Thank you for your introduction. I appreciate the invitation to come from Guatemala to Oklahoma City in order to speak with you today, because this is such a special occasion. Five years ago I was among the millions of people who watched with horror news of the bombing of the Murrah Federal Building. Almost three and a half years later I was among the thousands to experience a similar horror when a terrorist bomb exploded outside the U.S. Embassy in Nairobi, Kenya in August, l998. I was serving at the time as our Ambassador and my responsibilities gave me a particular insight into events surrounding the bombing. I accepted this invitation to talk about the journey back from terror as a duty to the innocent people who have died in terrorist attacks and as a salute to the courage of survivors.

My observations about the days and months after the bombing are, of course, personal, and while the story is unique, you may find parallels to other accounts of an aftermath of disaster. I learned that each of us walks at a different pace as we struggle to recovery, but we do pass similar markers. I hope by talking about what I experienced as an individual and member of a community, I will contribute to a growing base of knowledge about what journeys back from terror are like and how they can be made easier.

Let me begin by describing Nairobi's American Embassy community. Our embassy, like most others you find around the world, was an amalgam of U.S. Government agencies promoting U.S. interests. These ranged from regional responsibilities to support other embassies in Africa, to helping Kenyans deepen their culture of democracy, enhance economic potential, provide humanitarian assistance, eradicate diseases like HIV/AIDS and malaria and conserve a wonderful biodiversity. We were the second largest post in the sub-Sahara with over 700 employees, most of them Kenyan, working out of our downtown chancery and other buildings around the city. It was my first ambassadorship and, by l998 I had hit my stride. It helped that I had experience both in Africa and in Washington, where, by the way, I had led several crisis task forces. I was leading a terrific team of people who were excited about what we were accomplishing and shared my belief in the worth of our efforts and our community.

On August 7, 1998 the summer transition cycle was coming to an end. We were welcoming newcomers, filling the jobs left vacant by personnel gaps, and waiting for the American school to reopen and signal the end of summer. Friday meant weekly senior staff meeting, and I had asked folks to discuss how new people were settling in Nairobi, with a deteriorating infrastructure, miserable poverty and high crime rate, was not an easy city and we were always trying to find a balance between keeping people alert to security threats and scaring them into becoming reclusive. So, security was once again the main topic. It was unusual that I was absent, but I had an appointment to meet with the Kenyan Minister of Commerce, whose office was just behind our building and I didn't want to miss it. What was not unusual for a Friday was the activity in the embassy. People were cashing checks for the weekend, visiting the medical unit or coming to shop at the commissary, working through the last day of the week, thinking about the weekend. On the busy street corner outside, Nairobi's citizens were also going about their business.

A few minutes after 10:30 a truck entered our rear parking lot. The lot was sandwiched between the embassy, a 21-story bank building (where I was meeting with the Minister) and a seven-story office building. The two occupants of the truck tried to gain entry to our underground parking lot, and when one of our Kenyan security guards refused them, one got out of the vehicle to argue with him and then threw what we later learned was a stun grenade. The noise, which could be heard miles away, brought thousands of people to their windows.

Seconds later the driver of the truck detonated the bomb. Its force in such a confined area blasted through and bounced off the surrounding buildings. Everything and everyone in its path were destroyed. The seven-story building collapsed, the bank building shuddered but held. The embassy, built to withstand earthquakes, lost its rear wall and much of everything inside. Over 5,000 people were injured; most from shattered glass in the face and chest area and 213 lay dead. In the embassy, the blast instantly killed 46 of the l00-plus people inside; it injured and trapped many more.

Within minutes the scene turned to chaos. Thousands of people rushed to our street corner, and, even as they mixed with dazed and bleeding survivors, tried to help the wounded and began digging for people through the rubble of the seven-story office building. Within the embassy survivors grabbed wounded colleagues and struggled out of the building to regroup on the steps outside. There was no 9ll to call so our people organized themselves. Marine Security Guards and other security personnel set up a protective cordon around the building. Volunteers, including one of our summer hire teenagers, went back inside to rescue those who remained in what was now a death trap. Our doctor and three nurses set up triage on the sidewalk, commandeering private vehicles to get the worst of the injured to the hospital. While a couple of the secretaries recorded who was being sent where, others raced to the Agency for International Development (AID) building in another part of town to contact Washington and set up a crisis control center.

In the bank building a few yards away, I was oblivious to what was happening outside. Initially knocked out by the blast, which I thought was directed at the bank, I started down the 21 flights of stairs with one of my Commerce Department colleagues. We joined hundreds of bloodied people crushed together to descend the endless stairs littered with debris and rubble and soon engulfed in smoke. If we could get out alive, I kept thinking, we would find safety in the embassy. That thought evaporated as soon as we saw the burning hulk of our building and the carnage around it. I was spotted and pushed into a car that was ordered away.

