I crossed paths with Idi Amin three times. The first was in 1966 when I was living in Machakos, Kenya.  Milton Obote, the prime minister in neighboring Uganda, had just crushed his rival, the Kabaka, with General  Amin’s help.  The thought that the military could unleash such violence was frightening.  Kenya was very peaceful, and we were forty miles from Nairobi, but still, the headlines were nervous-making.  One Saturday afternoon, I was in my front yard on the school compound. The road twisted through the school grounds with the school in the front and teachers' houses along the road farther in.  My house was the very last one.  I looked up and saw a large military lorry coming down the one-track road. Fear is irrational, but as that lorry got closer and closer to my house, with nowhere to go after me, I wondered what was going to happen next.  It pulled up in front of my house, and a uniformed man jumped out.  I was so relieved when he said, “Sir, where is the football match?”            

     My second encounter was in 1970 when I was returning to Kenya to do doctoral research.  I stopped in Kampala to see some friends at the university and to get whatever advice I could on doing field work.  This was a time when armed gangs, known as kondos, were running wild.  They would often close off a street in Kampala or surround a house and do great damage.  Many people were killed.  I spoke to a Kenyan grounds keeper at Makerere who told me that in Kenya thugs would rob you for your bicycle, but in Kampala, they would kill you for your pots and pans. He was living in fear.  That night I slept on the sofa in my friend Jack's living room.  The next morning, he came in from a inspection walk and said there were footprints outside the sofa window.  “Apparently, they saw you and decided to come back another time when the situation was more predictable.”  My friends were living in fear.            

     My third encounter was a year later when my research in Kenya was nearing its end.  Jane and I (with our small boys) decided to take a trip to Kampala.  We were driving in Jinja, an industrial city on the Nile.  Idi Amin had just overthrow Milton Obote.  He was rounding up the kondos and dropping their bodies into the river. The crocodiles were very happy.  In fact, a lot of people were happy.  This was a time when Amin was riding high, and the army was riding high.  Civil liberties be damned, the kondos were getting theirs. But Amin was also rounding up politicians who criticized him and judges who released criminals for lack of evidence.  And the army was doing what it wanted.  

     We were driving through Jinja late in the afternoon looking for someplace to get a meal. I was paying no attention to the fact that there was a military jeep behind me.  Even if I had been paying attention, I would not have know that in that environment anyone with any sense pulled over when a military jeep was behind you. The jeep  accelerated around us, pulled sharply in front of me and forced my Beetle off  the road. I was dragged out of the car and interrogated.  “Who are you?  What are you doing in Uganda?  What are those things in your bags?”

     Jane was standing there mute, holding Ted, who was one, while Greg, four, sat in the car.  I thought to myself, I am going to be beaten unconscious right here in front of my family. I told the soldier I was looking for a place to eat.  He seemed skeptical. He grabbed one of the bags and said, “What is in this?”  When he opened it, he was greeted by a smelly diaper that had been left on top. He threw it down, got in the jeep, and drove away

     Years later, a colleague offered a course on the Holocaust.  One of the readings said how people in the camps had to learn quickly how to behave around the guards.  I told him this observation was wrong. When someone has complete power over you, the power to destroy you, with no consequences, you do not have to learn how to behave.  You know instinctively what to do. You become small, deferential, quiet.  You lower your voice and your eyes. Your words slow down.  You agree to everything. Groveling is an inadequate word. I knew that if I were beaten, there would be a formal protest from the American embassy, and nothing more.  If I disappeared, there would be a short news item in the New York Times, and nothing more.  And I learned that in a situation such as this, salvation can come from unexpected quarters. I have always been grateful to my small son for his contribution to our family safety.