“We need chaos, not organization,” I said, deliberately not looking at Bilal. “No one is more organized than Palestinians,” I began, mockery framing my words. “Look how we all stand so orderly at checkpoints, obediently producing our little green passes for our masters.” I looked around the room. Bilal had leaned back into the shadows and only a faint outline of his face was visible. “Remember when I fizzed a soda bottle in a soldier’s face? You all thought it was such a big deal, and the soldiers nearly shit their pants. Why?” I answered myself, pushing my neck forward: “Because it was a little bit of chaos in a theater of organization!”

I couldn’t tell if they were listening intently because what I was saying was profound, or because it was so ridiculous that they didn’t know how to respond.

“Soldiers love facing huge crowds throwing rocks at them, but they panicked at that damn soda fizz. Why? Because they expect rocks and Molotovs. We don’t surprise them. We’re organized into color-coded spaces, color-coded car plates. Just think of dancing,” I continued. “People don’t need to be told to dance. You just play music and their bodies know what to do. You can organize them all day to dance, but no one will move until you play the music. We just have to figure out what that music is that will compel individuals and small circles of people to act however they can all over the country, without trying to organize them in advance.”

Bilal began rubbing his brow. “You think resistance against a colonizing military occupation is like dancing?” The derisiveness in his voice cut me. Samer, who had slowed his chewing while I spoke but had gone back to audible speed, tried to change the subject.

Fuck this, I thought, and got up to leave.

“Wait,” Ghassan spoke. “I think what you’re saying makes perfect sense … in a strange way.” All eyes turned to Ghassan.

A look passed between Ghassan and Jumana. It was almost imperceptible, but it held an unexpressed smile. They had spoken about me in private; perhaps she had admonished him for being too hard on me?

“We don’t need a lot of people, not initially at least. We can make use of the few weapons we have for a couple of small operations. Depending on how successful we are, maybe we could confiscate more weapons from soldiers,” Ghassan said. “Maybe that should be our first goal, to conduct operations that would allow us to amass guns.”

They still don’t get it, I thought, though I wasn’t sure why and didn’t have answers to offer. “I think whatever we start should be with the goal of igniting imaginations for people to act in their own ways, and trust that they will imagine what we’ve not,” I said.

The silence that followed was suffused with possibility and history, like the underground space itself.