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Underground eXperts United
Presents...
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[ Looking Back In Terror ] [ By Simon Moleke-Njie ]
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LOOKING BACK IN TERROR
Simon Moleke-Njie
A student of sociology at the Warsaw University invited me to the World
Press Photo exhibition here in Warsaw some weeks ago. This was done with the
intention of helping me "get away from it all". For a brief period I got
swallowed by a world of pictures; I waxed, waned with emotions, fluxed
between terror and marvel as each scene provoked its own effect in me. I saw
a tired looking Clinton under the weight of the Lewinski scandal. I saw the
social class in Italy disguised as ordinary folks to avoid the ever
searchlight of relentless news hunters. My spirit sank. Eyeballs hanging
from their sockets! Tragic pictures of female victims smeared and disfigured
for ever by acid burns from the hands of heartless criminals in Sri Lanka!
And briefly, I soared in wonder at the beauty of Tigers and the animal
world, were everything seemed so natural and vibrant with vitality.
Then I got to the Panorama on Africa...
Human beings are really weird. Death strikes a million times a day the world
over, and it seems just normal to us, but when it strikes close, then it
really hurts; we feel its pang, and start asking all those rhetorical
questions like "why is life so cruel to us". Those pictures had the effect
of death on me.
"Let's go" I said to my hostess in a low voice. "Why? Aren't you enjoying
this?" she asked. "No" was my reply. She looked at the expression on my
face, and her eyes glowed with understanding. "O.K, let's go then." And in
silence we walked out of the hall.
What I had seen there was tormenting my conscience. I saw death and dying as
captured by camera lenses; starving crawling skeletons, naked breasts of
zombie-like looking mothers and their babies ravaged by kwashioko.
Back at home, sleep refused to let me enjoy the fantasy of dreams. Those
pictures kept coming back, and in the end, succeeded to provoke a chain of
past events which I always try to avoid. Scenes of Africa, in Africa and my
life. My mind in the timeless flight of thought, landed in Ghana and my life
in jail.
It seems like a hundred years, when it is just about a year ago that the
prison doors in Ghana opened to set me free... free to live, yet banned from
executing my vocation. How time can influence thoughts and feelings! How now
I can even afford the emotional luxury of laughing over the chain of events
which led to my arrest at the Ghana airport, when I attempted an escape with
false travelling documents. Romancing with the opposition press in that
country, singled me out to become target of threats and warnings which took
concrete form. My host government leagued with my country to have me
eliminated. It was a period of heightened fears for me which made me go
underground, when it became clear that my life was in grave danger. Earlier
on, I had received threats and warnings from the ministry of Sports which
came under the searchlights of my investigations. It became imperative to
flee, helped by some human rights activists and friends, I attempted an
escape which unfortunately backfired. Like the tragic climax of an espionage
movie, I was fished out at the airport a few minutes to departure after a
tip, as I learnt later, and this began my trip to jail for six weeks!
You just cannot fail to find it, the detention centre situated in the south
eastern part of the city of my host country's political capital. And even if
you stumbled upon it by chance, somehow nobody will need to tell you that
this building houses misery; you will feel it, the negative vibration
emanating from its surrounding and polluting the atmosphere, and probably
you would just want to avoid it like the plague. The most outstanding
feature of the L-shaped structure, is its urgent need of a coat of paint!
White coloured walls turn brown, peeling off in a note of protest, which
nobody seems to care. The western wing of the massive building houses the
offices, and somewhere there is located the C.I.D (Criminal Investigations
Department), which has an interrogation chamber. I was once taken there and
had a very tough time, in which my head was forced into a bucket of water.
The Northern wing of the building is lined with little rooms which provide
lodging facilities for those officers who wallow in the ranks of constables.
The entire structure is just about four metres from the main busy street,
without any fence. It is bare and busy. This is the premises of the Osu
Police department; an outstanding monument of colonialism erected in 1908 by
the British during the colonial rule. The backyard stinks of stagnant water
in ever untidy gutters, which perfume the entire stratosphere with an unholy
stench.
This building is usually quite busy during the day with people from all
walks of life walking in or out to lunch complains; be it traffic offences,
theft or marital differences. The immigration department without enough
space in their department would storm any hour of the day with their own
defaulters to be kept here pending repatriation or investigation, usually
to the delight of the men and women in blue black cremplene uniforms with
large badges to tell their ranks; badges long enough to outlength a table
spoon.
