E-response to Cole and Krabill (Group D)

Suspending your critique for the moment, why do you think KONY 2012 was so successful at going viral?  Why was it so popular?  What makes it so powerful?

What could other human rights advocates replicate or mimic if they want to attain similar results?  What are the possible downsides for human rights advocates achieving these results?

Of the many critiques of KONY 2012 (both the two that we’ve read and others, easily available on the internet), which ones resonate with you and which ones do you reject?  Why?

In the face of the massive critiques of KONY 2012, what strategies can human rights advocates adopt?  More specifically, how do human rights advocates avoid being paralyzed by critiques like those leveled against KONY 2012?


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The White-Savior Industrial
By Teju Cole

If we are going to interfere in the lives of others, a little due diligence is a minimum requirement.

Left, Invisible Children’s Jason Russell. Right, a protest leader in Lagos, Nigeria / Facebook, AP

A week and a half ago, I watched the Kony2012 video. Afterward, I wrote a brief seven-part response,
which I posted in sequence on my Twitter account:

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1 of 8 4/16/15 10:29 AM

1- From Sachs to Kristof to Invisible Children to TED, the
fastest growth industry in the US is the White Savior
Industrial Complex.
9:33 AM – 8 Mar 2012

Teju Cole



2- The white savior supports brutal policies in the
morning, founds charities in the afternoon, and receives
awards in the evening.
9:34 AM – 8 Mar 2012

Teju Cole



3- The banality of evil transmutes into the banality of
sentimentality. The world is nothing but a problem to be
solved by enthusiasm.
9:35 AM – 8 Mar 2012

Teju Cole



4- This world exists simply to satisfy the needs—
including, importantly, the sentimental needs—of white
people and Oprah.
9:36 AM – 8 Mar 2012

Teju Cole



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2 of 8 4/16/15 10:29 AM

5- The White Savior Industrial Complex is not about
justice. It is about having a big emotional experience that
validates privilege.
9:37 AM – 8 Mar 2012

Teju Cole



6- Feverish worry over that awful African warlord. But
close to 1.5 million Iraqis died from an American war of
choice. Worry about that.
9:38 AM – 8 Mar 2012

Teju Cole



7- I deeply respect American sentimentality, the way one
respects a wounded hippo. You must keep an eye on it,
for you know it is deadly.
9:39 AM – 8 Mar 2012

Teju Cole



These tweets were retweeted, forwarded, and widely shared by readers. They migrated beyond Twitter
to blogs, Tumblr, Facebook, and other sites; I’m told they generated fierce arguments. As the days went
by, the tweets were reproduced in their entirety on the websites of the Atlantic and the New York
Times, and they showed up on German, Spanish, and Portuguese sites. A friend emailed to tell me that
the fourth tweet, which cheekily name-checks Oprah, was mentioned on Fox television.

These sentences of mine, written without much premeditation, had touched a nerve. I heard back from
many people who were grateful to have read them. I heard back from many others who were
disappointed or furious. Many people, too many to count, called me a racist. One person likened me to
the Mau Mau. The Atlantic writer who’d reproduced them, while agreeing with my broader points,
described the language in which they were expressed as “resentment.”

This weekend, I listened to a radio interview given by the Pulitzer Prize-winning journalist Nicholas
Kristof. Kristof is best known for his regular column in the New York Times in which he often gives

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3 of 8 4/16/15 10:29 AM


The Decline of
Why We Love to
Hate Kony 2012

The Soft Bigotry
of Kony 2012

Kony 2012:
Solving War
Crimes With

Obama’s War on
the LRA

The Bizarre and
Horrifying Story
of the LRA

accounts of his activism or that of other Westerners. When I saw the Kony 2012 video, I found it
tonally similar to Kristof’s approach, and that was why I mentioned him in the first of my seven tweets.

Those tweets, though unpremeditated, were intentional in
their irony and seriousness. I did not write them to score
cheap points, much less to hurt anyone’s feelings. I
believed that a certain kind of language is too infrequently
seen in our public discourse. I am a novelist. I traffic in
subtleties, and my goal in writing a novel is to leave the
reader not knowing what to think. A good novel shouldn’t
have a point.

