They sat with me in a small room under buzzing fluorescent lights for over an hour and a half.[9] A policeman finally arrived, but he didn’t know how to use the computer, so we waited another hour for a manual typewriter. Because of his excruciatingly[10] slow typing and the language barrier, it took eight hours to give my statement. I sobbed the first time I told him what had happened, but by the end of the day, I had repeated it so many times, I was numb.[11] He was accusing and angry and questioned everything I said. He insisted on four male witnesses to Sean’s death, which I could not produce. After a long argument with the Israeli women, he accepted their signatures instead.
It took a week for Sean’s body to be released to Bangkok. I learned from locals on the island, including the manager of my hotel, that the Thai prince was visiting the island and the police couldn’t spare an officer to finish the paperwork. During that time, reality began to sink in. I felt like a 28-year-old widow. I had been preparing for a wedding, a house, pregnancies, but in an instant those plans vanished. The Israeli women stayed by my side the entire week, insisting I eat, buying me bottles of water, and anxiously asking me to think over what I would say each time I phoned Sean’s parents in Australia. These women could have walked away from a tragedy that wasn’t their own. Instead, without even telling me, they changed their plane tickets rather than leave me behind.
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