I couldn't write on the anniversary. Thoughts of that fateful moment when we turned away from the embassy instead of entering as planned still leave me chilled.

The store where we were shopping for cough drops for Kent had long narrow windows and huge metal security doors. There was an askari (guard) at the doors. When the ground shook and the sky went sickeningly grey, there was this moment, this very long moment, when we could not conceive of the truth we knew. Then the askari was shutting the doors and bolting them securely against whatever inconceivable danger lay beyond. We were all thinking about the recent dissent in the country amongst the teachers, the banks, and more...it must be a coup! With that thought came fear, flooding over us all instantaneously. I remember the attempted coup in 1982, weeks before I moved to Kenya for the first time, which I am sure caused this same feeling in my parents. This time I am the parent. How could I protect James against what might follow? James, true to his age (5), was still excitedly exploring the bounty to be found in this wonderland of a store. Meanwhile I am wondering what if violence were directed at us? We were in the center of town where the most violence occurred in '82. Kent and I searched the store for anything that might offer protection, any small place where at least James could hide. The only reward was a can of "Doom," an insecticidal spray. Aptly named.

Eventually, as there were no more explosions, our fellows in asylum began discussing theories about what unrest had just occurred. There were multiple theories, but in the end we still did not know what to believe. I heard the askari talking to people near him, and moved closer to listen. They did not know. No one knew. After about an hour of this not knowing shared among strangers, we began to see a few people running by the windows. The air was still filled with the smoke and dust of disaster, and with cries and fear. Still, we had to know. The askari tentatively opened the door slightly, and then a nudge more. A few shadowy figures appeared, and upon nearing us became clear enough to reveal their wounds. The askari stopped a couple of people to inquire about what they knew. Only one could stop and speak, saying "The bank has been bombed!" Which bank? Where? If it was a bank, we knew it would not end with one bomb. To find safety, we would have to find a way out of the city center. After much hesitation and discussion, Kent and I decided we would go to our friend Mahendra's art gallery only a few blocks away. Only a few blocks closer to whatever had happened. Still, we knew he was most likely there, and he had a radio and telephone. Perhaps we could learn something. At least we would find a warm welcome and shelter.


Mahendra unlocked the door of his gallery and welcomed us in from a street covered with broken glass and ash, a street eerily quiet in the middle of the day, the sky still strangely dark. "Come in, come in!" After a quick exchange of are-you-OKs and what-has-happeneds, Mehendra found us all seats and offered tea. That was the sweetest, most comforting cup of tea. I do not even care for tea. Mehendra's son telephoned from Tanzania that a something there had been bombed shortly after ours, perhaps another bank? The radio offered more confusion. There was one sound missing-the sound of another bomb exploding. No sounds of gunshots. Somehow amidst the shock, a mundane fact surfaced. We had a stool sample in our backpack that needed to be delivered to the lab a few blocks away in order for James to be cleared to return to the states with us. For some strange reason we felt compelled to get it there, irregardless of what had just happened. So we went. On our way we passed a few people who said, "sorry, sorry." We did not wait to hear for what. When we arrived at the clinic, we found it strangely quiet. The few remaining staff told us that the doctors had been called to the hospitals to assist with the injured. We dutifully delivered our package. What next? We chose to go to the nearby Trattoria where I had dined many times over the years since I had first fallen in love with this country. We hoped we could feed our hungry child and, their television might offer a source of information. They were open! The television was tuned to CNN. We sat James with his back to the television to eat his first pizza while we learned the horrible truth. It was not the bank that had been the target, but the embassy. Our embassy. We sat, stunned, and watched with horror as pictures of the devastation only a few blocks away were beamed to us from our home half way around the world. We saw the bus that had parked just outside the Embassy, exactly where our bus sat just a few hours earlier, now full of charred bodies.

We were relieved now that James did not yet understand much English as we discussed what to do next. I still can not explain what compelled us to go to the site of the devastation. The sense of disconnect caused by shock and having CNN as our only source of information? I can not say with certainty. I can just say that it was the only thing to do. We walked slowly, keeping James distracted and making sure his gaze was turned away. We watched as they drove the charred bus, still full of bodies, past us, to where? We saw the huge pile of rubble left where the U.S. Embassy once stood, and the ruins of the bank that stood alongside it.

After the truth of the situation began to slowly sink into our consciousness, we took action. We realized that it would be morning soon back in the states, and friends and family would be wondering if we had been there. My mother was at her sister's in Minneapolis, and would be hearing the news ahead of everyone in California. We decided to attempt to reach her first. There were lines at the pay phones. We would try sending a fax or email. We went to a place we had used before...before the bomb. It is one of my most vivid memories of that day. The building that housed this little email service was close to the bombing. The windows all lay in shattered bits that crunched as we walked on them. The electricity was out, so there were many stairs to climb. And "open" windows to peer through at the strange sight of the Embassy and the bank as they now were. We finally reached the office and found a few others with the same idea. Unfortunately nothing was working, but they said we could leave a message and they would continue to attempt to send it. No sense of satisfaction, except that we had taken a step. What step next?

