Democracy in Action (Democracy Inaction)
We exited the Underground station at Westminster. Across the street were the Houses of Parliament. The tower and Big Ben were in a box of scaffolds and drapes, so the iconic landmark was missing. It was a bit disorienting. I had to look toward the rest of the building and Westminster Abbey across the way to get my bearings.
We walked to the Cromwell Green Entrance. A sign pointed through an opening in the fence. All the tourists were walking by, heading farther down the road or to the Abbey. Nobody was turning into the entrance and no one was waiting to get in. It was a bit disorienting. I double checked my directions, but sure enough, this is where we were supposed to go.
We followed the signs, and at the door two guards were waiting. “Are we able to visit the gallery today?”, we asked. “Yes, of course”, they answered with big smiles. “Welcome! Please come in!” It was a bit disorienting. OK, it was a lot disorienting. Were we really in England? What’s with the friendliness? Where’s the English frostiness and famous reserve? Where were the tourists? Somewhat stunned, we went in.
Through security, we followed a meandering path, and emerged into Westminster Palace, the ancient seat of government. In the floor are plaques commemorating the historical events that have taken place here. Here is where Winston Churchill lay in state. Here is where King Charles I stood when he was condemned to death. And so on. When we toured Parliament about 10 years ago, we were kept in a tight group under close supervision. This time we were free to go where we wanted and at our own pace through the hall, examining the ancient woodwork and decorations. We were simply told to go up the stairs when we were ready, turn left through the double doors and someone would direct us. We passed people in suits with stacks of papers under their arms looking very important. Maybe they were carrying Theresa May’s latest Brexit plan. They paid no attention to us. Nobody challenged us.
We walked through the double doors, and someone told us which way to go toward the next attendant. We were passed from one helpful attendant to the next. The closer we got to the gallery, the better dressed they become. By the time we passed through several hallways and up a few flights of steps, the attendants were decked out in full tuxes and tails, with fancy pins and other decorations. Our last stop was to leave our bags and cell phones with more tuxedo-clad guys. They were the fanciest, and probably friendliest, coat check attendants I’ve ever seen. By now, it had stopped being a bit disorienting. We were just going along with the program and thoroughly enjoying it.
Up one final set of stairs and through a door and we emerged into the gallery of the wood-paneled House of Commons. We were at one end of the long room, in a glass-enclosed balcony looking down on the rows of green leather benches facing each other across a large, heavy table. The table extended about half way along the gallery. One side was for the majority party and the other side was for the opposition. At the near end of the table were two dispatch boxes, one on each side. This is where the party members stand to speak when they are presenting information or telling the other side why they are in the wrong. At the far end of the table sat two clerks scribbling furiously on papers. They could easily be using quill pens and writing on parchment for what we could tell. Behind the clerks, facing us in his raised, overly large, canopied green leather chair, sprawled the Speaker of the House himself. We were surprised to see that it was the actual Speaker, the same guy we always see on TV scolding members in his growl-y voice to maintain order as vote results are announced or debates become unruly. His name, by the way, is John Bercow. On a day with relatively mundane business at hand, we expected he would have a minion sitting in, but there he was in the flesh.
The topics of discussion this day were indeed somewhat mundane. An under-secretary for commerce was presenting plans for what will happen with mobile phone roaming charges if there is a no-deal Brexit. He stood at the dispatch box and presented the plan. Then he would step back and sit on the bench. MP’s would then stand and clamor for the Speaker’s attention. He would almost disinterestedly squint at the supplicants and call out a name. The MP chosen would stand at his or her seat and, depending on their party affiliation, would either disparage what the secretary had to say, or offer words of support. The secretary would rise again in front of the dispatch box and either thank the honorable member for their wise and discerning opinion or tell them why they were unable to grasp the simplest of truths. He would then sit back down, the clamoring would resume, and the Speaker would look up long enough to choose another member to speak their mind. The choices always alternated between the majority party and the opposition. One of my favorite moments came after an opposition member stood and rattled off a question and criticism that was decidedly more acerbic then the normal sarcasm. Usually the secretary would rise after an opposition member spoke and deliver a wordy, somewhat rational, skewering response. In this case, he simply rose, glared at his inquisitor for a moment, responded with an emphatic “No”, turned and sat back down. No matter who spoke, the general tenor boiled down to the Labor Party accusing Conservatives of being on the side of big businesses and not protecting the consumers, and the Conservative Party saying we wouldn’t be in this mess if Labor would just vote for a Brexit plan.
The second topic was an appointment secretary who was there to announce the House of Commons agenda for the coming two weeks. The secretary stood at the dispatch box and presented plans for what topics would be brought before the chamber. Then the same back and forth took place. Members would criticize certain topics being omitted and ask respectfully for other topics to be considered. These requests could range from items of national importance to a request to discuss a problem of a single constituent. On the smaller matters the secretary would often ask the MP to send her the information and she would direct it to the appropriate government official, but I found it interesting and satisfying that here on a national stage, these seemingly trivial matters were discussed. But, regardless of topic, the debate almost always came back to Brexit.
There was no lack of entertainment value. One questioner let the secretary know there was a special place in hell for a government that was not taking the interests of the people to heart. The secretary took offense to that. Later, as the secretary was announcing the timing of “meaningful” debates on Brexit plans, the Speaker roused himself from his seat and said he was grateful to hear this, since the government had previously and repeatedly canceled plans for debate, and was very happy to receive a commitment from the government. The secretary accused him of muddying the waters. He rose again to indicate that he was fulfilling his duty to speak on behalf of the entire House of Commons and that he was not muddying waters but simply stating the facts.
Fascinating and fun stuff. At (almost) all times the debate was couched in the language of civility with a decidedly vicious undertone. The British may have lost their Empire and even the ability to have a functioning government, but they are still masters at understated evisceration.
We thought we would sit for maybe an 30-60 minutes and watch this. Two hours later, we finally decided to move on.