Mid-1990s. A Reclaim the Night march built on the sanctity of “No.”

One woman says 'NO" clearly, repeatedly—eight times. The organiser overrides her, announces her name anyway, extracts a devastating story. The crowd applauds the “empowerment.” The only man in the room counts every refusal in real time and stays silent, protecting his fragile place in the space. He tells himself it’s respect. It isn’t. It’s comfort.
The next day he calls out the hypocrisy; he’s shut down. That night, bitter, he creates a graphic poster—exposed, swollen genitals, fingers parting them, captioned “NO means NO” and “Read my Lips,” branded with the movement’s name. It wasn’t critique. It was retaliation, using a symbolic woman’s body the same way the organiser used another’s story: mining flesh to make a point. Same violence, different dialect. Clarity without courage is just another form of damage. This early report sets the season’s unflinching stance: self-incrimination over self-absolution.