"Get her out of here!" people yelled. No way would they we risk anything further happening to the ambassador. My colleagues and I sped to a nearby hotel, where as we had hoped, we found a doctor. As we were examined I listened to the frantic conversation on the embassy radio net. There was no time to think about anything but getting organized and getting help.

Kenyan resources were overwhelmed! Waves of walking wounded were staggering into understaffed and under-resourced hospitals and the bare hands of volunteer citizens were all that was initially available to dig through what was once our neighboring office building. We Americans were on our own.

While some of the staff cobbled together whatever supplies could be found for help at the bombsite, others communicated to Washington the start of a long list of Nairobi's needs. Teams organized themselves to search morgues, hospitals and homes for the missing, and community members fanned out to help the families of those we knew were lost. No task was too heroic or too mundane. Whatever panic we may have felt was directed to the singular focus of doing the necessary to save people's lives. By the end of a long day we had organized ourselves into a purposeful community.

By the time I got home that night, the 24-hour Operations Center was in its second shift and our colleagues in Washington, seven hours behind Nairobi time, were frantically expediting search and rescue teams and supplies. A medical evacuation aircraft was on its way, our most severely injured were in hospital, and we were becoming aware of our losses. I was too exhausted to sleep and afraid of the nightmares I may have. I remember lying in bed with a sense of devastation and numbness mixing with the very real sensation of the blast percussion captured in every cell of my body. The radio station was playing sad music in between calls for blood supplies. Downtown, the rescue efforts went on.

Over the next two days hundreds of people arrived from the U.S. and other countries to help, but already the initial crisis was over for U.S. in the embassy. Everyone we thought was still alive in our building was out, although it would take us three more weeks to find all of the missing. The most seriously wounded were prepped for evacuation; the bombsite was as secure as we could make it. In those long hours after the bombing we had become a tight, protective and insular community, utterly exhausted but equally determined to stay in control of our tragedy. As the one responsible for the lives of American citizens in Kenya I felt particularly strongly the need to stay in charge.

On Sunday, we gathered the American members of the mission to my residence to hold the first of many memorial services -- this one to honor and say good-bye to our l2 American colleagues who were to leave in coffins the next day. It was a beautiful ceremony as one by one we spoke of the character and contributions of the people we had lost. Among those to speak was my Kenyan driver who said "I am a Kenyan by birth but today I have become a Kenyan-American through the sorrow I share with you." His words captured the sentiment of many.

During the next week we began to cope with the trauma and sorrow. With the help of local and visiting counselors, we held debriefing sessions for all mission staff. We also organized another memorial service to honor 36 Kenyan employees who had died.

We faced a myriad of other tasks, but shared those with the people who had come to help us. While we were immensely grateful, we did little to try to incorporate them into the community - we were we; they were they. Even people who had transferred from the embassy only weeks earlier found themselves to be outsiders. I think in retrospect that we were not an easy group to help. Fortunately, the support teams were sensitive to what we needed and took their cues from us-- a gesture for which I will be forever grateful. When, eight days after the bombing, I ordered all mission staff to stay home and rest over the weekend, our visiting colleagues took charge without a question, a gift we desperately needed.

During those first few hours and days, members of our community were linked by common bonds of effort and sorrow. As a leader I felt an amazing synergy, made all the more powerful by hugs, sacrifice, tears and a determination to stand up to the terrorist effort to destroy U.S. If the immediate sense of one-ness dissipated over the ensuing months, the culture of interdependency we created remained strong -- and instrumental to overcoming the hardships ahead.

When I left Kenya with my husband in September to attend a memorial service in Washington, I remember telling my sister about the huge abyss I felt between my own shattered inner reality and the normalcy of life in the U.S. I was anxious to return to Nairobi not just begin reconstruction efforts, but also to take comfort among those I felt understood and probably shared these foreign sensations.

Others may have had the same need to remain together. The State Department gave all Americans at post the opportunity to curtail but surprisingly few chose to do so. Even many of the severely wounded opted to come back-- many with shards of glass still in them-- and two who had lost their wives decided to stay. Motivations differed-- children in school, reluctance to endure the additional stress of moving and starting new jobs-- but I also think that there was a shared sense that we could help one another heal and that reconstructing our organization would help. The courage I saw in the decisions and actions of others was instrumental in keeping me going.

