see the familiar face of a young man I spoke with earlier in the evening. He asks, “Are you all right?”
“I’m fine.”
I look around, trying to find Anita. Usually her blond head sticks up in a crowd. The young man catches my elbow as I am knocked off balance. People are running, pushing past us. “What happened?” I ask, but he doesn’t need to answer. I turn to see the riot police charging us, their batons raised in the air. Shields and guns, helmets and boots, the black sticks. We run. Everyone is running and shouting. Flip-flops slap the pavement, and behind them comes the pounding of boots. I feel little fear, only the clear-headed desire in the midst of noise and bodies to get away, to be safe. Several open apartment blocks are the only places that offer immediate refuge—the side streets are too far up the block.
I follow the white-shirted young man and two younger men who have joined him, boys really—neither of them can be over sixteen. Knees and elbows pumping, we climb up one floor, two, three, four floors—no effort at all, I might be flying—into a dark hallway. A woman has opened her door, she ushers us into the apartment. “Shh,” she whispers, “the children are asleep.” The room is lit only by bands of streetlight. She closes and locks the door, then we all freeze, because we hear the boots hammering up the stairwells. The riot police yell to one another. It’s depressing how easily their voices cut through the concrete walls. They begin to pound on people’s doors.
The woman holds her hand out in front of her, telling us without a word to keep still. For the first time, I feel real fear. Why have we come here? What am I doing? What if the police break in and discover us and this woman gets into trouble? What about her children?
They’ve reached the third-floor landing. Their voices are so clear that they could be right outside the door. The woman murmurs, “Come quickly,” and we follow her down a narrow corridor into a small room. I’m shocked: she has brought us to her children. She pulls boxes and blankets out from under each of their cots and whispers to the Burmese students. The white-shirted one translates: “If the police come in, you and he”—he points at the smaller boy—“will hide under there, and we will hide under the other one. But don’t do it unless they come to her door. She doesn’t want the children to wake up.”
I’m in awe of the slumbering forms. It’s too dark to know if they are boys or girls or one of each. How have they slept through the noise? One bare arm sticks out from beneath a blanket; softly bent fingers hook the night air.
We listen to the shouts of men and their thumping feet. From outside comes the crash of breaking glass—storefronts, windshields, streetlights—and people yelling.
The footsteps never come to the woman’s apartment; no fist pounds on her door.
The younger boys have begun to breathe more slowly. The mother brings us a tray laden with glasses of water. We thank her and gulp it all down. She and the young man whisper together, then he turns to me. “She thinks the police have gone. I will go on the balcony to see what’s happening.”
We follow him as far as the dark sitting room. When he reenters the apartment, he tells us there’s nothing to see; too many streetlights have been broken. Farther up the road, people still shout into the dark, and more glass shatters. We wonder if the police themselves are doing the damage, trying to frighten people.
Our hostess brings some blankets. We lie down on the floor.
Is the night long, or short? I nod off once or twice, but mostly I’m awake, listening to the breathing of the young people beside me. At one point, I drop into a disturbed sleep and wake up so disoriented that I thinkI am dreaming. Then I see the boys’ sleeping faces beside me, and feel a deep pang of sadness.
Young people always look younger when they are sleeping; the child returns with the slack
“I’m fine.”
I look around, trying to find Anita. Usually her blond head sticks up in a crowd. The young man catches my elbow as I am knocked off balance. People are running, pushing past us. “What happened?” I ask, but he doesn’t need to answer. I turn to see the riot police charging us, their batons raised in the air. Shields and guns, helmets and boots, the black sticks. We run. Everyone is running and shouting. Flip-flops slap the pavement, and behind them comes the pounding of boots. I feel little fear, only the clear-headed desire in the midst of noise and bodies to get away, to be safe. Several open apartment blocks are the only places that offer immediate refuge—the side streets are too far up the block.
I follow the white-shirted young man and two younger men who have joined him, boys really—neither of them can be over sixteen. Knees and elbows pumping, we climb up one floor, two, three, four floors—no effort at all, I might be flying—into a dark hallway. A woman has opened her door, she ushers us into the apartment. “Shh,” she whispers, “the children are asleep.” The room is lit only by bands of streetlight. She closes and locks the door, then we all freeze, because we hear the boots hammering up the stairwells. The riot police yell to one another. It’s depressing how easily their voices cut through the concrete walls. They begin to pound on people’s doors.
The woman holds her hand out in front of her, telling us without a word to keep still. For the first time, I feel real fear. Why have we come here? What am I doing? What if the police break in and discover us and this woman gets into trouble? What about her children?
They’ve reached the third-floor landing. Their voices are so clear that they could be right outside the door. The woman murmurs, “Come quickly,” and we follow her down a narrow corridor into a small room. I’m shocked: she has brought us to her children. She pulls boxes and blankets out from under each of their cots and whispers to the Burmese students. The white-shirted one translates: “If the police come in, you and he”—he points at the smaller boy—“will hide under there, and we will hide under the other one. But don’t do it unless they come to her door. She doesn’t want the children to wake up.”
I’m in awe of the slumbering forms. It’s too dark to know if they are boys or girls or one of each. How have they slept through the noise? One bare arm sticks out from beneath a blanket; softly bent fingers hook the night air.
We listen to the shouts of men and their thumping feet. From outside comes the crash of breaking glass—storefronts, windshields, streetlights—and people yelling.
The footsteps never come to the woman’s apartment; no fist pounds on her door.
The younger boys have begun to breathe more slowly. The mother brings us a tray laden with glasses of water. We thank her and gulp it all down. She and the young man whisper together, then he turns to me. “She thinks the police have gone. I will go on the balcony to see what’s happening.”
We follow him as far as the dark sitting room. When he reenters the apartment, he tells us there’s nothing to see; too many streetlights have been broken. Farther up the road, people still shout into the dark, and more glass shatters. We wonder if the police themselves are doing the damage, trying to frighten people.
Our hostess brings some blankets. We lie down on the floor.
Is the night long, or short? I nod off once or twice, but mostly I’m awake, listening to the breathing of the young people beside me. At one point, I drop into a disturbed sleep and wake up so disoriented that I thinkI am dreaming. Then I see the boys’ sleeping faces beside me, and feel a deep pang of sadness.
Young people always look younger when they are sleeping; the child returns with the slack
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