I’m running as fast as my asthmatic lungs will allow in the midst of what can only be called a mob. My friend from back home and I hold hands so that we won’t loose each other, but I’m holding him back a little. He’s in much better shape than I am and he’d probably be out of range of the tear gas by now if it wasn’t for me.
A phalanx of riot cops is getting closer and I let go of my friend’s hand, so that at least one of us can get away. He darts ahead of me onto a side street. I’m small, and now I’m by myself, so I’m not attracting much attention from the cops. I raise my hands in the air to show that I’m giving in, and let the cops push me in the direction that they are pushing all of us — conventional protester and black clad rioter alike — down a blocked side street.
Probably there is no way out of this alley; it’s a trap, but the tear gas is too thick at this point for me to resist.