unbuckle his Flail and wrap it around his hand.
The scene was horrific. At least ten men stood around a prone figure on the floor, kicking and screaming obscenities. They were an assorted bunch, all brown skin and gleaming brown teeth. Eeriest of all they all bore broad smiles as the figure writhed helplessly. They screamed “spy” and they screamed “coward” and they screamed “Zionist”. Their cries turned heads and I saw more men, more women, more bodies, pull towards the scene. Their mouths stretched wide with smiles but their eyes were anything but sympathetic. They came with clubs and belts and fists.
Omar threw himself into the fray with gusto, shoving men left and right. Youssef brandished his Flail but looked sick at the thought of swinging it against these men with whom only moments ago we had been celebrating so buoyantly. I even recognized one, a kind-looking middle-aged doctor whose first-aid tent we’d passed hours ago. His surgical mask was sprayed with sticky red as his fist smashed repeatedly into the bundle on the floor. I launched myself at him, knocking him out of the way and covering the broken body with my own. The action made no sense to me, then or later, but I absorbed the blows as best I could as I screamed at the horde “Stop! What are you doing? Stop!” Those same phrases, repeated, a broken record player paralyzed by shock. A shrill scream rent the air. I saw the doctor pull himself up and grab a shard of broken concrete off the floor, murder in his eyes. I knew how this ended. I knew how far short