Jew Without a Gun

Check out this gripping account of an unarmed man and his family escaping from the mob during the 1992 L.A. riots. 

Jew Without a Gun

As we cruise through the chaotic streets, we spot fires burning all over the city. A canopy of red and orange spreads through the velvety darkness. It’s kind of beautiful, like a romantic J.M. W. Turner canvas.
Small businesses are deliberately torched.
Orange streaks of fire inscribe themselves against the velvety sky. It takes me a moment to recognize the distinctive signature of Molotov cocktails.
Los Angeles has turned into Fatah Land.
“Where’s the fire department?” Karen asks.
Looters help themselves to everything from television sets and stereos to diapers and liquor.
Every so often we hear the distinctive flat crack of gun fire.
Nowhere do we see any police.
Trying to avoid a massive traffic jam, I turn down a side-street. Karen leans forward, spots something and cries:
“No!”
Thirty yards separate us from a group of thugs who are chilling in the street.

Absolutely terrifying.