It’s the third week of the student-led protests in Lyon, and the second that my university has been blockaded “in solidarity.” When clouds of tear gas drift onto my street on Saturday, it’s an almost routine sight. My neighbor across the road is sitting by his window, eating potato chips, pointing out some of the more family-friendly placards to his toddler. Smartly dressed shoppers move through the crowds with scarves as improvised gas masks. I decide to make myself some porridge.  

I am interrupted by a series of heavy thuds. Out of my window I see a group of balaclava-clad men taking turns to launch themselves at my neighbor’s front door. It eventually gives way, and they rush into his stairwell. The toddler begins to cry.  

Time to leave. I decide to take my chances on the street, in the anonymous crowd, rather than sit waiting in my apartment. But I hesitate over what to bring. How long will this go on? Will the building be intact when I return? All the while, the street fills with people, and the explosions grow ever louder. I pack a backpack with my laptop and a change of clothes, then head downstairs. 

Outside, the promised mass of lycéens, university students, and gilets jaunes occupy the neighborhood. Several placards call for an end to violence, usually that of the........

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