The woman’s tongue was long, white in the middle and simple for the men to sever at its base. They dipped it in formaldehyde and framed it in a shadow box to hang at town hall as a warning to other women who might get ideas. The other women cut out their own tongues before anyone could take them. Some said it was resistance, some said it was submission.

The next generation of women were born without tongues, but they weren’t satisfied without a voice. They wrote essays, stories and articles that led to their kidnappings and imprisonment. Due process was suspended and penal colonies were re-established. Some graffitied poorly executed tongues that looked like worms across the backs of stop signs. Across the fronts of defunct accessory shops, a slogan in red lipstick saying, “They can’t jail all of us!”

Leadership was so fixated on tongues—what they could do, what they should do—that they didn’t know to fear the soft hands they held. The girls, Deaf and hearing, worked together to sign the desired downfall of leadership. Words were powerful, sure. They stuck their fists inside people and twisted things. But symbols toppled regimes. “We are stronger together,” they signed. Their joined fists created a circle to encompass them all. “We don’t have to live like this.”