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Malice in Wonderland
January 17, 2001
By Denis Solomon
THE definition of a structure is that it must hang together. Every element defines every other, and is defined by it. If you tamper with one component, the whole thing gets out of kilter. The only solution then is complete reconstruction on a new design.
Constitutions are no exception. What we have done with our Constitution since 1962 has not been reform but tampering of the worst sort. Anyone with an orderly mind who attended last Friday's ceremonial opening of Parliament must have been driven crazy by the totally obzocky déroulement of the proceedings, which was the direct result of that tampering.
The first item of business in the House of Representatives chamber was the election of the Speaker and Deputy Speaker, followed by the swearing-in of the Members of the House. But just ask yourself: by whom or what are the Speaker and Deputy Speaker elected? By the House, of course. And until the members are sworn in, the House, presumably, doesn't exist.
So the first event in the ceremony was the election of the Speaker by a House that didn't exist, to preside over a non-existent assembly of which he was not a member.
This was the first result of Constitution-tampering. The Westminster philosophy contemplates an already constituted House electing a Speaker from among its members, and investing him once he is chosen. The amendment to our Constitution permitting the Speaker to be elected from outside Parliament was the result of the realisation that sooner or later the government's majority would be so small that neither it nor the Opposition would be willing to give up a vote. Not only does this make a mockery of the image of Parliament as a sovereign body managing its own affairs, but it also makes for a weird order of business at an opening ceremony.
This was emphasised not only by the crazy order of proceedings, but also by the fact that the putative Speaker, Dr. Rupert Griffith, not being a member of the House, was not in the chamber during his election. As if, however, to emphasise what a foregone conclusion his appointment was, he was not invested in the chamber, but entered it already robed and bewigged, having been lurking offstage, fully bedizened, like an actor waiting for his cue, or a bride before her entry into a church full of expectant wedding guests.
At that point, however, although dressed in all the finery of the presiding officer of the House, he was still not a member of it (and wouldn't have been even if it had existed). So, he was sworn in. But, get this, not as Speaker, but as a Member of Parliament! The oath he took was the same one subsequently taken by the real Members, and it began: "I, Rupert Griffith, having been elected a Member of Parliament." A very strange affirmation to be asked of someone who had failed in his attempt to be so elected.
Next, Mr. Subhas Panday, himself not yet a Member of Parliament, since Parliament did not yet exist, but at least entitled by the popular will to become one, was elected Deputy Speaker. Then, at last, the House of Representatives, having furnished itself with presiding officers, proceeded to give birth to itself. The Members were sworn in. The oath was administered to each of them in turn by the Clerk of the House, under the benevolent eye of the Speaker, who then shook each Member's hand in welcome.
The Opposition members, to show their disapproval of Dr. Griffith's appointment, refused to shake his hand. Otherwise we would have seen the ironic spectacle of Ms Pennelope Beckles being welcomed to Parliament by the man whose ass she had just buss in Arima.
The ceremonial anomalies made necessary by the Constitutional anomalies were augmented by the behavioural anomalies induced by the political situation. The Opposition not only remained seated on the entry of the (putative) Speaker, while everyone else stood, and refused to shake his hand when the oath was administered. The Leader of the Opposition also "welcomed" the Speaker by telling him he wasn't wanted, and could expect only the minimum of formal collaboration from the Opposition in the running of the House.
The feeble smirk with which Mr. Griffith received this information spoke volumes. Here was a man obviously ready to accept any humiliation in exchange for a wuk. Even if he could have carried it off a bit more brass-facedly, no one could have failed to wonder at the character of a man who would agree to preside over a legislative assembly of which just under half not only does not want him but thinks his election infringed every principle of popular sovereignty.
Dr. Griffith's uneasiness was evident not only in his hangdog look (which, to be fair, seems a more or less permanent component of his demeanour) but also in his utterances. In response to the addresses of the Leader of government business and the Leader of the Opposition, he made a gaffe reminiscent of Mr. Panday's injunction to his followers to "Vote for the Balisier!" This consisted of transposing the titles of the two speakers, thereby expressing his gratitude to the "Leader of the Opposition" for a welcome that had consisted of telling him how unwelcome he was.
The stumbling way the new Speaker read the oath and whatever other document he had to read was, however, the result of more than uneasiness and guilt. For a doctor of Philosophy his reading skills appear decidedly deficient. He seems to read word by word, with the result that at regular intervals the syntax catches up with him and overwhelms him, leaving him floundering like a yacht pooped by a wave.
Of the failure of the President of the Republic to read the speech prepared for him by the Government, the less said the better. It was obvious that for the government to have decided on a ceremonial opening at all, when the practice had fallen into disuse years before, was pure PR: an attempt to show that the President was once more hindering the State's business by disregarding convention. What made it all the more cynical was that the President couldn't have read it anyway, because his eyesight is too weak.
To bring the proceedings to a fitting end, the Speaker had to take three bites at the formula for adjourning the House. "The question is," he said, "that this House adjourn until Tuesday". "Date?" somebody whispered. "Tuesday the sixteenth" said the Speaker. "Month"? came the whisper. "Tuesday the sixteenth of January, two thousand and one" said the speaker. "Time?" the whisperer prompted. "Tuesday the sixteenth of January, two thousand and one, at one thirty P.M." said the Speaker. And with a sigh of relief from all present, the House was adjourned.
Copyright © 2004 Denis Solomon