The Revolution Cookbook

23. Symbolic Public Acts - Protest Disrobings

After earning my Master's degree in International Relations from Yale, along with a minor in Arabic, I found myself a month later living in a tiny apartment in Amman Jordan, earning minimum wage, and working for an American NGO funded by a silicon valley billionaire.

Two weeks after I arrived, I spent all Thursday afternoon navigating the city’s bus system to locate a loaf of multigrain sourdough. Rebecca was having a brunch party the next morning, and apparently didn't have time to do it herself.

“Too bad you didn’t land a job at the state department,” she said as I left our office, her voice tinged with a mix of both sympathy and amusement. She frequently told me that running errands was part of the training process at the American Freedom Foundation.

In Jordan, Friday marks the start of the weekend, and the day when the weekend political protests begin. The Apricot Revolution was holding a protest the next day.

When I returned to our Samouraa Street office, I placed the bread, triple-bagged to keep it fresh, on her desk. Rebecca barely acknowledged my presence, her eyes glued to her computer screen. Media coverage had been quiet that week. The Apricot Revolution was her baby, and she hungered to see it flourish.

From the day I joined, we had been brainstorming protest ideas using Gene Sharp’s book, 198 Methods of Nonviolent Action. What everyone calls ‘The Revolution Cookbook’.

“Disrobings?” Rebecca asked to no one in particular. “That might work in Berkeley or London, but it's not the culture in the Middle East.” 

We were stuck on how to do step 23 from the cookbook.

“If I have to.” I mimed flinging my shirt off. Rebecca wasn’t buying, and remained in her own headspace, staring blankly as she thought of ideas.

“I have a concept!” she finally said.

“Which is?”

“Get us a baby.”

“A baby?” I asked, raising an eyebrow. I searched her face for signs of humor. Apparently, she was serious. “I don’t think we can kidnap a baby.”

“No, I mean find us a baby and a mother to attend the Zahran Park protest tomorrow.”

It was 4 PM, late for Amman’s working hours, but I set off on foot, and called on the 23 local NGOs we funded. This was the kinds of requests you didn’t type into emails. They said they would see what they could do.

The next evening, I guided a Jordanian mother through a thrumming crowd of protesters, as she held her baby tightly. “They won’t hurt you, a mother,” I reassured her, guiding her toward the frontline of the protest. “You are helping the country.”

We can stage theater, but we can’t control the photographers.

“Fingers crossed,” Rebecca murmured beside me, her excitement palpable.

From the crowd of protesters, a brick sailed through the air, striking the police line. Suddenly, chaos erupted. I heard the sharp whistle of the police commander, and then the riot police charged. In the ensuing melee, the mother stumbled, and fell to the ground with her baby in her arms. A half dozen photographers already had their lens focused on her.

That evening, activity on social media exploded with the image. A mother, cradling her naked baby swaddled in a white towel, collapsing to the ground as a furious-looking riot policeman loomed above her.

Outrage as Prince Hashem’s thugs attacked a mother! the posts screamed.

Prince Hashem had opposed Israel’s war on Egypt, and lost the favor in DC. All the American social media platforms began to amplify dissent against him. Posts criticizing Prince Hashem surged in the rankings, while those supporting the government were ghosted by the algorithms into obscurity.

Anyone defending Prince Hashem online, felt like a Yankees fan at a Boston Red Sox home game.

On Sunday, Rebecca was in a good mood in the office.

“I refuse to work on Sundays!” she declared. In the Middle East, Sundays are workdays, a reality we had to adjust to. “How about we get breakfast, and chill today?” she proposed.

I read between the lines— I would be fetching the brunch.

“I’m game for that!” I replied, mustering as much enthusiasm as I could.

“There’s a place on Kasaam Street that has…” Rebecca elaborated on her breakfast order, her eyes lighting up.

When I returned with her food, over mouthfuls of scrambled eggs and falafel, we dove back into Gene Sharp’s manual, discussing strategies we hadn’t yet tried.

169. Physical Intervention - Nonviolent Air Raids

Prince Hash m of Jordan, like all strongmen, was a narcissist. 

So last year, Rebecca had skipped ahead in the cookbook. She orchestrated releasing 100,000 balloons bearing Prince Hashem’s face, attached to a pig’s body, over the capital. The balloons drifted through the capital and made a mockery of his previously impenetrable security apparatus. This gained her enough additional funding to hire me and a half dozen local staff.

As our government changed their views on the country, American media also shifted the narrative, rebranding Prince Hashem from “Jordan’s New Hope” to “Leader of Jordan’s Military Junta”. Rolling Stone magazine articles wrote about his three wives, and his penchant for camel fighting.

44. Honoring the Dead - Mock Funerals

“Never forget. These people of Jordan are hungry for democracy,” Rebecca told me, her voice steady against the backdrop of chaos. It was only a week later. and protest numbers were ten times larger.

I surveyed the angry throngs in the streets, holding signs emblazoned with “Protect Our Mothers” and “Death to Prince Hashem” and wondered what kind of democracy they sought.

Rebecca escorted a BNN reporter through the crowd, looking for people who spoke English to interview.

“Many say you are hungry for democracy?” the journalist asked a young woman in front of the camera.

“We are hungry for democracy, and we are hungry for the death of the royal family!”

