Post
Log in
Dilman Dila
Dilman Dila
@dilmandila@mograph.social  ·  activity timestamp 7 days ago
Roughly a month after returning from Alabama, two FBI agents knocked on my door, wearing beige raincoats, badges in hand. The FBI—I was thrilled. Just like on television, I thought. After a few preliminaries, they asked what I thought of Marx. I said I had never met him. Not surprisingly, this Ugandan Muyindi had never heard of Karl Marx. “He’s dead.” I said, “I'm sorry, what happened?” “No, he died long ago.” I wondered why, then, the question. “Why, then, are you asking me?” They said that Marx believed that the money of rich people should be taken away and distributed to poor people. I said it sounded like a fine idea! At that point, they seemed to decide there was little point in continuing the conversation, and they left. That, however, was not the end of the story. I went to the library to look up Marx. Later, I would remind myself: the FBI intro- duced me to Karl Marx! This was 1965. It would mark my entry point into the civil rights movement. There was a student organization at the university called
Roughly a month after returning from Alabama, two FBI agents knocked on my door, wearing beige raincoats, badges in hand. The FBI—I was thrilled. Just like on television, I thought. After a few preliminaries, they asked what I thought of Marx. I said I had never met him. Not surprisingly, this Ugandan Muyindi had never heard of Karl Marx. “He’s dead.” I said, “I'm sorry, what happened?” “No, he died long ago.” I wondered why, then, the question. “Why, then, are you asking me?” They said that Marx believed that the money of rich people should be taken away and distributed to poor people. I said it sounded like a fine idea! At that point, they seemed to decide there was little point in continuing the conversation, and they left. That, however, was not the end of the story. I went to the library to look up Marx. Later, I would remind myself: the FBI intro- duced me to Karl Marx! This was 1965. It would mark my entry point into the civil rights movement. There was a student organization at the university called
Roughly a month after returning from Alabama, two FBI agents knocked on my door, wearing beige raincoats, badges in hand. The FBI—I was thrilled. Just like on television, I thought. After a few preliminaries, they asked what I thought of Marx. I said I had never met him. Not surprisingly, this Ugandan Muyindi had never heard of Karl Marx. “He’s dead.” I said, “I'm sorry, what happened?” “No, he died long ago.” I wondered why, then, the question. “Why, then, are you asking me?” They said that Marx believed that the money of rich people should be taken away and distributed to poor people. I said it sounded like a fine idea! At that point, they seemed to decide there was little point in continuing the conversation, and they left. That, however, was not the end of the story. I went to the library to look up Marx. Later, I would remind myself: the FBI intro- duced me to Karl Marx! This was 1965. It would mark my entry point into the civil rights movement. There was a student organization at the university called