It was not easy, however. When the rescue workers left, Washington's crisis task force disbanded, the press went on to other stories and we confronted a new reality. We were squeezed into a poorly constructed building with AID colleagues in surroundings that would make OSHA shudder. The barbed wire, sandbags, sniffer dogs and Marines in combat gear that provided our perimeter protection were a constant reminder of failure. Phones and faxes didn't work, computers, equipment and files were destroyed, and everything took too long to come together. We dearly missed our dead colleagues and quickly learned just how much the Kenyan employees in particular contributed to the running of the mission. Lacking a single point of contact with Washington once the task force disbanded, we became frustrated with our colleagues there, who now had other crises to tend to, and they became frustrated with us.

An ingredient of the culture we created was anger-- rage also consumed thousands of Kenyans who could ill afford to suffer the immense loss of life and property. The terrorists were far away and only vague figures, but we were still there. The sense of a Kenyan-American bond was temporarily shattered. Publicly and privately we were criticized for our reactions in the hours after the blast. The security cordon we set up was seen as an act of hostility and our focus on saving people in the embassy, a sign of indifference to Kenyan needs. We, in turn, were hurt and frustrated by their misunderstanding, and for a while it looked as if the terrorist efforts to divide communities would be successful. But on we plowed, adding a public relations component to rebuild the long-standing bridge of friendship between Kenyans and Americans to the many tasks we faced.

During the next three months I saw the huge diversity of human response to trauma-- Kenyans and Americans were all over the place in terms of their efforts to recover. Some of us were doing all right and some of us were not. Some wanted to move on with their lives while others still needed to mourn. Reactions had nothing to do with gender, race, culture or proximity to the blast.

Ironically, the counseling services we had engaged were largely ignored. We in the foreign affairs community are still reluctant to deal openly with mental health issues and many Kenyan cultures have a similar tradition of masking feelings. But it was clear that some of us were grappling with feelings we didn't like or understand. Some time in October, for example, three of us who had spent many hours in the building after the explosion suddenly became physically ill or emotionally overwhelmed by being in the old embassy. I couldn't understand my own reactions. The will, discipline and rational thought that had seen me through crises in the past were no match to what overpowered me after one seemingly routine visit.

By Christmas, when we-- and other embassies around the world-- confronted a real threat of another terrorist attack, I knew I had to take steps to take care of myself. A possible attack was not just an abstract concept and during one of our many meetings on security I wondered whether I would have the wherewithal to cope with another disaster. When we closed the embassy and American schools and cancelled holiday activities, I was at an all time low. Whatever had kept me and others going in the immediate aftermath of August 7 had evaporated.

It was here that the power of community kicked in. If at times some of us felt rotten, short tempered or off the mark in our performance, there were others who felt OK and could pick up the slack. It was nothing we talked about. It simply happened. The newcomers and temporary personnel who chose to leave their jobs and family to come to Nairobi to help us were a particular source of strength because they were so clearly dedicated and fresh-- and this time we made deliberate efforts to make them a part of our community. Physical proximity in the cramped AID building also helped, especially because we had established such important norms of tolerance and mutual support. At a critical moment, the positive forces of community counterbalanced whatever horrible feelings one of U.S. may have experienced. This was crucial to moving us on.

Observations and advice of people with experience of terrorist events, particularly those from Oklahoma City, helped greatly. So, too, did a study by one of our foreign affairs colleagues of the after effects of the bombing of our embassy in Beirut in the eighties. A sense of validation for the abnormal feelings some were experiencing gave a certain comfort. It was also reassuring to learn that feeling very little was also normal. The letters and eventually, e-mails of support from family, friends and colleagues around the world served to confront feelings of isolation.

We discovered rituals to mourn, celebrate and bring U.S. together even before the experts told U.S. they were important. The many funerals and memorial services we attended had served to share feelings of profound sorrow, but we reached a point when we needed a milestone to mark survival. The annual Marine Ball in November was our first celebration of life. I remember dancing to the Donna Sommers song "I will survive" as a virtual act of defiance. Visits of U.S. cabinet members and other senior officials also marked our progress as the focus shifted from condolences to business. One of these visits resulted in better-coordinated system with Washington to overcome bureaucratic logjams. Slowly but surely, the work became easier.

On New Year's Eve, we followed the embassy tradition of gathering at the Nairobi game park for a sundowner. As nature gave us one of her most spectacular sunsets, someone played a tape of Auld Lang Syne. We hugged, some of us with tears, as once again we shared a moment of solidarity, this time marked with hope. We had survived 1998!

That moment on New Year's Eve represented a turning point for me. Finally, it seemed, things were coming together. Office systems were functioning and we had found a building to which to move while a new embassy was constructed. Those of us who watched our Marine Security Guards raise the American flag on the pedestal we had saved from the old embassy felt that indescribable pride of being an American that is so difficult to explain to other people. With a supplemental budget passed by Congress, which included $30 million to assist Kenyans, we could finally have tangible proof of our concern and commitment to help. The criminal investigations of the attack were yielding results. The most seriously wounded of our colleagues were returning, new people were being hired and trained.