They always listen attentively while sizing their subject up simultaneously
to note if he or she is a good prospect to grease their palm. If not, then
their artificially professional countenance of politeness will give way to
impatience which would suddenly transform to sternness.
As you enter the little door which is opened twenty four hours, you will be
dazed by two phenomena: insufficient illumination and lack of proper
ventilation. This is the main office. Its walls - grey? brownish chocolate?
Difficult to tell, as smoke from neighbouring kitchens, dust from the
outside, and age have combined to paint a colour beyond rational
description. The little rectangular cubicle, three metres by seven, ends
where the cells begin. You will be faced by a counter - old, brown turned to
dark muddy chocolate from dirt. Old note books line the counter which
equally provide desk facilities. Two grimed faced dispirited officers are
always on duty; a desk sergeant and an accompanying constable. It is not
advisable to look at the roof. Cobwebs, pieces of rotten wood infested by
termites might fall into your eyes.
Beyond the officers, are two doors. The left opens to the Male cell, while
the right opens to the Female cell. Even if both doors are open which is
seldom, and the lights blazing to maximum, you will not see anything; it is
dark, like caves and you would get the impression that the place is infested
with scorpions and horrible crawling creatures. It is a logical feeling. You
will wonder how people manage to survive there, and as much as possible
would want to avoid it. I wondered too, spent over 55 days there, and like
you would want to avoid it like hell! Not all the gold in Fort Knox would
tempt me to want a repeat experience. I have still not fully recovered from
the physiological and psychological effects of it. Six weeks there!
What weeks! What memories! What people who walked in and out! To some, it
was a natural home. But not so for me, or Falk S., the German national who
was pending repatriation. I felt sorry for him, and still do whenever I
think of him. He was so out of place in that strange world of madness and
injustice. I can still see him now in my mind's eye weeping under the
inhuman condition of the cell, and his words are even fresher: "Simon,
dogs in Germany have a better condition than we do here. No owner would be
so cruel as to make his dog sleep like we do, or feed it with what we are
fed here." We slept on planks and sometimes when there were too many
inmates, some slept on the floor. "You know," he continued, "my mother will
not believe this when I will tell her." Falk was condemned in his blue jeans
which turned to rags when he left after seven weeks of penury. He had over
stayed his visa and was consequently arrested and thrown in jail. The German
embassy was reluctant to step in, and I promised myself to fight it out upon
my release, and to my satisfaction I did just this. I feared for his life,
as the poor hygienic condition provoked in him attacks of malaria. Once far
in the night, Falk passed out urine while asleep. The stench of this woke
everybody in the cell. I too was already feeling the impact.
The cell was a four metre square room, and at times, about thirty people
were forced in. A small adjacent cubicle provided toilet facility, which was
not properly kept in good order. Once, a mad man was brought into the cell,
he excreted on the floor, and the shouts from inmates forced the officer on
duty to chain him outside. One would just wonder why such a one would be
brought there, instead of a lunatic asylum; but who would answer this
question? The Police officers were more interested in making fast bucks by
dishonesty to supplement their very meagre salaries. The corruption there as
I saw it, could rightly be described as moral cancer. Those who could afford
it, paid a minimum of about $4 to the officer on duty to get a comfortable
place to spend the night. The officers expected you to give them little
tokens from time to time, to be on their good books. And if relatives come
visiting, sure as hell they must squeeze something from them, promising
special treatment to their relatives. Dressed in usually old faded uniforms,
sometimes you would just pity them, especially when their superiors come
bustling them with orders which promised nothing. They would rather stay in
the office where those who wanted a service new the rules, than say go on
duty to guard the hospital, or even Presidency, where tips never come their
way.
The entire atmosphere was sexually charged, as there existed a common hall
were the male and female detainees spent some time when a good officer was
on duty. Most often, the females enjoyed little privacy because of little
space, to the delight of the male officers. The girls usually complained
that some of them would come late in the night into the cell to conduct
unnecessary controls. However, some of the girls usually succumbed to their
pressures. At times, an officer would smuggle a girl to a private quarter to
sort things out. As walls have ears, it often times licked. Once I remember
when the wife of one officer stormed the female cell to aggress a girl whom
she accused of having an affair with the husband. This caused a scandal.