But there’s a place in the political sphere for direct speech
and, in the past few years in the U.S., there has been a
chilling effect on a certain kind of direct speech pertaining
to rights. The president is wary of being seen as the “angry
black man.” People of color, women, and gays — who now
have greater access to the centers of influence that ever
before — are under pressure to be well-behaved when
talking about their struggles. There is an expectation that
we can talk about sins but no one must be identified as a
sinner: newspapers love to describe words or deeds as
“racially charged” even in those cases when it would be
more honest to say “racist”; we agree that there is rampant
misogyny, but misogynists are nowhere to be found;
homophobia is a problem but no one is homophobic. One
cumulative effect of this policed language is that when
someone dares to point out something as obvious as white
privilege, it is seen as unduly provocative. Marginalized
voices in America have fewer and fewer avenues to speak
plainly about what they suffer; the effect of this enforced
civility is that those voices are falsified or blocked entirely
from the discourse.

It’s only in the context of this neutered language that my
rather tame tweets can be seen as extreme. The
interviewer on the radio show I listened to asked Kristof if
he had heard of me. “Of course,” he said. She asked him
what he made of my criticisms. His answer was considered
and genial, but what he said worried me more than an
angry outburst would have:

There has been a real discomfort and backlash

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among middle-class educated Africans, Ugandans in particular in this case, but people more
broadly, about having Africa as they see it defined by a warlord who does particularly brutal
things, and about the perception that Americans are going to ride in on a white horse and
resolve it. To me though, it seems even more uncomfortable to think that we as white Americans
should not intervene in a humanitarian disaster because the victims are of a different skin color.

Here are some of the “middle-class educated Africans” Kristof, whether he is familiar with all of them
and their work or not, chose to take issue with: Ugandan journalist Rosebell Kagumire, who covered
the Lord’s Resistance Army in 2005 and made an eloquent video response to Kony 2012; Ugandan
scholar Mahmood Mamdani, one of the world’s leading specialists on Uganda and the author of a
thorough riposte to the political wrong-headedness of Invisible Children; and Ethiopian-American
novelist Dinaw Mengestu, who sought out Joseph Kony, met his lieutenants, and recently wrote a
brilliant essay about how Kony 2012 gets the issues wrong. They have a different take on what Kristof
calls a “humanitarian disaster,” and this may be because they see the larger disasters behind it:
militarization of poorer countries, short-sighted agricultural policies, resource extraction, the propping
up of corrupt governments, and the astonishing complexity of long-running violent conflicts over a
wide and varied terrain.

I want to tread carefully here: I do not accuse Kristof of racism nor do I believe he is in any way racist. I
have no doubt that he has a good heart. Listening to him on the radio, I began to think we could iron
the whole thing out over a couple of beers. But that, precisely, is what worries me. That is what made
me compare American sentimentality to a “wounded hippo.” His good heart does not always allow him
to think constellationally. He does not connect the dots or see the patterns of power behind the isolated
“disasters.” All he sees are hungry mouths, and he, in his own advocacy-by-journalism way, is putting
food in those mouths as fast as he can. All he sees is need, and he sees no need to reason out the need
for the need.

But I disagree with the approach taken by Invisible Children in particular, and by the White Savior
Industrial Complex in general, because there is much more to doing good work than “making a
difference.” There is the principle of first do no harm. There is the idea that those who are being helped
ought to be consulted over the matters that concern them.

I write all this from multiple positions. I write as an African, a black man living in America. I am every
day subject to the many microaggressions of American racism. I also write this as an American,
enjoying the many privileges that the American passport affords and that residence in this country
makes possible. I involve myself in this critique of privilege: my own privileges of class, gender, and
sexuality are insufficiently examined. My cell phone was likely manufactured by poorly treated workers
in a Chinese factory. The coltan in the phone can probably be traced to the conflict-riven Congo. I don’t
fool myself that I am not implicated in these transnational networks of oppressive practices.