In January, we marked another step of our journey as we dedicated a memorial garden to our colleagues on the beautiful grounds of the Residence. The rim of its fountain was made of bricks inscribed with the names of all who had died in our building. For me, it was a symbol that we had finally gathered back the community that exploded on August 7. Bereaved family members from as far away as the U.S. attended what for many was an important ritual of healing.

Soon after, our focus and activities shifted. Like many of my colleagues, I was leaving Nairobi in early summer and preparations for a major transition began. Those who were staying would be moving to the new, temporary building or other quarters-- the AID building was far too insecure for permanent occupation-- and once the mission staff would be scattered around the city. The old embassy was being demolished and we needed to consider what would happen to the land on which it had stood. There were still a host of administration issues surrounding our assistance to Kenyan victims, the welfare of permanently disabled employees, the estates of those who died. We were once again a community of diverse individuals going separate ways in thought and recovery.

In March, we again sought the help of mental health experts and of trainers from the Foreign Service Institute-- the educational branch of the State Department-- to help us determine how we were doing as a community and to recommend ways to help ease the stressful time ahead. I was particularly concerned with Kenyan employees who bear the brunt of the changes. If counseling was not the answer for the confusion many still felt, perhaps less threatening methods through training could help build the skills and confidence necessary to confront more major change. We also worked through how we would deal with the long-term needs of the injured and unanticipated needs of those of us who would soon be scattered around the world. The Deputy Chief of Mission, who would provide the transitional leadership before the new ambassador arrived, and I met in groups with every Kenyan employee to respond to their concerns and give whatever information we could about their future. We made plans with the Kenyan Government and private sector to turn the old embassy site into a memorial park.

Slowly I became more comfortable that I had done my best for the community that had endured so much together. The rhythm into which our work pattern had fallen continued uninterrupted as the day of my departure approached. On the day before wheels-up, as my husband and I were bringing the farewell routines to closure, we stopped by the Deputy Chief of Mission's residence on a last minute errand. There, flanked on either side of the drive way was the entire mission community, smiling and waving as we drove in. Seven to eight hundred people had conspired to keep secret a going-away party for U.S. -- so much for knowing the community! The final ritual I celebrated with my community was extraordinary. We were OK! I could leave with a sense of peace and closure.

Over the summer a new community was formed at embassy Nairobi. The mission marked the anniversary of August 7 at the Residence memorial garden, while those of U.S. who were in Washington remembered and honored our former colleagues at a ceremony in the State Department. I sat through the ceremony clinging to the hand of the colleague who had walked those 21 flights of stairs with me and later exchanged hugs and greetings with some of the people with whom I had shared sorrow and trauma. Most of us had come a very long way in a year.

Last October, my husband, my personal assistant and I joined the American embassy community in Guatemala where we face new challenges and adventures. Now and then, unexpectedly, the grip of the traumas after effects still takes hold-- like the first time I drove into the underground parking lot of the embassy in Guatemala, a building of the same vintage as Nairobi. The sorrow I still feel is profound and, I understand will likely always be a part of me. But I have learned to just let it be, and that I can turn to others for help, not as an act of weakness, but as an act of inclusiveness that most people appreciate.

Natural disasters and, unfortunately, man-made terrorist acts are a part of modern life. Oklahoma City and Nairobi are not the only communities in this world who have suffered. I have met many survivors of terror in Guatemala, in the U.S., in news reports and history books. We survivors have much to offer the world because we represent just that-- survival. It's too easy to feel completely helpless in the fact of terrorism and I don't think it's necessary. We can anticipate the future, as this seminar has done, and take preventative measures, as the U.S. government has done. We can find the resources to better protect the many members of the foreign affairs community who still work in unsafe buildings around the world. But we can't ever guarantee we have defeated the threat. That's why it's important to learn how people survive.

The first night or two after the bombing of my embassy I kept wondering, "What's the point?" Well, I figured it out: the point is to kill, wound and frighten people into submission. A shattered soul, feelings of helplessness, anger, turmoil, mistrust, sorrow, and all of the other disabling effects of terror may bring us close but we don't have to stay there. We can walk away, as people in Oklahoma City, Nairobi and lots of other places have done, and we can learn to trust life again. The journey can be made a lot easier, I found, by harnessing the collective strength and power of the community. It can also be made easier by learning from one another and bringing the lessons into the discussions on terrorism. If we can't always defeat the bullies, we can sure stand up to them, and that's a critical step to conquering terror.

I am very proud of what we did in Nairobi and I'm proud of what you did in Oklahoma City. I think through our journey we brought dignity to those who died and helped to heal the souls of those who survived.

I celebrate and honor you.

Thank you.