Revolutionary

We had the extraordinary opportunity to host a revolutionary for three weeks in our new flat. Well, he wasn't quite as one might imagine a revolutionary - no beret, no cigar, no moustache or worn-out army uniform, not even a commanding presence, though he did enjoy the company of pretty women and seemed to make a most favourable impression on them.
He was one of a few dozen organisers of the revolution in our northerly neighbour country and was responsible for organising daily demonstrations in and around its capital city until the day he had to leave his country about a month ago. The country's secret service had caught up with him and twice he managed, only barely, to escape their claws. Once, after he had not seen his family for weeks for fear of putting them in danger through his activities, he missed them too much and went home for lunch. When he left their flat and walked down the staircase, the men in the leather jackets were already waiting for him at the bottom. He tried to make a run, but they caught on to his shirt. And then he managed the incredible - to leave them with nothing but his shirt in their hands, while he was running up the busy street. "Thank God the street was busy - so they didn't shoot."
Now, he fears, his revolution might turn violent - the so far almost entirely peaceful demonstrators might get fed up with being shot at and dying.
I wish them all the courage in the word.