The Foreign Service Journal, July/August 2018

58 JULY-AUGUST 2018 | THE FOREIGN SERVICE JOURNAL Our computers and servers were moved, and we installed a temporary local area network. With RIMC’s help, we installed a fly-away satellite communications kit and a TERP5 so our cable traffic would be operational again. They also brought a temporary telephone switch so that we could deploy phones on everyone’s desk. On Monday, Aug. 10, we opened our embassy at the new location, and people were able to get to work. About five days after the bombing, the chargé said that he would like me to take a rest (“I am not asking you to sleep, just lay down and rest a little”). I woke up about 25 hours later. Three weeks later, while I was getting the new IMO settled in, I men- tioned to him that my right leg had been bothering me the last couple of days—it was really painful. He suggested that I visit the embassy doctor, who had set up a clinic in another house. My entire body was heavily bruised from head to toe. I pointed to the general area where I was feeling the pain, and the doctor pressed down on my leg to test where it hurt. My flesh just collapsed under his fingers, and he said out loud, “Oh dear, dead meat.” I looked at him and said, “For once in my life, I wish you used a medical term that I didn’t really understand.” I had received a blunt force trauma injury during the explo- sion that basically “killed” that part of my shin, and now it had turned gangrenous. The good news is that the doctor provided exceptional care while treating this frightening injury, and my leg fully recovered, albeit with a beautiful scar as a constant reminder. Likewise, my nose. My husband’s close friend in Florida, Dr. Ian W. Rogers, was an exceptional microsurgeon, and he had seen me on the news interview I did a few days after the bomb- ing. Almost immediately after it aired, he was on the phone, tell- ing me exactly what I needed to do to fix my nose until he could work on it when I returned to the United States. My son’s question still haunts me to this day. During the lead up to our separated tours, we had been explaining, “You will go with Daddy to Nairobi, and Mummy is going to Dar.” He had understood that to mean: “Mummy is going to die.” That almost became a reality. Hit with Disbelief, Disorientation and Fear Justina “Tina” Mdobilu Translator and Political Assistant (FSN) The terrorist attack at the American embassy in Dar es Salaam continues to affect me, those close to me and, surprisingly, those I meet daily. Immediately after the blast I was hit with disbelief, disori- entation and fear. Some colleagues and I were taken by first responders to Muhimbili National Hospital for treatment. At the registration desk, as hard as I tried, I could not remember my family name, and so they only entered my first name initially. In a specialized ward, I encountered chaos as I tried to answer questions from anxious relatives who were looking for loved ones. The nurses were particularly concerned about me because I was eight months pregnant, and they feared I might lose the child. After a doctor allowed me to go home, in confusion, I went to my parents’ house instead. There I found anxious relatives who had heard the news on the radio. After I returned to my own home, I discovered a relative had already called my family to say that I was dead. After a few months I noticed I was becoming withdrawn and lacked confidence at the office. I was also losing interest in activities that were not strictly related to work. This was the beginning of two years of post-traumatic stress disorder, severe anxiety, panic attacks and claustrophobia. Not wanting to lose my job, I had to find ways of coping with my elevated percep- tion of danger, like looking for seating near doors. I once asked a supervisor if I could step outside the office because I found it hard to breathe inside. I particularly remember a trip where I escorted the ambas- sador upcountry by plane. I arrived at our destination with pain in my neck because of the tension of feeling claustrophobic and the fear of having a panic attack in mid-air. I later learned there were others who were suffering as I was, and that a colleague had suffered a mental breakdown. One month after the bombing, I gave birth to a healthy boy. My husband and I named him Immanuel, meaning “God with us,” and we were thankful for life. However, it was during this time that I realized that I could barely hear with my right ear, and I wondered what this would do to my career as an interpreter/ translator. I now live in the United States and work as an interpreter for Swahili-speaking refugees. I sometimes have to ask my clients to speak more slowly, to repeat what they just said or ensure that I see their faces if they are speaking rapidly, because otherwise I I am careful about what I allow into my mind, and so I study my Bible and read motivational books. —Justina Mdobilu