The smashing of glass mixed with delighted whoops and angered shouting makes my eyes fly open, confused as I stare around my dark room, though the flicker of orange from behind my curtains has me shooting out of bed and rushing to look outside in a flash. Behind the glass, the world is black and orange – black sky, dark shadows, men dressed in black clothing as they rush around under the orange street lamps, fire flickering as it consumes a car surrounded by my neighbours screaming and shouting.
But these men in black don’t seem to care – they are too quick and can easily dart away from the still sleepy car owner without much trouble. Judging from their whoops and catcalls, which echo up and down the street, they are young and cocky with the safety of their masks over their faces.
I had heard of the riots in the papers – the tales of protest marches turned violent and youths doing whatever they could to get their voices heard. I never expected it to break free from the heart of the city where it all began and stretch out to suburbia.