Private Dublin

Chapter 60

I’d experienced the violence of war. I’d seen horror up close. The anguish of a mother holding a dying baby, a husband lamenting the loss of his wife, soldiers weeping for their fallen comrades. I’d seen that same look in their eyes, desperately pleading, searching for an answer to a troubling question: How can I go on living in a world capable of inflicting such cruelty?

The hurt so profound and severe it would never truly be healed. The pain so deep it could cause unexpected anguish even years later. I still carried the psychological scars of combat. I’d lost comrades and witnessed atrocities and the suffering of others, but had come through unscathed myself. At least physically.

These men, these cruel men with their masks and weapons and chemicals, were bringing horror into the lives of people whose only crime was to have fled violence or persecution elsewhere. They had sought sanctuary somewhere they thought was safe and supposedly welcoming. On one level, I couldn’t understand civilians who would unleash such violence onto their own streets, who wanted to cause strife in an otherwise peaceful city, and who brought conflict and pain into their communities. On another level, I understood it all too well. These men had been radicalized into believing the poor families in the refugee center were their enemies, and as such they had to take matters into their own hands.

Misinformation, misdirected anger and mob mentality made radicalization a relatively simple matter in the age of social media, and it was easy to see the groupthink at work.

The masked men had gathered around the main entrance and were banging and brandishing their weapons, chanting racist slogans while flames spread throughout the building.

They cast a red glow on the masked thugs, making them look utterly demonic, and I watched as the first refugees tried to flee the building.

A man, his wife and their two young children, all dressed in pajamas, all terrified, were beaten back inside the main entrance by the vile thugs. They weren’t just here to cause trouble. It looked as though they wanted to murder. The children cried and the husband and wife begged for mercy as the thugs chained and padlocked the front doors from the outside. The desperation in the refugees’ eyes reminded me of the people I’d encountered in Sanctuary City, the temporary encampment in Temescal Canyon. Refugee outsider or impoverished citizen, these people were hated when they should have been helped in their time of need.

Every fiber in me wanted to run and help that family, but I knew I was seriously outnumbered. I needed a smarter solution.

I went through the gate and stayed close to the fence, skirting the perimeter of the property, until I was to one side of the block. I raced along the concrete yard until I hit a lawned area at the rear of the building. There was a small picnic area and playground, and it pained me to wonder how many young children were trapped inside the burning building.

I saw two masked members of the gang standing by the glazed rear fire door, holding clubs, waiting for anyone trying to escape. I knew I had no time to waste, and I was too angry for caution. I charged at the smaller of the pair, and as he turned and raised his club, I tackled him and sent him tumbling back. I wrested the club from him as he fell and turned to parry a blow from his associate. I rolled clear of the fallen man and brought the club down on the aggressor’s head, knocking him senseless.

His associate came at me, but he was poorly trained and my blood was up. I parried a couple of ineffectual blows before thrusting the tip of the club into the man’s chin. As he staggered back, I swung at him hard, catching the side of his head and knocking him out.

I ran to the back door and thumped on it as loudly as I could. After a minute of frenzied banging by me it was opened.

The man who’d been trying to flee with his family stuck his head outside cautiously. He saw the two masked thugs lying unconscious behind me.

“This way,” I said. “It’s safe.”

He nodded.

“Tell the other residents,” I said.

He ushered his wife and children out and ran back inside to yell something up the stairwell in Arabic. I guessed he was relaying my instructions.

When he returned, I pointed to one of the picnic tables.

“Let’s move this to the wall. You can use it to climb over,” I instructed.

He nodded again, and we ran over to it and each grabbed an end. We carried it over to the high wall at the side of the property, and as we positioned it, the back yard filled with people fleeing the flaming building.

“This way,” I said, when we’d set the table flush against the wall.

I helped the first people onto the table and over the obstacle.

“My name is Adel,” the father told me. “I will help get the people up.”

“Thank you, Adel,” I said.

He nodded and clambered to the top of the wall, where he set himself so he could help the other less capable residents up. Soon others were doing the same, and the crowd of people on my side quickly shrank. As they fled to safety, I wondered how many of these people were lamenting what had become of their supposed sanctuary.

“Oi!” a man yelled, and I turned to see one of the masked gang members peering down the alley at the side of the building.

He shone a flashlight in my direction and caught sight of the last stragglers fleeing over the wall.

“Get them to safety,” I told Adel. “I’ll hold the gang for as long as I can.”

“Don’t do it,” Adel responded as he helped the last refugee, an elderly woman, over. “They are dangerous. Come.”

I shook my head. “No. You need time to get these people away.”

I jumped down from the table, picked up the two clubs I’d discarded and prepared to intercept four men who were now running down the side of the building toward me. I wondered how many of them I could hurt before they took me down.