Learning to Let Go
Scottish devolution shows that being remote from the people is not simply a matter of miles.
The model is Dresden. Not the 1940s scene of rubble and devastation - though Edinburgh folk, sick of the hardhats and hammering at Holyrood, may sometimes feel that way - but the parliament of Saxony. That is the ideal to which the people creating the new parliament of Scotland aspire.
Right now it looks like a building site. But get a tour from the chief architect, and he will open your eyes. This will be a citadel of democracy, he promises, a landmark tourists will come to gaze at and which Scots will cherish with pride.
Who could resist the gentle curve of the debating chamber, a canny alternative to both the adversarial, facing benches of Westminster and the bland, consensual hemispheres of Europe? And what of the new structure's eco-friendly use of natural light and minimal air conditioning, its clever reliance on spring water from below ground?
It is patriotic - using Caithness stone, granite from Aberdeenshire and only the finest Scottish oak - and yet international, too: Dresden is an inspiration, while the original architect was the late Enric Miralles, native of that home of Spanish devolution, Catalonia.
The team hard at work could hardly be more enthusiastic; and there is something infectiously exciting about a lavish new structure bursting on to the British landscape. And yet Scots themselves are not cheering on this bold adventure. Mention the new parliament and most will roll their eyes in derision.
Their chief anger is at the cost. The original forecast was for a budget between £10m and £40m. Currently the bills are running at £275m and few expect to see much change out of £300m. "It will take years" for people to forgive that over-spend, says Scotland's first minister, Jack McConnell. "People don't like the idea that you're being careless with their money." Now he fears that resentment at the runaway spending on the building has soured attitudes to the Scottish parliament itself.
And that's not the only trouble Britain's newest legislature is facing. Three years after its founding elections, it's still afflicted with teething pains and local difficulties, but it is also coming up against a deeper problem - one which reaches beyond Scotland, touching the entire country.
The local heartaches are clear enough. The 129 new MSPs have allowed critics to brand them irrelevant, appearing to spend time on conscience issues such as fox-hunting and the section 28 ban on "promoting" homosexuality in schools rather than on bread-and-butter concerns such as jobs, hospitals and education. (McConnell and others complain that that work has been done; it's just foxes and gay rights that have got all the attention.)
Sleaze has hurt, too. A row over undeclared income forced out Henry McLeish, the late Donald Dewar's successor as first minister. McConnell is the third incumbent in as many years and that, too, he admits, has unsettled the entire project.
All of which has obscured some of devolved Scotland's undeniable achievements, such as the decision to depart from Westminster policy and give free personal care to the elderly and free tuition to students. The sceptics wonder where the money will come from for those Santa Claus gestures (in defiance of the Scottish Scrooge in No 11), but they were both proof that Edinburgh could go its own way.
Still, that has not been enough to make Scots love their new parliament. "Despite devolution, people don't feel empowered," says Andrew Wilson, the Scottish Nationalists' economy spokesman and a rising star in the party. In the euphoria of the referendum vote of 1997 - appearances from Sean Connery and hot talk of self-rule - "People thought we'd got independence," he says. "Actually Westminster gave us no powers we didn't already have." (They simply transferred them from the old Scottish Office down the road to the new parliament.)
For Wilson and his fellow Nats there is one swift solution: give the parliament more powers. The SNP is pushing for financial independence, allowing Scotland to offer its own tax incentives to attract investment or at least keep Scottish companies headquartered there rather than heading down south.
Labour opposes any such change. McConnell says the new set-up needs time to bed down instead. "There is no popular mood for more powers," he insists. The polling evidence points the other way: over the past year, surveys have suggested between two thirds and three quarters of Scots want their taxes set in Edinburgh not London.
But even that will not do it. For, as younger politicians like Wilson are coming to realise, the transfer of formal powers is part of the story, but nowhere near enough. What devolution should really be about is freeing people to make their own decisions, or at least to feel in close touch with those who make them on their behalf. If government is still remote and "top-down", it doesn't matter if it's 800 miles away or 80.
Three years of devolution seem to have taught this new generation of leaders, not confined to the SNP, that simply to replace government from on high in London with government from on high in Edinburgh is not much of a democratic breakthrough. They are realising that devolution is about more than new institutions and buildings: it's a state of mind. At its heart, there should be a willingness by the centre to let go and allow people to run their own lives.
Labour in Edinburgh has been reluctant to do that, say its critics: for years, through its domination of local councils, the party has been many Scots' employer or landlord or both. That's a lot of paternalistic power to give up.
But the issue has a resonance far beyond Holyrood. It touches every aspect of our national life. It's taken five years, but Labour finally seems to realise that if the National Health Service is to have a chance of surviving deep into the 21st century, it cannot be run from behind a single desk in Whitehall. Government will have to let go.
If public services are to be delivered properly, London cannot do it all; instead regions will have to be given their head. They in turn cannot simply become mini-Londons with, say, Durham becoming the Whitehall of the north-east. They too will have to let go - not only to smaller, local councils but some times to bodies that are outside government altogether. And no, that is not code for private companies. It could mean all kinds of associations, any organisation formed by people who come together for their own collective good. If you want to see how it's done, take a look at Britain's ethnic minorities - with their own infrastructures of schools, welfare and community support.