And I also write all this as a novelist and story-writer: I am sensitive to the power of narratives. When
Jason Russell, narrator of the Kony 2012 video, showed his cheerful blonde toddler a photo of Joseph
Kony as the embodiment of evil (a glowering dark man), and of his friend Jacob as the representative
of helplessness (a sweet-faced African), I wondered how Russell’s little boy would develop a nuanced

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sense of the lives of others, particularly others of a different race from his own. How would that little
boy come to understand that others have autonomy; that their right to life is not exclusive of a right to
self-respect? In a different context, John Berger once wrote, “A singer may be innocent; never the

One song we hear too often is the one in which Africa serves as a backdrop for white fantasies of
conquest and heroism. From the colonial project to Out of Africa to The Constant Gardener and Kony
2012, Africa has provided a space onto which white egos can conveniently be projected. It is a liberated
space in which the usual rules do not apply: a nobody from America or Europe can go to Africa and
become a godlike savior or, at the very least, have his or her emotional needs satisfied. Many have done
it under the banner of “making a difference.” To state this obvious and well-attested truth does not
make me a racist or a Mau Mau. It does give me away as an “educated middle-class African,” and I
plead guilty as charged. (It is also worth noting that there are other educated middle-class Africans
who see this matter differently from me. That is what people, educated and otherwise, do: they assess
information and sometimes disagree with each other.)

In any case, Kristof and I are in profound agreement about one thing: there is much happening in
many parts of the African continent that is not as it ought to be. I have been fortunate in life, but that
doesn’t mean I haven’t seen or experienced African poverty first-hand. I grew up in a land of military
coups and economically devastating, IMF-imposed “structural adjustment” programs. The genuine
hurt of Africa is no fiction.

And we also agree on something else: that there is an internal ethical urge that demands that each of us
serve justice as much as he or she can. But beyond the immediate attention that he rightly pays hungry
mouths, child soldiers, or raped civilians, there are more complex and more widespread problems.
There are serious problems of governance, of infrastructure, of democracy, and of law and order. These
problems are neither simple in themselves nor are they reducible to slogans. Such problems are both
intricate and intensely local.

How, for example, could a well-meaning American “help” a place like Uganda today? It begins, I
believe, with some humility with regards to the people in those places. It begins with some respect for
the agency of the people of Uganda in their own lives. A great deal of work had been done, and
continues to be done, by Ugandans to improve their own country, and ignorant comments (I’ve seen
many) about how “we have to save them because they can’t save themselves” can’t change that fact.

Let me draw into this discussion an example from an African country I know very well. Earlier this
year, hundreds of thousands of Nigerians took to their country’s streets to protest the government’s
decision to remove a subsidy on petrol. This subsidy was widely seen as one of the few blessings of the
country’s otherwise catastrophic oil wealth. But what made these protests so heartening is that they
were about more than the subsidy removal. Nigeria has one of the most corrupt governments in the
world and protesters clearly demanded that something be done about this. The protests went on for
days, at considerable personal risk to the protesters. Several young people were shot dead, and the
movement was eventually doused when union leaders capitulated and the army deployed on the
streets. The movement did not “succeed” in conventional terms. But something important had changed
in the political consciousness of the Nigerian populace. For me and for a number of people I know, the

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protests gave us an opportunity to be proud of Nigeria, many of us for the first time in our lives.

This is not the sort of story that is easy to summarize in an article, much less make a viral video about.
After all, there is no simple demand to be made and — since corruption is endemic — no single villain to
topple. There is certainly no “bridge character,” Kristof’s euphemism for white saviors in Third World
narratives who make the story more palatable to American viewers. And yet, the story of Nigeria’s
protest movement is one of the most important from sub-Saharan Africa so far this year. Men and
women, of all classes and ages, stood up for what they felt was right; they marched peacefully; they
defended each other, and gave each other food and drink; Christians stood guard while Muslims
prayed and vice-versa; and they spoke without fear to their leaders about the kind of country they
wanted to see. All of it happened with no cool American 20-something heroes in sight.

Joseph Kony is no longer in Uganda and he is no longer the threat he was, but he is a convenient villain
for those who need a convenient villain. What Africa needs more pressingly than Kony’s indictment is
more equitable civil society, more robust democracy, and a fairer system of justice. This is the
scaffolding from which infrastructure, security, healthcare, and education can be built. How do we
encourage voices like those of the Nigerian masses who marched this January, or those who are
engaged in the struggle to develop Ugandan democracy?

