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OBS! Denna textfil ingår i ett arkiv som är dedikerat att bevara svensk undergroundkultur, med målsättningen att vara så heltäckande som möjligt. Flashback kan inte garantera att innehållet är korrekt, användbart eller baserat på fakta, och är inte heller ansvariga för eventuella skador som uppstår från användning av informationen.
### ### ### ### ### #### ### ### ### #### ### ### ##### ### ### ### ### ### ### ### ### ### ##### ### ### ########## ### ### ########## ### ### ### ### Underground eXperts United Presents... ####### ## ## ####### # # ####### ####### #### ## ## ## ## ##### ## ## ## #### ## ## #### # # ####### ####### ## ## ## ## ## ##### ## ## ## ## ## ####### ####### # # ####### ####### ###### [ Looking Back In Terror ] [ By Simon Moleke-Njie ] ____________________________________________________________________ ____________________________________________________________________ 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. --------------------------------------------------------------------------- uXu #551 Underground eXperts United 2000 uXu #551 The uXu FAQ - http://www.uXu.org/faq.htm ---------------------------------------------------------------------------