The cell was so poorly ventilated that we used to scramble over a vantage
position to get more oxygen, and some of the more heartless Police officers
took advantage of this to make money. The door being of steel, was given an
opening as big as the size of a football to let in ventilation. But this was
not enough. Sometimes, a good officer would let the door open, if inmates
promised to maintain order. But when another who had had a bad day came on,
he would ask us to contribute money if we wanted the door to be left open.
One incident was when the Police Commission said he intended to install a
ceiling fan for proper ventilation, we all greeted this with delight. But he
added that the Police department was so poor, and consequently his
suggestion was that the inmates should contribute money to facilitate the
purchase. This was greeted with shouts of protests.
After spending over two weeks there, one of the most eldest of the bunch,
a chief constable who was close to sixty, slim, tall with an unprincipled
facial feature made senile more out of craftiness than age, and too frail to
even handle a gun came to me and said "Halloo Mr. Journalist, I have some
good news for you". "What is it?" I asked. "Is it to do with my release?"
"No," he said, "it is to do with my promotion, I have been promoted to the
rank of Sergeant". He beamed. "Well, that's some good news for you, I hope
it makes you happy" I said. "Is that all Mr. Journalist?" he asked. "What
else do you expect?" I replied. "Well, at least you should bless my badge
with some beer, this is our tradition." He was so positively persistent with
his demand that I pitied him and gave him close to $1. I pitied him, because
a person who could afford to ask from someone in my deplorable condition as
it was then definitely deserved pity.
Once a delegation comprising journalists and Human rights Activists paid me
a courtesy visit. This same officer asked the Human rights Activists to
leave the office insisting that they required an authorisation to visit
there. Later, he laughingly asked for beer from my colleagues. Corruption
has evolved into an accepted vice within the entire society. And the
grinding poverty is not helping matters. It has greatly affected the moral
fibre of this great African state. "I like your editor very much", constable
Kwame once confided in me, "and your newspaper The Insight is my favourite
in this country. Your editor has been one of the brave victims of Rawling's
revolution. He fought and is still fighting for truth in Ghana. He was
arrested over twenty times for opposing Rawlings and his dictates" he said
and stopped, lost in thought for a while. Then continued: "You see, in this
country the Police force is the most neglected of all the departments,
because Rawlings claims that during his revolution, the Police did not side
with him. This is one of the reasons why we suffer so much. Imagine me and
my family and the salary I earn. You just will not believe it. Some of us
earn as low as 150,000 cedis." (About $60) "This is one of the reasons why
there is so much corruption within the force", he told me. I simply
listened, my mind was travelling far and wide within the womb of the African
continent, and all the countries I had been through, from the south to
central and West; it was apparently the same story; faces, grim
disillusioned faces with no hope for the future. A future bleak and bare,
empty yet vast and dragging to the precipice. Some even invite death to
relief them off their burden but even death seems so far away from them.
From Gabon to Equatorial Guinea, Cameroon, Nigeria, Niger Burkina-Faso etc.,
where I have been through, the faces carry the same message. Faces always
looking downward, and would not afford to look skyward and appreciate the
beauty of creation. They are lost in the hopelessness of their penury. I
returned from dream land when Kwame told me to get into the cell, as the
commissioner was coming for his nightly patrol. Meanwhile, the commissioner
had spotted me. He seemed to be in a good mood. "Ha! Mr. Journalist, I can
see you are hungry for air and freedom! Why do you people always put
yourself into trouble? Writing things which are of less concern to you. Look
at your fate now" he said. "I know Sir, but somebody has to do this job." I
replied. "Yes but do you remember what happened to the Burkina-Faso
journalist, how he died, see?" "I see sir," came my response, "but you will
agree with Napoleon who said 'to die is nothing, yet to live defeated and
discouraged is to die daily'." He busted out with laughter. "You journalists
and big words! And even though words put you in trouble and fail to feed
you, you still will never learn. You talk of defending truth, yet fail to
realise that truth has the characteristics of quick silver; it is elusive
and relative. Each day dawns with its own truth. A lie yesterday is truth
today, and a truth today could be a lie tomorrow! Do you remember when the
late Abacha told Mandela, that he was so long in jail that he has lost touch
with reality!?" "Yes sir, I remember, but where is Abacha now? Dead! Even
though he was younger than Mandela, he died before him; this is the triumph
of truth over lie, the human psyche over evil", I told him and returned to
the cell. I went in and Hank called me to his little corner.
