Resurrect parliament immediately

A belated new year to all my readers.

My year started on a sad note. First of course, our beloved Arch died. Then, the morning after his funeral I woke up to the smell of smoke. When I looked out the window, I saw a dark cloud coming out of parliament, just a few blocks away from my house.  My heart sank. Over the next few days, I listened to the sirens of the fire engines as they desperately tried to stop the angry flames that rushed through the majestic buildings.

My first visit to parliament was with my then-husband during apartheid days and it nearly ended in us being thrown out. I wish I could say that it was because of some political or activist action. It wasn’t. We were invited to lunch by an old university friend of Wilhelm’s who was an MP.

As we headed through the lobby of the old Assembly (the old white parliament) towards the dining room, we were stopped by an usher. 

“Sorry sir, you cannot go any further.”

“Why?” we wanted to know. 

“You need to wear a tie and jacket in Parliament,” he said sternly whilst looking disapprovingly at Wilhelm’s student attire.

Luckily, they kept some spare jackets and ties and we could finally enter the great big dining hall, where British Prime Minister, Harold Macmillan, gave his famous “Winds of Change” speech in 1960.

A few years later, we were showing some Australian friends around Cape Town. On the spur of the moment, we decided to see if we can show them parliament.

Wilhelm asked the security if it would be possible and on hearing the surname, the (of course all white) policemen ushered us in and called someone to come and meet us.

The lady was clearly very impressed to meet a grandson of HF Verwoerd and led us into the Old Assembly chamber where Wilhelm’s grandfather was assassinated. 

To our guests’ horror she described the incident in great detail.

 “I don’t know what you heard,” she said to Wilhelm, “but I heard he had to stab him quite a few times.”

She then pointed out a faint brown stain on the carpet.

“That is still from his blood,” she said. “They could never completely get it out. 

Little did I know that less than four years later I would be back, but this time as an elected MP.

A few days after the 1994 election the ANC held their first Caucus meeting in the Old Assembly Chamber (what lovely irony).  This time the lobby was alive with noise, children were running around, and people loudly and happily greeted each other. Ties and jackets were nowhere to be seen, as most people had dressed in traditional outfits.

In the caucus room, I craned my neck. The stain was still there, but now, sitting on the bench where Verwoerd had died, sat Madiba.

Thabo Mbeki was chairing the meeting and, as was the practice, we were asked to stand and sing the anthem. More than two hundred people rose to their feet and slowly lifted their fists into the air. There was a moment of silence and then, spontaneously, a woman started ‘Nkosi Sikelele Afrika’. Slowly the sea of 200 voices filled the hall. It was as if people, through their voices, and through their prayer, wanted to cleanse the place.

 And so they did.

 Parliament was transformed over the last 27 years. The buildings remained fundamentally the same, but everything else changed. Of course, the elected members now reflect the wishes of the majority. The staff are representative of the demographics of the country. The art and even the menus have changed to celebrate our glorious diversity. It is no longer a place intended to keep the populace out – it welcomes people in. It has become a people’s parliament.

 Anyone who has ever served in Parliament will tell you that it is a special place. When in session, MPs spend almost all their waking hours there. It becomes your home and your colleagues your family – albeit, like most families, a rather dysfunctional one.

 In the mornings, you would greet everyone you would come across and ask if they were well and had a good night. In the evenings you would say good night. You had breakfast, lunch and often dinner together (and of course the drinkers would share some time in the pub as well). Your colleagues were the ones you shared your stress, exhaustion, frustrations, and worries with because only they understandood the strain of being an elected representative. And you laughed, you laughed a lot – not only because of the absurdness of political theatre, but because it keeps you sane.

Our parliament in Cape Town was a living and breathing space. It was one of the few places (which are not museums) that reminded us of where we came from (and must never return to), whilst also celebrating what we have overcome and can become.

It was so much more than just the building. It was a symbol of the power of people to do good and overcome evil. Places matter because people are shaped not only by ideas, but by the spaces that surround them. Which is why we must start the rebuilding immediately.

If it turns out that the burning of Parliament was a planned act of political destruction, immediate rebuilding becomes even more important. There will always be people who will want the symbol of our collective dreams to lie in ashes but “We, the People” must ensure that the “People’s House” is resurrected as the centre-piece of what it means to be a free democracy.