Security

I read this story in the paper yesterday, and it made me a little sad. To allude to my previous post: hope losing its feathers.

Treasurer Peter Costello's regular morning jog up the roof of Parliament House is a breach of parliamentary security, a Senate estimates committee has heard.

Mr Costello took up jogging late last year and ends his Canberra outings by running up the grassy slope to the flagpole at the top of Parliament House.

He told reporters that he liked to jog a lap of the parliament and finish by racing to the grassy roof, where he would "clasp my hands together like Rocky Balboa".

To reach the summit, Mr Costello would have to jump over a low security wall designed to stop vehicles from being driven on to the roof.

Department of Parliamentary Services head Hilary Penfold told the Senate finance and public administration committee that pedestrians were not supposed to access the roof.

I remember, quite clearly, when anyone was allowed onto the roof of Parliament House.

There are, depending on you who talk to, many things to love about Canberra, or very few. But something everyone tends to agree on is Parliament House. Compared to the White House, or The Houses of Parliament, there is really is something to Parliament House, its green sward gently rising over Canberra, an omnipresent reminder of why we are there.

The House itself, both inside and out, is beautiful. Courtyards are tucked away; tiny gardens that M.Ps and their staff can gaze wistfully at during the day. Precious gifts from other governments perch serenely on pedestals throughout the House. Jade statues, or ugly paintings, or macabre abstract sculptures harking back to a national folklore we can never remember; a struggle for freedom or tale of courage from somewhere far away.

It doesn't take a genius to pick up the metaphorical meaning of Capital Hill. The idea of a parliament that is always under the people is a powerful one. Whether holding them up, or wholly subservient to them.

Also, I think it bespeaks some of the better attitudes Australians can exhibit: an openess to anyone, a blindness to class, or other older, more entrenched systems people leave behind when they come here. A connection to the land that highlights its importance in our lives.

I remember riding my bike over parliament house. Rolling down the hill on crisp autumn afternoons. I've spent more than one Christmas dodging kids and dropped hotdogs as people gaze down at the giant tree and stage full of carolers. Name me one other country that hosts free, open Christmas carols on - or in - its house of government.

And that didn't change after September 11, at least not straight away. No, it took a couple of years before the government realised there was political mileage to be had in fears of a non-existent attack.

The sward was then defaced by huge, water-filled barricades. Initially it was enough to stop imaginary vans driving up and detonating. Of course, it would have been easier, cheaper, and saved a lot more lives just not to go to Iraq in the first place, but you know, fighting evil, etc. etc.

You could squeeze past the barricades at either end. There was a gap there so, regrettable as it was that Parliament House was now ring-barked - a white scar circling the base - you could at least still walk to the top from the bottom. And if you wanted to enter the building, there was still a security entrance on the summit, like there always had been.

But then that wasn't deemed safe enough, either. Invisible bombers might get out of their invisible vans, climb the hill, and blow themselves up - with enough explosive force to rip through the many layers that protects politicians from people.

So now no one is allowed up to the top. Not unless they've come through the front door, anyway. I can't help reflecting on this change - though minor - with some sadness. The days of family picnics and bike rides over Parliament House gone for all time, it seems.

It;s also a surprise to me, that our government - ever-vigilant to the importance of spin - would so willingly subvert the metaphor of the hill. What was once free, open to all, is now closed off, accessible only to certain people at certain times, and somehow in grave peril. Our freedom has been destroyed in order to save it.

In some ways, the barriers dug into the hill are worse than never having a hill in the first place. The luscious, chequered grass an almost edenic ideal; now banned, confined to past. A constant reminder of what we traded away. Weird. Then again, I guess they couldn't pave over it.

Still, it makes me sad. Of course Peter Costello should be allowed to run to the top of the hill and wave his arms like Rocky. Everyone should be: it's a great feeling, to be standing on top of Australia.