Opinion: Inside the European Parliament in Strasbourg, there’s a 360° cinema that displays the work of the largest transnational parliament in the world. It lays out the process of making law for the whole of Europe, and describes how the 720 members represent 450 million citizens.
Since the Economist Intelligence Unit downgraded the United States from “full” to “flawed” democracy in 2016, the European Union looks like a bastion of stability and rational thought. This is despite the threat of extremism and populism. No wonder so many Britons feel bitter about Brexit.
Among descriptions of plenary sessions and trillion-euro budgets, the visitor centre lays out current challenges. One is conflict, another is environmental sustainability. The Parliament is set to push for more ambitious climate laws. Here, climate action is not regarded as “alternative” or “tree hugging”; it is a central preoccupation of the vast, sophisticated powerhouse that is the EU. It is designated crucial, not just for human prosperity, but for survival.
Outside the debating chamber, there’s a huge space crossed by walkways, with vines growing up wires 60m high. You can leave the Parliament building and walk through Strasbourg, an almost surreally beautiful city, and see what it’s like to live with cycleways, clean rivers, public transport, electric cars and pedestrianised streets. You could generalise and say it’s the big centres that are modernising in these essential ways and it’s the world’s provinces that are resisting – by road-building, scrapping environmental protections, refusing to catch up.
Even though I travelled as a child, it wasn’t until I lived overseas as an adult that I understood how tiny our country is. I remember how the “OE” changed my perceptions. It brought a shift in focus, especially in my understanding of proportion and size.
I recall my interactions back then with a nice new British acquaintance. I would notice her reaction to things I said, a tiny flash of amusement. When I referred to New Zealand’s “Far North” she was bemused. How could anywhere so deeply south have a “far north?” When I described a “huge house” in Remuera and “upper-class people”, I noted her merry expression again.
I learnt she was the daughter of an earl, that she’d been drafted as a child into the Brownie troop of Princess Anne. Her notions of “upper class” and “huge house” were distinctly different from mine.
Many years later, my daughter’s partner got a job as minder and pony-steadier of the grandchildren of a duke. His Grace’s residence, Floors Castle, was larger than Buckingham Palace. We Face-timed the pony-steadier one freezing Christmas: he was actually lost inside the castle.
Floors Castle is a “huge house”. Its owner is the kind of upper-class person referred to in Andrew O’Hagan’s novel Caledonian Road. A character speculates what will happen to the UK’s national art collection when the royal family fizzles out. He imagines the dukes heading for the hills with the Titians under their arms.
Our country is tiny, and that’s what makes it special. It’s lucky, and really quite exclusive, to be a Kiwi. But it’s good to look outside. We can see where we’re falling behind and we can see where we lack a sense of proportion. Outside is the genuine measure of scale and power – from the biggest transnational democracy to less benign kinds of force: multinational corporations, oligarchs, organised crime, kleptocracies, aristocrats, tyrants.
I imagine Princess Anne’s old troop member reading recent media descriptions of murder-accused Philip Polkinghorne: “Old money. Huge house. Moneyed elite. Rich. Masters. Overlords.” Her little twitch of amusement, as if she’d been told he’d gone all the way to the very Far North.