If Americans want to care about Africa, maybe they should consider evaluating American foreign
policy, which they already play a direct role in through elections, before they impose themselves on
Africa itself. The fact of the matter is that Nigeria is one of the top five oil suppliers to the U.S., and
American policy is interested first and foremost in the flow of that oil. The American government did
not see fit to support the Nigeria protests. (Though the State Department issued a supportive statement
— “our view on that is that the Nigerian people have the right to peaceful protest, we want to see them
protest peacefully, and we’re also urging the Nigerian security services to respect the right of popular
protest and conduct themselves professionally in dealing with the strikes” — it reeked of boilerplate
rhetoric and, unsurprisingly, nothing tangible came of it.) This was as expected; under the banner of
“American interests,” the oil comes first. Under that same banner, the livelihood of corn farmers in
Mexico has been destroyed by NAFTA. Haitian rice farmers have suffered appalling losses due to Haiti
being flooded with subsidized American rice. A nightmare has been playing out in Honduras in the
past three years: an American-backed coup and American militarization of that country have
contributed to a conflict in which hundreds of activists and journalists have already been murdered.
The Egyptian military, which is now suppressing the country’s once-hopeful movement for democracy
and killing dozens of activists in the process, subsists on $1.3 billion in annual U.S. aid. This is a litany
that will be familiar to some. To others, it will be news. But, familiar or not, it has a bearing on our
notions of innocence and our right to “help.”

Let us begin our activism right here: with the money-driven villainy at the heart of American foreign
policy. To do this would be to give up the illusion that the sentimental need to “make a difference”
trumps all other considerations. What innocent heroes don’t always understand is that they play a
useful role for people who have much more cynical motives. The White Savior Industrial Complex is a
valve for releasing the unbearable pressures that build in a system built on pillage. We can participate
in the economic destruction of Haiti over long years, but when the earthquake strikes it feels good to
send $10 each to the rescue fund. I have no opposition, in principle, to such donations (I frequently

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make them myself), but we must do such things only with awareness of what else is involved. If we are
going to interfere in the lives of others, a little due diligence is a minimum requirement.

Success for Kony 2012 would mean increased militarization of the anti-democratic Yoweri Museveni
government, which has been in power in Uganda since 1986 and has played a major role in the world’s
deadliest ongoing conflict, the war in the Congo. But those whom privilege allows to deny
constellational thinking would enjoy ignoring this fact. There are other troubling connections, not least
of them being that Museveni appears to be a U.S. proxy in its shadowy battles against militants in
Sudan and, especially, in Somalia. Who sanctions these conflicts? Under whose authority and oversight
are they conducted? Who is being killed and why?

All of this takes us rather far afield from fresh-faced young Americans using the power of YouTube,
Facebook, and pure enthusiasm to change the world. A singer may be innocent; never the song.

This article available online at:


Copyright © 2015 by The Atlantic Monthly Group. All Rights Reserved.

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52 contexts.org

Try this experiment: Go to your college’s

or university’s home page and look for

the mission statement. Odds are high

that you’ll find at least one reference —

whether explicit or implicit — to the

institution’s promise to “produce global

citizens.” While this goal has become

widespread, even a truism, in higher

education, the particular construction

of this concept is relatively new. Histori-

cally, study abroad and a global educa-

tion were understood as the purview of

elite students, with the primary goal of

developing more complete, worldly, and

successful individuals. When “develop-

ing citizenship” was expressed as a goal

of higher education, such citizenship

was understood as national rather than

international in scope.

The production of global citizens as

a goal of higher education arises from

a particular mix of mediating factors in

the late twentieth and early twenty-first

centuries, many of which fall under that

ever-amorphous phenomenon of global-

ization: international monetary configu-

rations oriented toward global business

success; rapidly expanding (yet perva-

sively shallow) media focus on world

problems such as global health, human

rights, natural disasters, and poverty;

the rise of online learning opportuni-

ties across national borders; more inter-

national students studying within the

United States and more competition for

U.S. higher education institutions from

abroad; and the decreasing costs of

international travel for U.S.-based stu-

dents, to name but a few. One conse-

quence of these shifts toward a global

perspective is a much more widespread

expectation that some form of interna-

tional education be a part of every U.S.

student’s experience.

