War Zone, or Tehran in Unrest

I'm writing these lines among the sound of what I hope is not gunshots being fired. The sounds have moved to a few blocks away now. We are trying to circulate the air in the house to get rid of what I hope is not tear gas. Whatever it is, it burns the eyes and throat.
The fires are still burning in the broken windows of the bank at the corner. The gas station right across the street is all smashed up. The police sirens and car horns and cries and whistles of the people have just gone quiet.
Your shreds of doubt would be stripped if you could see me right now: head wrapped in a dripping wet towel (scarf actually) to fend off the last of the tear gas.
I'm not writing from east of Africa. I'm in Tehran.
It has been one hell of a night and it's not even dawn yet.