This is what a truly decentralised Britain would look like. No longer would all power and largesse flow out of London, with all talent and investment drained from the rest of Britain into it. Ours would be a country of many centres, spreading politics, finance, culture and media around rather than hoarding it all in one place. Above all, people would feel that decisions were made close at hand, not far away. But first we have to cry out to our masters - whether in London, Edinburgh or Cardiff - until two words are etched on their hearts: let go!
j.freedland@guardian.co.uk
Right now it looks like a building site. But get a tour from the chief architect, and he will open your eyes. This will be a citadel of democracy, he promises, a landmark tourists will come to gaze at and which Scots will cherish with pride.
Who could resist the gentle curve of the debating chamber, a canny alternative to both the adversarial, facing benches of Westminster and the bland, consensual hemispheres of Europe? And what of the new structure's eco-friendly use of natural light and minimal air conditioning, its clever reliance on spring water from below ground?
It is patriotic - using Caithness stone, granite from Aberdeenshire and only the finest Scottish oak - and yet international, too: Dresden is an inspiration, while the original architect was the late Enric Miralles, native of that home of Spanish devolution, Catalonia.
The team hard at work could hardly be more enthusiastic; and there is something infectiously exciting about a lavish new structure bursting on to the British landscape. And yet Scots themselves are not cheering on this bold adventure. Mention the new parliament and most will roll their eyes in derision.
Their chief anger is at the cost. The original forecast was for a budget between £10m and £40m. Currently the bills are running at £275m and few expect to see much change out of £300m. "It will take years" for people to forgive that over-spend, says Scotland's first minister, Jack McConnell. "People don't like the idea that you're being careless with their money." Now he fears that resentment at the runaway spending on the building has soured attitudes to the Scottish parliament itself.
And that's not the only trouble Britain's newest legislature is facing. Three years after its founding elections, it's still afflicted with teething pains and local difficulties, but it is also coming up against a deeper problem - one which reaches beyond Scotland, touching the entire country.
The local heartaches are clear enough. The 129 new MSPs have allowed critics to brand them irrelevant, appearing to spend time on conscience issues such as fox-hunting and the section 28 ban on "promoting" homosexuality in schools rather than on bread-and-butter concerns such as jobs, hospitals and education. (McConnell and others complain that that work has been done; it's just foxes and gay rights that have got all the attention.)
Sleaze has hurt, too. A row over undeclared income forced out Henry McLeish, the late Donald Dewar's successor as first minister. McConnell is the third incumbent in as many years and that, too, he admits, has unsettled the entire project.
All of which has obscured some of devolved Scotland's undeniable achievements, such as the decision to depart from Westminster policy and give free personal care to the elderly and free tuition to students. The sceptics wonder where the money will come from for those Santa Claus gestures (in defiance of the Scottish Scrooge in No 11), but they were both proof that Edinburgh could go its own way.
Still, that has not been enough to make Scots love their new parliament. "Despite devolution, people don't feel empowered," says Andrew Wilson, the Scottish Nationalists' economy spokesman and a rising star in the party. In the euphoria of the referendum vote of 1997 - appearances from Sean Connery and hot talk of self-rule - "People thought we'd got independence," he says. "Actually Westminster gave us no powers we didn't already have." (They simply transferred them from the old Scottish Office down the road to the new parliament.)
For Wilson and his fellow Nats there is one swift solution: give the parliament more powers. The SNP is pushing for financial independence, allowing Scotland to offer its own tax incentives to attract investment or at least keep Scottish companies headquartered there rather than heading down south.
Labour opposes any such change. McConnell says the new set-up needs time to bed down instead. "There is no popular mood for more powers," he insists. The polling evidence points the other way: over the past year, surveys have suggested between two thirds and three quarters of Scots want their taxes set in Edinburgh not London.
But even that will not do it. For, as younger politicians like Wilson are coming to realise, the transfer of formal powers is part of the story, but nowhere near enough. What devolution should really be about is freeing people to make their own decisions, or at least to feel in close touch with those who make them on their behalf. If government is still remote and "top-down", it doesn't matter if it's 800 miles away or 80.
Three years of devolution seem to have taught this new generation of leaders, not confined to the SNP, that simply to replace government from on high in London with government from on high in Edinburgh is not much of a democratic breakthrough. They are realising that devolution is about more than new institutions and buildings: it's a state of mind. At its heart, there should be a willingness by the centre to let go and allow people to run their own lives.
Labour in Edinburgh has been reluctant to do that, say its critics: for years, through its domination of local councils, the party has been many Scots' employer or landlord or both. That's a lot of paternalistic power to give up.
But the issue has a resonance far beyond Holyrood. It touches every aspect of our national life. It's taken five years, but Labour finally seems to realise that if the National Health Service is to have a chance of surviving deep into the 21st century, it cannot be run from behind a single desk in Whitehall. Government will have to let go.
If public services are to be delivered properly, London cannot do it all; instead regions will have to be given their head. They in turn cannot simply become mini-Londons with, say, Durham becoming the Whitehall of the north-east. They too will have to let go - not only to smaller, local councils but some times to bodies that are outside government altogether. And no, that is not code for private companies. It could mean all kinds of associations, any organisation formed by people who come together for their own collective good. If you want to see how it's done, take a look at Britain's ethnic minorities - with their own infrastructures of schools, welfare and community support.
This is what a truly decentralised Britain would look like. No longer would all power and largesse flow out of London, with all talent and investment drained from the rest of Britain into it. Ours would be a country of many centres, spreading politics, finance, culture and media around rather than hoarding it all in one place. Above all, people would feel that decisions were made close at hand, not far away. But first we have to cry out to our masters - whether in London, Edinburgh or Cardiff - until two words are etched on their hearts: let go!
j.freedland@guardian.co.uk
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