There are many reasons to applaud

the trend toward “globalizing” U.S.

education. Extending study abroad

opportunities beyond elite students

or institutions, and to locations that

push students beyond their economic,

physical and cultural comfort zones, are

significant achievements in their own

right. Likewise, increasing students’

sense of the necessity to understand

and be accountable for global issues

is a noteworthy humanistic endeavor.

In a country where shockingly few

national legislators have spent time out-

side of the United States or even pos-

sess passports, and where adults and

students alike have disturbingly limited

knowledge of basic global geography,

“The White Savior Industrial Complex is not
about justice. It is about having a big emotional
experience that validates privilege.”



american sentimentalism and the
production of global citizens
by ron krabill

Invisible Children founders Bobby Bailey, Laren Poole, and Jason Russell with members
of the Sudan People’s Liberation Army on the Sudan-Congo border in 2008.





53fa l l 2 0 1 2 c o n t e x t s

the internationalization of

higher education is a good

thing. Right?

What are some of the

unintended cultural conse-

quences of these programs?

American sentimentalism

can be seen as one such

outcome and the concept

provides a lens that clarifies

the dangers of these trends

without necessarily dismiss-

ing the benefits. Sentimen-

t a l i s m — e m o t i o n – b a s e d

claims to moral superiority

and as justification for one’s

actions — has a long track

record in literary and cul-

tural history, but it entered

the public eye most recently

and forcefully in the debate

around the Kony 2012 video

that went viral with over 100

million views since March

2012. This debate was espe-

cially evident in writer Teju

Cole’s scathing critique of

the video on Twitter. The

Atlantic magazine subse-

quently reprinted Cole’s

seven tweets under the title

of “The White Savior Indus-

trial Complex.” In this elaborated version

Cole notes, “I deeply respect American

sentimentality, the way one respects a

wounded hippo. You must keep an eye

on it, for you know it is deadly.”

Cole’s American sentimentalism-

based critique of Kony 2012 applies well

to the idea of global citizenship as it has

been deployed in the rhetoric of higher

education. This is more than an accidental

parallelism. The filmmakers behind Kony

2012—with its claim to help child com-

batants by making the Lord’s Resistance

Army leader Joseph Kony “famous”

through social (and other) media—have

utilized college campuses as a primary

speaking and recruiting grounds for their

organization, Invisible Children. Both

critiques and defense of the film center

on questions of generational differences

in engaging social media and politics.

So the connections are not incidental

between Kony 2012, larger mediated

perceptions of global issues, and the

expectation that international experi-

ence, particularly one that includes some

element of “helping” those whose sup-

posedly-exotic country one is visiting or

learning about, be part of a U.S. student’s

education. Both efforts rely on sentimen-

talism as the driving motivational force

for social engagement.

According to two of Cole’s tweets,

“The banality of evil transmutes into the

banality of sentimentality. The world is

nothing but a problem to

be solved by enthusiasm.…

The White Savior Industrial

Complex is not about jus-

tice. It is about having a big

emotional experience that

validates privilege.” Transna-

tional communications net-

works have helped amplify

the illusion that the expres-

sion of such enthusiasm —

whether via social media or

other information and com-

munication technologies

(ICTs) — has substantive posi-

tive material impacts beyond

the big emotional experience

of the enthusiast. The lens

of American sentimentalism

reveals some of the dangers

of framing the international-

ization of higher education

in terms of the production of

global citizens.

Like Kony 2012, global

citizenship practices in con-

temporary universities reflect

the assumption that aware-

ness of global problems is

a sufficient goal in itself.

Behind this assumption is

another, unspoken one:

if people become aware of horrifying

injustice, then they will take action and

the injustice will stop. This is the same

assumption that underpinned much of

the early work in human rights. However,

as contemporary human rights work-

ers have become excruciatingly aware,

changing people’s consciousness alone

is not enough. As sociologists might

put it, awareness is a necessary, but not

sufficient, condition for social change.

