On the morning of 2 January, the second day of the new year, I woke to a series of worried text messages from family and friends. “Are you okay? How bad is the smoke?” I rushed to the window, saw fire trucks queued up and Plein Street cordoned off. I saw black smoke rising in the direction of the mountain. Parliament was on fire.
A suspect was arrested that same day and allegedly confessed on 29 January. The fire, causing extensive structural damage and the loss of works of art and heritage, raised concerns as to the security of Parliament.
Then, around 26 June, more than five months after the blaze, the SAPS erected a 1.5-metre tall fence with the intent to shield Parliament’s perimeter, blocking the main entrance to the Company’s Garden and several blocks of Government Avenue leading up to the National Gallery.
At first, I was annoyed by the disturbance of my daily walk through the wide, green, oak and pine tree-lined promenade. But as the weeks progressed — as more and more coils of blade wire were added, more no entry signs — my annoyance developed into serious concern. Although pedestrians are not majorly hindered by the blockage (many now use paralleling Queen Victoria Street) and much of the Company’s Garden remains open to the public, the message this barricade sends about our right to public space ought to be a matter of public outrage.
Public access to the Company’s Garden dates its roots all the way back to 1795. One of the first British governors, Sir George Yonge, tried to make the park private, part of his estate at Tuynhuys, with a tall entrance on Government Avenue. There was such an outcry that the governor was forced out of office, and the tradition of public access to the garden remains to this day. In fact, public use of the garden predates the construction of the Houses of Parliament by over 30 years.
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Today, the Company’s Garden is one of the few green spaces in Cape Town’s city centre, and as such, it has often been called the “green lung” of the city. It is also one of the main arteries for pedestrians in the city, used by tourists and locals alike.
To constrict this artery is to cut off a source of the city’s life force. The fact that it cordons off a pleasant, green, quiet thoroughfare — forcing workers who commute from townships and walk via the taxi rank to the wealthier areas of Cape Town towards noisier, more congested areas — is an added blow.
The blade wire fencing recalls imagery of border checkpoints and prison yards, setting a dangerous precedent for what could happen to public spaces across South Africa.
If the primary concern is to ensure security of Parliament, surely there is a solution that does not obstruct Government Avenue? A fence could be erected around the perimeter just within government grounds, for instance.
I find it hard to believe that the police service in a country that is accustomed to any number of possible gates, fences, and alarm systems cannot come up with alternative security measures.
What makes matters worse is that the government has yet to announce a plan for Parliament’s renovation. Anyone walking past the buildings on St John’s and Plein Street can tell you that the roof hasn’t even been covered. One can only assume that — after a ravaging fire followed by nine months of exposure to the elements and a cold, rainy winter — the interior of Parliament looks grim. So what, exactly, is this fence protecting? The halls of power left to rot?
The City of Cape Town called for the barricade to be removed by 1 September, but at the time of writing, nothing has been done to remove the fence nor the razor wire.
As Governor Yonge was ousted in his attempt to control the garden for himself, so too should government encroachment on public space warrant an outcry. The City and the citizens of Cape Town ought to put pressure on SAPS to remove the fence immediately in order to protect our rights to public space.
For well over 200 years, it has not been the Company’s Garden — it’s been the people’s garden. DM