Balinese Restaurant Street-Garden condemed, destroyed: the tale of Warung Agus

The 17 year old potplant garden at Warung Agus was one of the inspiration for this blog, and my balcony-gardening work. I couldn't believe my eyes when I first moved in to West Melbourne - huge tropical trees, tiny little shrine-like niches with flickering tea-candles, sometimes single flowers placed reverently in vases, tucked in a grotto in the greenery. Reverence for... what? The miracle that jungles can be coaxed to flourish on concrete. The miracle that beauty can take hold wherever the human spirit is beautiful. The miracle that something that doesn't exist yet, except in someones mind, can be 'loved' into existence, that love eliciting the time and tending to make it real.

I wish I didn't have to believe my eyes when I saw the site of the garden this weekend. My little patch of West Melbourne heaven gone.
On PURPOSE.
Some humans create heaven on earth, and others turn heaven into desolation. Both probably fueled with equal passion, coming from...I don't know where. I wonder where?
Though I'm mostly a nice lady, my first reaction was kind of 'ancestral'. I could have killed somebody. The signs explained it: a couple of locals had complained that the garden infringed bylaws, was a hazard to pedestrians, and had to go. Millions of dollars a year are given out by the government in arts grants and 'greening the city' grants, but this garden, and the 'divas' and fairies who lived here almost two decades, were banished. Why?
I needed to make up an answer to how anyone could want this garden destroyed, as I was feeling sick with loss and anger. So I just stayed still for a few minutes.
It dawned on me that this is how the bushfire survivors felt, as deliberately-lit fires destroyed all that was precious to them. To compare the scale of my loss to theirs helped calm me down.

Then being still for a few minutes longer, I tried to picture, to understand the people who demanded its removal. Here is what might have happened: Someone lives a bleak life, maybe in a flat nearby. Maybe long ago they had something precious they loved destroyed. Some toy, some secret place. Some live entire childhoods with abusive parents, joy-stealing teachers or family members. To cope with that, maybe they need to destroy beauty that others are still allowed to have.
This happens. There is always a reason.

There are many, many such stories. Far stories, such as the Cultural Revolution in China: pesants destroying the art treasures and books they couldn't understand or enjoy.
And near stories, to me: Chadstone Shopping center pulling down the Cathedral-like Good Shepard Convent and church, the 19th century monastic gardens and orchards that I knew so well. In its place they built a bitumen car park.
Can something be done to get this garden back?
I don't want to have to talk myself out of tears, out of becming vengeful, every time I pass.