Ironically, increased access to mediated

images of issues around the world seems

to have increased many people’s faith in

Contexts, Vol. 11, No. 4, pp. 52-54. ISSN 1536-5042, electronic ISSN 1537-6052. © 2012 American
Sociological Association. http://contexts.sagepub.com. DOI 10.1177/1536504212466332

U.S.-based students become global citizens,
while residents of the Global South become
subjects of a global world order.

Author Teju Cole’s tweets are critical of the KONY 2012 campaign
and what it represents.

54 contexts.org


their own global awareness as sufficient,

even while cynicism regarding mass

media (and news media in particular) has

simultaneously skyrocketed.

While seasoned human rights work-

ers and sociologists understand that a

change in consciousness does not auto-

matically lead to social change, Ameri-

can sentimentalism invites consumers of

global citizenship campaigns back to the

belief in this simple causal connection.

Indeed, the ideal of global citizenship

as often produced in U.S. higher edu-

cation prioritizes the awareness-raising

and good intentions of some (U.S.-based

students) over the impact of those prac-

tices on others. An additional underlying

assumption is at work here: U.S. students

(and professors) inherently have the

power—often conferred by some com-

bination of access to disposable income

and social media—to solve global prob-

lems, unlike those whom they are help-

ing, who then come to be understood

merely as victims or as actors playing

minor roles in the drama of the student’s

global education. This dynamic replicates

the dual nature of colonial and postcolo-

nial government that scholar Mahmood

Mamdani outlined in his influential book,

Citizen and Subject, while extending it

to a global scale: U.S.-based students

become global citizens, while residents

of the Global South become subjects of a

global world order in which they are seen

as lacking agency.

The production of “global citizens”

also resonates with another common

discourse in the United States: “becom-

ing a productive citizen.” The implica-

tion of this phrasing is that a citizen

who engages in political, cultural, and

especially economic systems in the way

that s/he is “supposed” to, is more of a

citizen, a better citizen, than one who

is unproductive. The radical, the unem-

ployed, the hippy, the disabled, the punk,

the undocumented thus become less

deserving of civil, perhaps even human,

rights. Expanded to a global scale, such a

discourse of global citizenship allows, to

paraphrase Cole, the validation of privi-

lege side-by-side with the big emotional

experience of becoming a global citizen.

Like sentimentalism itself, all of

these dangers—the linking of produc-

tivity with citizenship; the division of

the world into global citizens and global

subjects; and the illusion that awareness

and enthusiasm are sufficient for social

change—display as many continuities

as disruptions with their historical prec-

edents. In the late 1960s, social critic Ivan

Illich famously told students preparing for

service work in Mexico that he admired

their commitment and good intentions,

but that they nonetheless were hypo-

crites if they continued. His speech, “To

Hell with Good Intentions,” has become

standard reading for students preparing

for service-learning experiences as part

of higher education, particularly in eco-

nomically underdeveloped communities

both locally and in the Global South. Yet

while awareness of Illich’s message has

spread, the fundamental dynamics of the

internationalization of education remain

much the same.

To take seriously Illich’s accusation

of hypocrisy, higher education needs

to rethink how it produces global citi-

zens, challenging the assumptions of

American sentimentalism that are deeply

embedded within it. Turning toward

international education policies of radical

reciprocity provide one route forward. In

order to achieve this, higher education

would have to abandon its superficial

invocations of global citizenship in favor

of a deep engagement with the substan-

tive, material, political and philosophi-

cal meanings of citizenship on a global

scale. Such a process would deprive its

students of the self-satisfied big emo-

tional experience of an exotic adventure

in helping others, in favor of a relentlessly

self-reflexive engagement with the reali-

ties of global inequality, the politics of that

inequality, and our varying individual and

collective responsibilities within them.

Ron Krabill is in the School of Interdisciplinary Arts

& Sciences at the University of Washington Bothell.

He is the author of Starring Mandela & Cosby: Media

and the End(s) of Apartheid.




Universities suggest that simply being aware of
global problems is sufficient.

To date, 3,590,161 people have pledged “to make Kony famous” by participating in
campaigns like “Cover the Night,” above.

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