10th October 1972 – the day my family and I will never forget. This was the date circled in all calendars in our home and business as possibly the last day of our lives in Kampala, Uganda: the place where we had made our home for over half a century having left India as economic migrants, and now fleeing the country from persecution by Idi Amin’s forces.
My memories are of actual excitement, as a 9 year old, looking forward to a plane trip to London. We visited Entebbe many times socially for picnics, but now to be actually going inside the airport terminal and boarding the flight was all I could think of.
My father and grandfather had completed locking up of all the buildings carrying a large wad of keys, and that sight of locks being pulled and checked, especially the main gates as we exited the home and then the realisation of the finality of this was etched of my father, mother and grandfather’s faces. There were tears in many eyes, including our staff and their families who relied on us for their livelihoods over many years.
On the journey to the airport, we were stopped a few times by Idi Amin’s military officers to carry out checks, and although we had heard horror stories of being stripped searched and personal belongings confiscated, fortunately we seemed to escape mistreatment. Other families on similar routes out of Kampala were less fortunate, with women and girls especially targeted.
My next recollection is how I would get myself a window seat on the BOAC DCV10. The plane was huge up close, much more open plan than I had imagined but horrible beige interior. The Captain invited young fliers to the cockpit to take a look at all the dials and levers. I remember we all got a VC10 badge, which I wish I had saved for posterity. I can still remember flying over Lake Victoria as we took off and then disappearing quickly out of sight, the enormity of this journey still not truly being felt in my mind.
The excitement of flying lasted an hour or two and the only highlight I remember was eating trifle for the first time ever. We landed at Terminal 3 at Heathrow airport, dreary grey conditions, construction works everywhere, wearing two uncomfortable sweaters, expecting snow and ice! My father then said something I distinctly remember about staying close together in case we were split up, that scared me to the point of making me cry, that I may not be with my mother and rest of the family. I was extremely frightened and any excitement of coming to London vanished in that instant.
We were actually treated very hospitably by several people from the UK Ugandan Resettlement Board, and made to feel welcome and introduced to others who could explain in English and Gujarati about what would happen next. We were initially led to an RAF Camp in West Malling, in Kent to settle us for 3 months while plans were being finalised by local councils across UK on housing us locally.
My family visited and then chose to live in Hertfordshire, now celebrating 50 years.
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