            It was that easy, Koo-koo thought. Now all she needed was the perfect timing.

            “Norhainie Utto,” the soldier by the doorway summoned as he read the next name on the list. When nobody walked forward, the soldier called once again. “Isn’t there any Norhainie Utto here?” he asked out loud, scanning the queue.

            Sensing that there is no Norhainie Utto in the crowd, Koo-koo took her chance. She raised her hand. “I am Norhainie Utto,” she voiced out. The soldier nodded toward her direction and let her into the small room. In her boy-cut hair, loose shirt and baggy pants, Koo-koo pushed her way through the crowd and approached the soldier by the table.

            “Name,” the soldier demanded.

            “Norhainie Utto,” Koo-koo proudly announced. Her hands in her pockets, she patiently waited as the soldier scanned for the name in the information sheet.

            “Did you say you’re Norhainie Utto?” asked the soldier, throwing her a suspicious look.

            “Yes, I am Norhainie Utto,” said Koo-koo, her head held high.

            “I see,” said the soldier, turning the information sheet over for Koo-koo to see. “You sure don’t look like the woman in the picture.”

            Before Koo-koo could protest, a colored image of an old woman frowned before her.

            “I didn’t realize you’re that old,” said the soldier, crossing his arms on his chest.

            Koo-koo couldn’t look into the soldier’s eyes. How she wished she would just disappear.       

            “Did you dye your hair black?” asked the soldier, sensing her agitation.

            Koo-koo cleared her throat and faced the soldier with a smile. “I’m sorry,” she said, letting out a laugh, “For a moment there, I thought I was Norhainie Utto.”

Before the man could speak, Koo-koo tiptoed her way out of the room with her head bowed and her hands cold inside her pockets. She hurriedly ran outside as soon as she reached the doorway that people followed her with strange looks on their faces.

“Try your luck in the other precincts, young man,” called out the soldier.