The Foreign Service Journal, October 2018

THE FOREIGN SERVICE JOURNAL | OCTOBER 2018 13 blast. I now understand that the erasure of key memories in trauma is common, as some sort of protective mechanism. The sound was so loud that it could be heard up to 10 kilometers away. But despite being within 10 to 15 meters of the truck bomb, I don’t remember the sound at all. I do remember a feeling of pres- sure and being knocked off my feet. The air filled with thick smoke and dust. The pavement was covered in shattered glass and debris from the nearby buildings. I don’t know what happened to the man in the leather jacket. I looked around and saw Alice lying on the ground. Her leg was bleeding. I pulled her up by the hand, and we ran away from the blast area as fast as we could. We bumped into a police officer, whom we quizzed about what on earth had just hap- pened. Of course, he was just as confused as we, and was looking back in the direction of the embassy. By this point there was a vast mush- room cloud of smoke reaching up to the sky. Matatus were being loaded up with severely injured and maimed people to be driven to the hospital. We ran all the way back to our hotel. I was mugged on River Road by a petty thief—he stole my wallet with almost all the schillings we had. We saw several other muggings happen in those short minutes. It was chaos on the streets sud- denly, and it felt strangely post-apocalyp- tic, like the world was about to end. For some, it had of course. We were very lucky, considering where we were standing, to only have minor, flying glass- related injuries. At the hotel, some friendly Bosnians cleaned Alice’s leg with alcohol and bandaged it up. They had seen it all before, they told us; they had lived in a war zone. Upstairs, we showered to get rid of the debris and dust. I paced the room for hours in a panic, not knowing quite what to do. I felt guilty for years that I didn’t go back to help, but in a medical sense I was too junior to be of any use. We were young and terrified and all alone. Luckily we had just enough money hidden in another bag to escape on the night bus back to Kisii. I didn’t sleep at all for several nights; the adrenaline was too overwhelming. We went back to our village for another six weeks to finish the project. We moni- tored the news daily, and The Nation was full of stories of people trapped for days, the ramifications of the blast and the sub- sequent allied attack on al-Qaida bases in Sudan and Afghanistan. Nightmares started soon after—some- times replaying the events of Aug. 7, sometimes more generic threats to life. I always woke up in a panic, often leaping out of bed or hitting out at my long-suf- fering husband. Even now, I suffer with nightmares and insomnia. I still avoid central Lon- don, crowded events, and have had panic attacks in places where I feel unsafe (e.g., the Underground, at a concert or visiting overtly touristy venues). I am hyper- vigilant and have an astonishing startle reaction. As a doctor, I recognise that these are symptoms of post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD), but have so far failed to get help. I was working in London on the day of the 7/7 Tube bombs and helped to treat several victims, compounding the feeling that these events are more com- mon and that nowhere is safe. Despite this, I have been able to carve out a life full of meaning, with a happy family and many wonderful friends, and have developed a strong sense of altruism. I strongly feel the only way to overcome such sense- less evil is to try and live your best life, and build communities with your actions. I feel strong ties to Kenya and my Kenyan friends. I have visited many times in the years following the bombings and hope to take my children one day soon. Going forward, I am learning that hav- ing a mental illness is not a weakness that needs to be hidden away. In fact, I believe it to be a sign of strength to acknowledge, talk about and seek help for these feel- ings. More than 60 percent of people exposed to mass violence develop PTSD, and professional help is needed to recover. It has been easier for me to pretend that I am fine than to admit to my own doctor that I am struggling, but that is about to change. Writing this down has been the first part of that process. n Sarah McKelvie Oxford, U.K.