There are two very striking features of the Malawian Parliament. The first is that it looks and feels like a converted palace. This is because it is, in fact, a converted palace. Once upon a time it belonged to president Hastings Banda, one of the world’s nuttier despots and a man, you may recall, with a penchant for palaces. He had several, and mini-versions for his wife. The one that is now the national Parliament was his biggest and favourite, apparently. So it is not entirely inappropriate that it is now the seat of a democratic, representative institution, albeit one in which the fragility of the country’s overall democracy is currently being strained towards breaking point.
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The second feature that has survived in the memory of my visit there in 1998 is that it is invisible from the road that leads to it from the capital, Lilongwe. Despots with absurdly opulent palaces tend to prefer them not to be visible to the people over whom they rule. Thus, a thick blanket of woods surrounds the palace and obscures it from view. On arrival, all that you can see are the large steel gates and the soldiers who conduct the security checks at the bottom of the hill. Without an appointment you cannot proceed through the gates.
So when a few months later the head of a visiting delegation of Malawian MPs began listing the virtues of what they described as a ‘people’s Parliament” I was compelled to interrupt and point out that his institution’s physical invisibility and inaccessibility did not exactly lend itself to this romantic notion.
Frene Ginwala has been Speaker of the South African National Assembly since 1994. She has often spoken of a ‘people’s Parliament” and, supported by some visionary and hard-working committee chairpersons, she has overseen the evolution of a Parliament that has much to commend. At its best, it compares favourably with the very best parliaments in the world and often offers more meaningful opportunities for public participation than, say, outdated models of patrician institutions such as the House of Commons in Britain.
But now, for reasons that I cannot begin to comprehend, Ginwala appears intent on setting it on the Malawian path towards invisibility. Along with her fellow African National Congress national executive committee colleague Naledi Pandor, who presides over the second house, the National Council of Provinces (NCOP), Ginwala wants to move the media out of the precincts of Parliament. Not out of Parliament, it must be emphasised, just out of the precincts. Instead of occupying offices a few yards down the corridor from the National Assembly they are to be rehoused across Plein Street in an admittedly ghastly building known as Parliament Towers.
So, to the uninitiated, it might appear to be the ultimate storm in a teacup; the cosseted press whinging about having to walk a little bit further. Great care must, however, be taken when examining this matter. It is less about principle than it is about good policy. To claim that it is a freedom-of-press issue is not so much an overstatement as a misunderstanding of the nature of the consequences that will follow. The media will still be free to report on Parliament. But the fundamental question is: will they?
Let me predict what will happen. First, there will be the move. The parliamentary press will sulk. There will be a level of demoralisation, but the professionals among them will continue to do their job of reporting on Parliament. The new premises are not so congenial or convenient, and individual journalists, as well as their managing editors, will soon advocate moving to other offices in central Cape Town. Once you are removed from the immediate heartbeat, it makes little difference whether you are in Plein Street or Adderley Street. Once you are a bit further away it becomes more likely that you will spend less time in Parliament, and more likely that you will be asked to cover other stories. No longer in Parliament, editors and news editors will stop thinking of you as a parliamentary reporter. And here the scenario reaches it bleak conclusion. The notion of a specialist parliamentary press begins to drain away.
The question of whether the current bunch operates as a specialist parliamentary press corps is not the point — though I suspect that Pandor, irked by the absence of media attention on her ornately crafted but sadly politically side-showed council, would contest its collective competence. True, that since 1994 few journalists have made the most of the abundance of interesting stories that emanate from the many parliamentary committees. I share the disappointment that, by and large, the press have failed to bring Parliament to life for their viewers, listeners and readers; it must be galling to have to provide a patchily performing, mostly private-sector-owned fourth estate with what might appear to be a special place in Parliament. And certainly Ginwala and Pandor are right to be trying to encourage community-media coverage of Parliament.
But the primary point that appears to be lost on Ginwala and Pandor is that the public deserves specialist reporting of Parliament. Without it, the nexus between governed and governing is weakened. Equally, Parliament and those of its members who work hard deserve specialist reporting. Democratic politics needs the oxygen of publicity; individual politicians excel in the spotlight. It contributes to the sense of meaningfulness. Without it, the institution will pale into relative insignificance; and few will want to be MPs for anything other than the salary.
Why then are they doing it?
Writing about a similar controversy in the Australian federal Parliament in Canberra, the Australian political-journalist-turned-government-spin-doctor, Anne Summers, has described it thus: ‘For journalists being in the immediate precincts meant being able to operate within the cosy confines of Parliament House, where propinquity ensured constant social as well as professional contact with MPs and ministers. For parliamentarians it meant having the media on tap, so to speak; an MP who wanted to get a point across had simply to stroll up to the press gallery, a few flights of stairs away, and in a very short time could drop in and speak to every media outlet in the country. How efficient! How self-serving!”
But what Summers describes is a political context where the politicians welcome the proximity of the media and are robust enough to deal with the downside: that occasionally you will bump into a curious-minded or persistent journalist at a time that is politically inconvenient. This, I fear, is not the case in South Africa. My sense is that the majority of MPs would happily operate in a vacuum uncluttered by the media or even public attention. Bumping into journalists as you make your way to the parliamentary dining room is regarded as a nuisance, not an opportunity, just as doing a live radio or TV interview is considered more a threat than a chance to put one’s case. Thus, this current dispute may be a new dimension of a wider problem: the often troubled relationship between the political class and the media.
This is the slippery slope. If you want, Madam Chairperson Pandor, to consign the NCOP, and with it the as-yet-unrealised constitutional potential of its brilliant design, to complete obscurity, then proceed with chucking the media out. If you are prepared to risk, Madam Speaker Ginwala, your legacy as first presiding officer of a democratic Parliament, then press on. But beware: invisibility and democratic irrelevance may prove to be the ultimate destination. It is a surprisingly short journey to Lilongwe. Don’t take it.
Archive: Previous columns by Richard Calland