Yesterday I voted for the first time in a Czech election. I learned a few weeks ago that as I have permanent residence in the Czech Republic and am an EU citizen, I'm entitled to voted in the local and European elections here, but not parliamentary elections. So I decided to exercise my democratic duty and vote, prompted by the novelty of the situation and feelings of guilt at not voting in elections in Britain.
For weeks we voters have been bombarded with all the usual promises and policies, as well as pictures of all the candidates looking improbably youthful. We've been bribed with concerts and food, and we've had to put up with unrelentingly trite slogans about how the world would be an infinitely better place if candidate X from party Y were elected. I consider myself a political junkie, but the last few weeks have been utterly tedious billboardwise, even for me.
Yet somehow I felt excited as I approached the local polling station, in the pavilion adjoining the local football ground. But as I entered the drab polling room, and saw the election staff lined up like judges in a talent show in a village hall, it all felt very familiar, even though there was no potato wedged in the ceiling, as was the case at the last polling station where I voted in Britain.
Minor consternation ensued when one of the officials realised that I wasn't on the list, and I was relayed to his kindly supervisor, who confirmed that I could vote as I my name had been added to a supplementary list. I did the democratic deed and put my ballot paper, which was almost as big as the football pitch outside, in its envelope. I scanned the room for the ballot box and saw two people putting their envelopes in what was, without any shadow of a doubt, a bin. Yes, a bin. I looked round for the ballot box but couldn't see anything apart from a table and the grey plastic bin. It dawned on me that the people entrusting their votes to a receptacle for refuse didn't seem to be confused or making angry protests, but simply voting. I doubled checked by opening the bin furtively, It contained a substantial pile of envelopes, which in turn contained - I assume - ballot papers. So I popped my ballot paper in it, thereby joining the democratic throng. As I left, I pondered the bizarre ritual I had just participated in and wondered whether I had imagined it all. Was it a huge mistake, or I had voted correctly in a not very fraudproof system? Whatever way you looked at it, a bin as a ballot box is a very telling comment on democracy. And the all too obvious thought occurred to me - was it all symbolic?
For weeks we voters have been bombarded with all the usual promises and policies, as well as pictures of all the candidates looking improbably youthful. We've been bribed with concerts and food, and we've had to put up with unrelentingly trite slogans about how the world would be an infinitely better place if candidate X from party Y were elected. I consider myself a political junkie, but the last few weeks have been utterly tedious billboardwise, even for me.
Yet somehow I felt excited as I approached the local polling station, in the pavilion adjoining the local football ground. But as I entered the drab polling room, and saw the election staff lined up like judges in a talent show in a village hall, it all felt very familiar, even though there was no potato wedged in the ceiling, as was the case at the last polling station where I voted in Britain.
Minor consternation ensued when one of the officials realised that I wasn't on the list, and I was relayed to his kindly supervisor, who confirmed that I could vote as I my name had been added to a supplementary list. I did the democratic deed and put my ballot paper, which was almost as big as the football pitch outside, in its envelope. I scanned the room for the ballot box and saw two people putting their envelopes in what was, without any shadow of a doubt, a bin. Yes, a bin. I looked round for the ballot box but couldn't see anything apart from a table and the grey plastic bin. It dawned on me that the people entrusting their votes to a receptacle for refuse didn't seem to be confused or making angry protests, but simply voting. I doubled checked by opening the bin furtively, It contained a substantial pile of envelopes, which in turn contained - I assume - ballot papers. So I popped my ballot paper in it, thereby joining the democratic throng. As I left, I pondered the bizarre ritual I had just participated in and wondered whether I had imagined it all. Was it a huge mistake, or I had voted correctly in a not very fraudproof system? Whatever way you looked at it, a bin as a ballot box is a very telling comment on democracy. And the all too obvious thought occurred to me - was it all symbolic?
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