“Erase the last part,” Rebecca advised the BNN journalist.

In Zahran Park, the heart of the protest, I was struck by the sight of makeshift coffins lined up against the backdrop of the buildings. Each coffin was draped in a black cloth, a stark contrast to the vibrant orange graffiti that adorned the walls nearby—messages of resistance and calls for justice. 

The crowd began chanting, “Murderers!” their voices rising in a chilling crescendo.

“No one has died?” I asked Rebecca, incredulity creeping into my voice.

“We need this to resonate,” she said, her voice steady despite the chaos. “It’s not just a funeral; it’s a statement. We’re mourning future lives lost to oppression.”

As the crowd began to gather, I recognized faces from previous protests mingled with new ones—families, students, the elderly—all united by anger against the regime. I could see mothers clutching their children, their eyes filled with a fierce determination that spoke volumes.

A hush fell over the crowd as the first speaker stepped forward, a local activist. “Today, we lay to rest not just the bodies of those who have been silenced, but the very idea that our voices can be ignored!”

Cheers erupted from the crowd, a wave of sound that surged through the air, I felt the energy pulsate around me.

A group of young men, faces painted with the colors of the revolution, began to chant. “We are the dead! We are the living!” Their voices rose, echoing off the buildings, and soon the crowd joined in, a chorus of solidarity that reverberated through the park.

I felt a sense of belonging, a connection to something larger than myself. It was exhilirating.

Rebecca took the stage. I hadn’t realized how fluent her Arabic was until that moment. Her voice quivered with emotion as she spoke. “Let us honor their memory by fighting for a future where no one else has to be mourned!” Tears glistened in her eyes.

The crowd erupted into applause, I joined in, clapping my hands together until they stung,.

A commotion broke out at the edge of the park. A group of riot police had arrived, the crowd's mood tensed.

“Stay calm,” I whispered to those around me, my heart racing. The atmosphere shifted from mourning to defiance.

The police began to advance. “This is an unlawful assembly!” one officer shouted, his voice cutting through the murmurs of the crowd. “Disperse immediately!”

A protester stepped forward, his chin lifted defiantly. “We have the right to mourn! We have the right to be heard!” 

As the police moved closer, I felt a surge of adrenaline. This was it—the moment we had prepared for.

Rebecca whispered in my ear, “Let’s go.” 

I didn't want to leave, but she pulled my arm, and we started to make our way toward the outside of the crowd.

The first clash erupted after a protester threw a glass bottle which smashed on the pavement. The police responded with force, pushing into the crowd. I felt bodies jostling against me, trying to escape. The heat of anger and fear mingled in the air.

Rebecca led me down back alleyways to avoid the police surrounding the park. Behind us, the chants grew louder, a roar only interrupted by the burst of tear gas canisters. 

194. Political Intervention - Disclosing identities of secret agents

The protest had taken on a life of its own. Despite it growing stronger, Rebecca seemed sad it was no longer under her control, there were many uncontrollable forces at work with minds of their own within the Apricot Revolution.

I returned to work on Sunday morning, ready to buy breakfast. As I ascended the stairs, I spotted the family living below our office frantically moving their belongings out of their apartment. A red X was painted on their door, the mark for an enemy of the revolution.

“It looks like the Najjars are leaving,” I murmured.

“Apparently he works for the Ministry of Defense," Rebecca said. "And he seemed like a proper gentleman." She looked resigned to being a bystander to someone else's misfortune. Most likely, she was tired. Lately, we had all had a hard time finding food, toilet paper, and the others essentials of daily survival. The city was ablaze with unrest— truckers were on strike, hospitals were blockaded by their own nurses, and the prisoners at Makbahr prison had staged a jailbreak with the help of their guards.

“How can this get any worse?” I wondered aloud.

“Good news. The US just imposed a gasoline embargo,” came Rebecca's reply.

198. Political Intervention - Dual soverignty and parallel government

By the afternoon, Rebbeca appeared calmer, almost delighted with herself after reading updates from the protest leaders. “Good news. The protesters have just formed Jordan's new parliament within their holdout at Al-Zaytoonah University.”

"Really?"

I looked at her, she was biting her lip. There was something else she wanted to tell me.

“The bad news is my scholarship came through for the PhD program at GW, I need to catch a flight out this week. You’ll have to handle the rest of this alone,” she said. Her tone left no room for argument. She had mentioned before a degree from George Washington University could be her path into a real US government position.

“Me, here alone?” I asked. A vision of how much work was ahead, amidst the chaos of a city in protest, swirled through my mind.

“To celebrate how about we get lunch from Jubran?” she smiled.

"Sounds good."

Rebecca didn't say anything, and gave me her usual self-assured grin.

“I will go and pick it up,” I said, with as much enthuasism I could muster.

On my return from Jubran, I made a quick detour to my apartment. Inside my tiny space, I opened the fridge and stared at my 2-week-old tub of hummus. The electricity had been off multiple times this week because of a utility workers’ strike. I packed the hummus with the food from Jubran.

On Rebecca’s desk, I placed the hummus next to her serving of mezzas from Jubran. “Eat before it gets warm,” I said with a smile.

Revenge, after all, is a dish best served cold.

The next day, I moved to planning for the Revolution Cookbook's step 134:

134. Nonobedience in absence of direct supervision