We began to realize our situation. All means of transport out of the city had disappeared, having left the city immediately when the first fear began. Our friend with whom we were staying, lives in a suburb near the airport. We all left her house together that morning, separating when we got off the bus at the Embassy and she stayed aboard, bound for another stop. She was headed to a nearby town. Hopefully she was safely outside the city. Now the only thing for us to do was to return to the safety of her house. There could still be more trouble in the city. But now, even if we could find a taxi willing to take us, this was a day when anything could happen. The unthinkable already had. How could we feel safe, whom could we trust? We went to a central cafe to quench our thirst and regroup. Clearly this was our lucky day. A man we had met some days earlier appeared. He was from the same tribe as James, and so we were sort of extended family, being here in Nairobi, each of us far from home. He greeted us enthusiastically, all of us happy to find the other safe. We told him of our dilemma. He had a friend who drove taxi. He said he would try to find him, and to find transport for us. He suggested we remain at the cafe while we awaited news of his success. We sat.

Our friend returned triumphant, and chose to accompany us so he could be sure we were... and we could feel we were...safe. For a price that reflected the unknown dangers that might lie ahead, we were finally ferried safely to the comfort of our friend's suburban house. As we approached the door we heard screams of amazement and relief. Jane and a few friends and family had been watching CNN on her television. As we arrived they were seeing the first bodies being carried away from the ruins, trying to see which were ours. For Jane knew we had planned to go directly to the embassy when we left her on the bus. We all hugged and rattled off questions and exclamations, speaking over each other in our excitement and relief. The hours wore on as we waited for more information. We magically got through to my mother in Minneapolis. We had hoped to wake her, saving her from the fear of wondering if we were dead. As ill luck would have it, she had wakened very early and, as was her habit, listened to the radio when she could not sleep. She had already felt the fear. We shared the relief of hearing each other's voices. Mom would call the family in California before they would hear the horrible news. Unfortunately, Kent's father had wakened early and watched television, also hearing the news of the acts of violence before the news of our safety.

Days passed while we attempted to stay under the radar. The U.S. requested all Americans to evacuate Kenya and return home. We were worried they would make it mandatory. With no embassy, and much of our paperwork gone, there was nothing we could do while we were within Kenya. We had a child with no passport and no visa. We called the emergency number given out for Americans still in Kenya. It was made clear to us in no uncertain terms that our little family did not present an emergency in their eyes.

While we waited and worried, back home there was action. One friend and neighbor was on the floor of the California Senate when she received news of the bombing. She quickly requested one of her staff to start gathering information. Her staff person worked all hours in an effort to find a way to get our new family home. Another friend and neighbor assisted. We had left copies of our documents with her. She became our point of contact in the states. Magic was at work connecting those who knew us as news of our safety spread among them. We still have copies of emails as people previously unacquainted came together over the internet.

I am humbled by the generosity of spirit we found in Kenya through the following days. People on the street would stop us and express their sympathy for the violence perpetrated against us. We never felt any resentment directed at us, which amazed me. After all, this terror arrived at their doorstep because of the US presence in Kenya. Everywhere we went we saw people with obvious injuries incurred in the blast. After greetings, the next topic was who among your friends and family had been injured, who was missing or to whose funeral you were going.

With no embassy, and much of our paperwork gone, there was nothing we could do from within Kenya. We had a child with no passport and no visa.

A few weeks had passed when we received a phone call from the U.S. embassy in Rome, which oversees U.S. embassies in that portion of the world. After the tireless efforts of our senator's staff person, requiring many middle of the night phone calls, the Ambassador in Rome issued James a humanitarian parole to allow us to return to the states. We had to go to the temporary embassy at the USAID headquarters in Nairobi to retrieve it. These headquarters were under heavy security. Vehicles could not get within one block of the building, stopped by cement barricades and armed guard. We had to bring our little boy past this frightening security into the building where we were treated with suspicion and rudeness. When we finally had the humanitarian parole in our hands we retreated quickly to the friendliness of the Nairobi streets. With only a letter from Rome in our hands, we had to convince the airlines whose staff had never seen any such papers before that we should be given our tickets home. Luckily for us they were very sympathetic to our plight, and finally we had tickets home! We were told that there was no way to know how South Africa, where we had a change of planes, would respond to this unusual paperwork, and the same with immigration in New York. No matter, at least we would be on our way home.

After bidding our friends and family in Kenya a tearful farewell, we boarded our plane with a very wide-eyed little James. We wondered how he would respond to this new adventure, but he greeted it with the same adventurous spirit he greeted all new experiences. When we arrived in South Africa, we had hoped we could go through customs to see a friend who was meeting us at the airport for a quick visit during our layover. But when we saw the long line, and realized that there was no way to know whether we would be allowed back in with such paperwork, we reluctantly turned back, with no way to tell our friend on the other side why we did not come through. We boarded our next plane with no trouble, and after a very long flight, arrived in New York. There we were led to the immigration office and asked to wait. We were so nervous about what to expect, but were treated very kindly, with much sympathy for our traumatic experience, and soon were cleared for our next flight.

After such a long time, and with the help of so many people, many of them strangers to us, we were finally home with our five year old son, ready to start our life as a family. Well, maybe ready but not so much prepared. Nothing in life prepares you to suddenly be mom and dad to a very spirited five year old! I will never forget that fateful moment we turned away from the embassy, a moment which preserved our lives while other perished.

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