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@dimpolsss19: Switch niyo na pangmalakasan. 😁 #switch #outlet #wallswitch #goldswitch #trending

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Friday 22 May 2026 12:18:39 GMT
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In the first days of April 1979, as the Tanzanian army pushed into Kampala and eight years of suffocating isolation began to crack open, a British journalist walked up to the famous covered bridge that forms the entrance to the main reception of Mulago Hospital. There, Dr. James G.S. Makumbi stood waiting, no longer afraid, holding a small collection of personal effects towards the camera: a worn woollen cardigan, a pair of sturdy shoes, and a polished wooden walking stick. They belonged to Mrs. Dora Bloch, the 74-year-old British-Israeli hostage who had choked on food aboard the hijacked Air France flight and been taken to this very hospital, only to vanish after the Israeli rescue raid. With Amin now in flight himself, Dr. Makumbi was finally free to speak, and as the bridge bustled quietly behind him, he began to recount what he had witnessed on that night of 3 July 1976 from the sixth floor. “I had a scuffle on the sixth floor where she was staying and rushed to the stairs to see what was happening,” he said. Armed men in plain clothes, machine guns swinging, were literally dragging the elderly Mrs. Bloch down the stairs by her arms, firing into the walls and ceiling to scatter anyone who might intervene. Dr. Makumbi and others ran, then hid where they could still observe, watching as the men pulled her down to the second floor, where a black Mercedes-Benz waited with its doors open. They shoved her in, slammed the doors, fired wildly in all directions, and sped towards the main gate, and even as the car disappeared, her screams could still be heard trailing away into the Kampala night. Dr. Makumbi stated it without hesitation: “We know that she was murdered by the security services, the private security police of Idi Amin, on clear instructions by Amin himself.” The walking stick, the cardigan — they had been left behind in the chaos, and now, nearly three years later, they became evidence of a crime the dictator had always denied. The second voice came crackling down a telephone line from Israel. Dora Bloch’s youngest son told the journalist that he, together with a family friend, had already launched an operation to trace the missing tyrant. A substantial reward was being offered — the exact sum still being settled in consultation with British and Israeli authorities — for anyone who could notify their team of Amin’s whereabouts, and if possible, seize him and deliver him for trial in Uganda. The son was clear-eyed about the odds: if Amin had escaped to a country like Libya, there was little immediate hope, but if he was hiding inside Uganda or in a bordering state, they believed he could still be found. When the journalist asked whether the pursuit was specifically for the murder of his mother, the son’s answer widened into a terrible census of grief. “A wider range of crimes,” he replied. “The new regime has found that he’s accountable for the death of 200,000 or more people. Our case is famous, but it’s one out of 200,000.” As the journalist later stood on the Jinja road at Namanve Forest, listening to villagers count bodies by the orange tree, it was the image of Dr. Makumbi on that hospital bridge that held fast: the doctor’s hands holding up an old woman’s walking stick, her cardigan, her shoes, as if the objects themselves could cry out for justice. Kampala was finally opening to the outside world after eight years of secrecy, roadblocks, and terror, and these two interviews — the brave doctor on the bridge and the grieving son on the crackling line — were among the very first testimonies to pierce the silence. Dora Bloch’s screams had faded past the hospital gate that night, but now, days after Amin’s fall, they were echoing across the world, and a reward poster was being drawn up in the hope that the man responsible might yet face a courtroom in the country he had turned into a slaughterhouse. #ugandanstiktok #Amin #Mulago #israel #dorabloch @IDF @GOVERNMENT OF UGANDA
In the first days of April 1979, as the Tanzanian army pushed into Kampala and eight years of suffocating isolation began to crack open, a British journalist walked up to the famous covered bridge that forms the entrance to the main reception of Mulago Hospital. There, Dr. James G.S. Makumbi stood waiting, no longer afraid, holding a small collection of personal effects towards the camera: a worn woollen cardigan, a pair of sturdy shoes, and a polished wooden walking stick. They belonged to Mrs. Dora Bloch, the 74-year-old British-Israeli hostage who had choked on food aboard the hijacked Air France flight and been taken to this very hospital, only to vanish after the Israeli rescue raid. With Amin now in flight himself, Dr. Makumbi was finally free to speak, and as the bridge bustled quietly behind him, he began to recount what he had witnessed on that night of 3 July 1976 from the sixth floor. “I had a scuffle on the sixth floor where she was staying and rushed to the stairs to see what was happening,” he said. Armed men in plain clothes, machine guns swinging, were literally dragging the elderly Mrs. Bloch down the stairs by her arms, firing into the walls and ceiling to scatter anyone who might intervene. Dr. Makumbi and others ran, then hid where they could still observe, watching as the men pulled her down to the second floor, where a black Mercedes-Benz waited with its doors open. They shoved her in, slammed the doors, fired wildly in all directions, and sped towards the main gate, and even as the car disappeared, her screams could still be heard trailing away into the Kampala night. Dr. Makumbi stated it without hesitation: “We know that she was murdered by the security services, the private security police of Idi Amin, on clear instructions by Amin himself.” The walking stick, the cardigan — they had been left behind in the chaos, and now, nearly three years later, they became evidence of a crime the dictator had always denied. The second voice came crackling down a telephone line from Israel. Dora Bloch’s youngest son told the journalist that he, together with a family friend, had already launched an operation to trace the missing tyrant. A substantial reward was being offered — the exact sum still being settled in consultation with British and Israeli authorities — for anyone who could notify their team of Amin’s whereabouts, and if possible, seize him and deliver him for trial in Uganda. The son was clear-eyed about the odds: if Amin had escaped to a country like Libya, there was little immediate hope, but if he was hiding inside Uganda or in a bordering state, they believed he could still be found. When the journalist asked whether the pursuit was specifically for the murder of his mother, the son’s answer widened into a terrible census of grief. “A wider range of crimes,” he replied. “The new regime has found that he’s accountable for the death of 200,000 or more people. Our case is famous, but it’s one out of 200,000.” As the journalist later stood on the Jinja road at Namanve Forest, listening to villagers count bodies by the orange tree, it was the image of Dr. Makumbi on that hospital bridge that held fast: the doctor’s hands holding up an old woman’s walking stick, her cardigan, her shoes, as if the objects themselves could cry out for justice. Kampala was finally opening to the outside world after eight years of secrecy, roadblocks, and terror, and these two interviews — the brave doctor on the bridge and the grieving son on the crackling line — were among the very first testimonies to pierce the silence. Dora Bloch’s screams had faded past the hospital gate that night, but now, days after Amin’s fall, they were echoing across the world, and a reward poster was being drawn up in the hope that the man responsible might yet face a courtroom in the country he had turned into a slaughterhouse. #ugandanstiktok #Amin #Mulago #israel #dorabloch @IDF @GOVERNMENT OF UGANDA

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