Hank B. was one guy who gave the Police something to remember; he slapped
one officer. We paid for this with two weeks of pernicious vengeance from
the Police corps while he had already left for his native Netherlands... He
was pending repatriation. Questing for a better place to sleep, he greased
the officer on duty $6. Later on, there was a misunderstanding between the
two officers on duty in sharing the booty. Annoyed, the Sergeant forced Hank
into the cell and banged the door. Hank could not accept this. "What? After
paying!" he repeatedly shouted, thereby disturbing everybody. A young inmate
scrambling for proper ventilation plastered himself to the little hole on
the steel door. Hank was yelling behind him. A pissed off inmate who was
almost suffocating and couldn't sleep, leapfrogged over several bodies and
landed a slap on the kid by the door which sounded like the Bang! of a
revolver. The unfortunate victim released a scream which brought every one
on their toe. Upon turning round after the shock, the first person noticed
by the victim was Hank. His assailant executed his mission with lightening
speed like a striking snake, returning to base without detection. I was the
only one who really saw him. And so When the officers asked who slapped him,
he pointed at Hank. This sparked patriotism. The cell door was flung open,
and more than six officers pounced on the unfortunate Hank and pounded him
like fufu. Inspired by his innocence, he could not stand it anymore and
released a slap which caught one of the officers. Then real trouble started.
There was no time to explain that Hank was wrongly accused. Who would
listen? There was a free for all fight, and subsided only when the
Commissioner came in to shout order. Hank left three days later, while those
who remained paid for the consequences of that unforgettable night.
Hank was queer. I recall vividly when he walked in, brown sandals, milk
coloured jeans and a white shirt. His most remarkable feature is his head;
of more than average size, and completely hairless. The fact that he was
built like a wrestler, gave him an air which compelled attention. He was
nicknamed "sakora". For over a week, he kept to himself and talked to none.
I was surprised when he offered me once his food, which I politely refused.
Then we became friends. He would pick one individual, and start telling me
things about him; his age, sign of the zodiac and character. These usually
turned out to be quite accurate. "There is a phenomenon here which the more
rational would describe as a strange coincidence", he once told me. "Myself,
yourself, Falk and Roger belong to the same sign of the zodiac, and about
70% of the inmates here. This is directly related to planetary influences.
Of the four of us, I will be the first to leave here, then you, then Roger,
and lastly Falk. This equally follows the order of personal evolution." This
turned out to be quite true. I gathered he is psychic, and does studies of
parapsychology etc. He told me he is an ex-soldier. I keep fun memories of
him, and always remember and ponder what he told me about "Roger"...
M. S. Roger was from the republic of Congo Brazzaville. He fled one of the
most bloody civil wars in that continent to Ghana as a refugee. And ended up
in jail. His pathetic story had a humorous dimension. Upon reaching Ghana,
he went to the United Nations Higher Commissioner for Refugees to seek
refuge. He was directed to the department of Internal affairs where he was
conducted through an interview. Roger when asked why he preferred Ghana,
took from his pocket a hundred cedi coin which has the inscription of
Ghana's motto: "Freedom and Justice". He pointed to the motto saying "this
is why". The next thing he knew was to find himself in jail!. I pitied him
very much as he claimed to have lost his parents in the war. During my stay
there, we became close as he could speak only French. He is quite a talented
singer, and usually entertained inmates with some of the most famous Zairian
hits. His voice flowed with the smoothness of amplification possible only
after the processes in a recording studio. It was simply breathtaking. And
one would wonder just why a talented youth should be languishing in jail,
for a cause he is not responsible for. He survived on the sympathy of other
inmates, as he had nothing on him, and the daily food ration, comprising
Kenkey, pepper and usually without fish (a luxury) was always insufficient.
Kenkey is the cheapest food in Ghana made from milled corn. Very hard,
sometimes it could be preserved for weeks, and there were rumours at one
time that it causes cancer. Try as hard as I could, I could not convince my
anatomy to consume it. I survived on fresh cocoa-nut water and oranges. This
insufficient nourishment greatly affected my health, and I am still
suffering from the effects to date.
