by Inka Piegsa-Quischotte

Created on: April 21, 2009   Last Updated: May 05, 2009

The unthinkable happened, when I was 34. My husband of only three years died in the worst possible combination of circumstances. On holiday and - he was murdered. In cold blood, by some thugs, who robbed him and, on top of it, were never caught and brought to justice. So the question of whether I was prepared for such a loss or not is mute.

At first, there was still hope, because he was alive when he was found. He was rushed to hospital but died the same night in surgery. The horror, the anxiety, the necessity to deal with an emergency like that in a foreign country where I had only rudimentary knowledge of the language blurred the first hours. I remember him, half conscious, holding my hand and urging me to come with him into the theatre and the incredible pain and anguish to have to let go of his hand, because I wasn't allowed to go in there. The last look - and still hope, that all would go well.

Then the wait, self reproach and remorse creeping up. Because, at that particular evening, we had had a row. Nothing important really, but I was angry and so was he and, to blow of steam, went out by himself to have a drink or two in a bar in town. Somehow, he must have taken a wrong turn and found himself in an unknown and dangerous area, where he was assaulted, robbed of his money, stabbed seven times and left to die.

'If only', went through my mind again and again. If only we hadn't quarrelled, over nothing really, if only I had gone with him, if only... Then, the door opened and the doctor came towards me. He didn't have to say a word, his expression said it all and I just fainted. When I came around, nurses and doctors were surrounding me and all I did was shout at them: "How could you let him die. You didn't know what you were doing, this country doesn't have qualified medical stuff...' and much more in the same line. Rage and hurt lead me to insult and offense. Fortunately, they didn't pay any attention to my ravings, just gave me a tranquiliser and kept me over night.

As this happened in a Muslim country, my husband had to be buried straightaway. Then there was the police enquiry and investigation and, to add insult to injury, even I became a suspect for a short time, because I didn't have any witnesses as to where I had spent the evening. But evidence, found at the crime scene cleared me immediately, but otherwise, the hunt for the criminals brought no results.

I returned home and that's when the full force of the loss really hit me. We had no children and our

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