One memorable incident was my bitter quarrel with Blake, the cell leader. I
reacted principally because he carried one of his too many episodes of
perverted greed a little too far. As this affected Roger, and the most
unfortunate inmates, I decided to undo my coat of self restrain. There was a
rule in the cell which imposed a sum of 2000 cedis (a few cents shut off a
dollar), upon new arrivals. However there was a Claus which gave room for he
who could not afford the sum. He had to clean the cell until such time as
another unfortunate victim was brought in to relieve him. The money which
was in Blake's keeping, was used from time to time to buy food for inmates
when the daily ration failed to turn up which was quite often, and for the
general upkeep of the cell. Blake, a classic bully, was accountable to none.
He had welded so much power around himself that even the low graded officers
where afraid of him. He expertly succeeded to penetrate the commissioner's
mind to win his confidence. There existed a smooth co-existence between them
which was sustained by beer, with Blake at the giving end. Consequently, his
word was law in the cell. Built like a gorilla - short, stout, broad muscle
inflated chest - he was a perfect portrait of a macho man-bully.
On this fateful day, because Roger insisted on financial transparency, Blake
declared that those who did not pay upon arrival should not be given bread
bought with cell fund. He accused Roger of attempting a revolution. I could
not take it any more, and told him his conclusion had no moral hold. There
ensued a long noisy argument which he lost as almost all inmates took
advantage of this challenge to air their views. At the end he gave in. After
that, he appointed me his treasurer. I refused the post. He tried on several
occasions to lure me to his camp, but I insisted on a neutral stand. To this
day, Blake plays an important role in my views and analysis of the
political. He is an epitome of moral and intellectual pervertion, an
embodiment of corruption and abuse of power. He is king in his world. He
has imbibed into the core of his sub-conscious the ways of the world; the
hard world where survival stems from the jungle law. He had to be so to
survive the next day. Blake had been in this cell for over one year by the
time I got there. And to be able to survive life as I saw it there, he had
no choice but to master well the art of bullying and cheating. Those
gullible victims who crossed his path were pitilessly duped or
double-crossed, with little consequences. He would demand money from the
naive promising to work their release within the ranks of the Police or
immigration force. Once he collected 50$ dollars from an unfortunate Malian
to return the equivalent in the local currency as he was the only one who
had the freedom to go out at will, and failed to deliver. I had to
intervene.
His case was quite complicated. Blake claims American citizenship! He was
repatriated from Germany to Ghana. What made it so complex was the fact that
he has legitimate papers proving his identity as an American Marine
officer. He insists that he wants to claim compensation from the Ghanaian
government, for illegal detention. But his accent and mastery of English
validates suspicion. I remember once when Hank told him "Blake, it's
difficult to believe you are American". "It doesn't matter, many people
say this, but I am and I can prove it", was his reply. In moments of
contemplation, quite often, I never stopped to ponder about him. He had a
private corner in the office which belonged to him. Here, he kept his
sleeping mat, a black travelling bag with all his belongings on earth and a
nylon bag bagged his toilet necessities. After a bath, he will walk with
majesty, displaying his muscles in under wears to the giggling of the
ladies. Not caring about the busy environment with complainers, officers
and inmates, he will tell a busy officer to make space for him, while he
brings out his big black bag. He will proceed with dressing; he will display
his cosmetics for the attention of ladies; perfumes, soaps, deodorants etc.
He takes his time to dress; shirt, tie suit; well tailored suits too!;
sucks, trousers, shoes. Armed with a file he will walk out usually to return
late at night.
It was always a delight for me to watch Blake every Sunday morning. He would
rise at about 7:00am, end his toilet and call inmates round a circle. He
would bring out his well kept Holy Bible wrapped in black silk and proceed
with the grace of a Pastor to the centre to commence with a church service.
His sermons always centred on visions and Prophesies; "Dear brothers in
Christ, I had a vision this very night, in which this cell was almost empty.
And I can tell you with confidence that before the end of the week, some
people here will be free! Say Amen!" And there would be a cry of Amen!
"Those who doubt me could ask around. My predictions are always fulfilled
and when I pray, results manifest! But for this prophesy to come to pass, we
have to pray hard, we must call on the blood of Jesus to bind all
principalities and demonic forces standing on our way!" Then it would follow
a period of intense Biblical incantations, which would be rounded up with
"In Jesus' name" and a chorus response of "Amen!". I watched from afar with
Roger. Blake would then send for bread and Pap (a west African breakfast
delicacy made from powdered corn). He blessed and distribute it. I always
wondered why his prophesies worked for others as he claimed, and not
himself.
Blake had an apt way of interpreting the Bible to synchronise with his
perverted moral principles. I was really interested in it, because it was so
much like the reality beyond those prison walls. There were hundreds of
churches, with new church ministries springing up daily, along side crime,
corruption and poverty. To see sign posts with inscriptions like "Ministry
of divine healing", "Flaming miracles Ministry", "Chapel of divine prophesy"
etc. is part of the tourist attraction. Once a famous pulpit dean who
shoulders the tittle of Bishop, declared on a TV interview when asked why he
lived an opulent life, that it is no where stated in Bible that Jesus was
poor. He added "the fact that in the process of the crucifixion soldiers
used his rob to gamble indicates that the rob was expensive". Now that I
write this, I recall an interesting article written in the Thursday May 13th
1999 edition of The Independent, one of the private News papers there,
just before I left Ghana. The caption was Miracles, signs and wonders at
Gospel Light International. The intro was fantastic, and always provide a
comic relief for me. "Rev. M. A. Mensah, founder and leader of Gospel Light
International Church and about a hundred members of the church on last
Friday 23rd April 1999 had a supernatural encounter with God similar to that
of Moses and Biblical Israel at mount Sinai, when God appeared and talked to
him in a great storms, lightening and thundering similar to that of Moses at
mount Sinai!" I could see where Blake got his inspiration from. I once asked
him in a chat why he refuses bread to the unfortunate inmates, when the
Bible says we should be our brother's keeper. His respond was crisp and to
the point: "Mr. Simon, you are intelligent, you should know the sayings of
the Bible are clear and simple, yet some people distort it. I can't
understand why. It is clearly stated in the Bible that 'Love your neighbour
as yourself'. Can you show me where it is written 'love him more than your
self?' No, I can only love my neighbour as myself, not more than myself!"
I bowed in defeat. His doings would make a good volume of interesting
literature. I learnt something from him, he was a mirror reflecting the
political, and religious. I joint him to inscribe my initials on the walls
of that no man's republic. It has a rich history, this prison. I remember
the words of a famous journalist of the country who was once there: "I met
a rough looking, bushy hair gentleman there once. 'I will be the President
of Liberia one day' he once said. I looked at him and said to myself he is
probably suffering from hallucination, and certainly plastered out of his
mind. He proofed me wrong! Today he is the President of Liberia, and it
turned out that I was the one plastered out of my mind."
A loud crash interrupted the unreeling mental motion pictures in my mind.
I came awake with a jerk, and rushed outside. I had completely forgotten
that I was in Poland, at the Debak refugee camp! "Stary Hotel" which roofs
most of the bachelor refugees; mostly young men, some tough looking with
aggressive ambitions in life to be achieved at any cost, irrespective of
consequences! I rushed to the toilet where the sound came from. The floor
was littered with pieces of broken mirrors, a mean looking guy stood there,
gaping into space, lost in stupor. I looked up to realise that two wall
mirrors had been shattered to pieces. It certainly was not an accident, as
the mirrors were too far removed to be on way. I ventured to ask "collega,
masz problem?" "Tak" came the response. "Jaki problem." I proceeded,
encouraged by his willingness to talk. Usually it is dangerous to ask in
such cases. You could end up being a victim of transferred aggression.
"Niewiem co mowi", he said and switched to English, "I receive 42zl ($10) a
month, pay 6zl for WKD to and from Warsaw daily, 2.40zl for each ride in the
city bus! See what I mean?" "Hell!!" he yelled walking past me. It then
dawned on me. This pissed off refugee not knowing who to hit, decided to
vent his frustration on those harmless mirrors! Probably he looked and could
not recognise his image, who knows? I sighed, returning to my little space
to complete "Peace in Pieces". It was 2:35am.
Ride, race, strike! O despair!
Suffer me not to live;
Crown this curse!
Bind terror to death-
Back to nature this borrowed bane;
Dust to dust-
Breath by wind then to rest in peace ...
Pieces to merge with time
Never to take form
In any of the worlds;
If Pax should pine
In this millennium...
MOL SIMON.
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