In the four years after she discovered her husband had been drugging her and inviting strangers into their home to rape her, Gisèle Pelicot liked to walk to clear her head.
Striding through the countryside alone, she would throw the questions that tormented her to the wind: “Dominique, how could you have done it? Why did you do it? How did we get here?” Asked what she was doing when she was disappearing for hours, she would tell her three children: “I am talking to your father.”
From his prison cell, Dominique Pelicot, who has admitted orchestrating the rapes at the couple’s home in the Provençal town of Mazan, could not answer. Nor would he when facing his former wife across a crowded courtroom, except to say: “I am a rapist … like the others in this room.”
The 50 men who appeared alongside him, charged with aggravated rape and sexual abuse, have also failed to explain their actions.
Why, when confronted with the inert body of a drugged and unconscious woman, did these “ordinary men”, as they were described in court, with ordinary names – Laurent, Nicolas, Philippe, Christian, Hassan – not leave? Why did not one of them go to the police and put an end to the decade-long abuse of a woman that could have killed her?
“The question is not why you went there, but why you stayed,” one of Gisèle Pelicot’s lawyers, Antoine Camus, told the court.
Camus cannot imagine why the men, who he says represent a “kaleidoscope of French society”, did so except for a lack of empathy towards their victim, who he says was treated as “less than nothing”.
As the trial enters its final days this week, the accused will be permitted a last word on Monday before the president of the court and five judges known as “assessors” withdraw to consider their verdicts and sentences. The public prosecutor has demanded a maximum prison term of 20 years for Pelicot and sentences of between four and 18 years for the 50 others.
Then, Gisèle Pelicot will walk out of court for the last time, flanked by her two lawyers, Camus and Stéphane Babonneau, who have protected her like praetorian guards every day. There will be a last round of applause and cheers from the crowd – mostly women – who have arrived at dawn to queue for hours outside the courthouse for a place in the hearing, and who have presented her with gifts and shouted “Merci, Gisèle!” as she left each evening.
A criminal trial aims to answer questions. During this three-and-a-half-month hearing, the accused have produced excuses but few answers.
Sitting in court, we listened to the men arguing that Pelicot had given his consent for them to rape his wife; that they had not “intended” to rape her; that what they had done was not rape; that they did not have the profile of a rapist and therefore were not one. That they believed Gisèle Pelicot was only pretending to be asleep. That they had too much testosterone – that it was their body, not their brain, acting. That they too were victims of her manipulative, perverse husband.
With Gisèle Pelicot unconscious and unaware of what was being done to her, the videos her husband recorded of the assaults were, as the public prosecutor pointed out, “worth a thousand words”. In them, we saw Pelicot directing his personal pornographic scenes, moving his unconscious wife – dressed in lingerie that was not hers and with crude messages written on her buttocks – into positions, holding her mouth open, whispering to his cast of naked strangers to “get on with it”, to do this, do that, or to get out if she so much as twitched. Defence lawyers tried to have those recordings struck out as evidence.
“It is evident that Mme Pelicot was not in a normal conscious state,” public prosecutor Laure Chabaud said.
“She was in a state of torpor closer to a coma than sleep. [This] didn’t seem to dissuade the participants, none of whom spoke to Gisèle Pelicot or sought her consent.”
Several of the accused did admit there was something bizarre about the scenario, as Pelicot instructed them to get undressed and warm their hands on the radiator because his wife was “sensitive to the cold”. But they stayed anyway. A few realised their “mistake” and were sorry. Others were almost defiant, shocked they were in court. Most deny rape.
Those facing the gravest accusations, of up to six counts of rape, sat in a second glass box on the left of the courtroom, stroking their chins, fiddling with their beards, bowing their heads or complaining to their guards that journalists were “looking at them meanly”. Those on bail and free to come and go went in and out of the courthouse with collars pulled up, hats pulled down and masks hiding their faces.
Giving evidence, the Pelicots’ younger son, Florian, dismissed the men as “not la creme de la creme”, but they looked ordinary enough in their jeans and leather jackets, anoraks, trainers and hoodies. Their backgrounds were varied and in other circumstances might have provoked sympathy – broken homes, childhood abuse, drug and alcohol problems – but there was no common thread. Many had no previous criminal record, although some were charged with possession of child abuse or bestiality images. They were all functioning adults, most with jobs, children and partners.
For Camus, their excuses are evidence of French society’s “culture of rape” being played out in real time. “These absurd suggestions, prejudices, hypotheses, preconceived ideas … all deployed before our very eyes, and all at the expense of Gisèle Pelicot,” he says.
In court, she would stare at them or the ceiling, listen to their excuses, dismiss their apologies, her face impassive. “She is disgusted, appalled and indignant … but not surprised,” Camus adds. Her reaction was the same as it had been when she had first seen the videos in the run-up to the trial: how could they? “She was waiting for the explanations, some kind of exchange, and she has not had that.”
The depravity of what the world has seen and heard will not be easily erased from the memory.
“We thought we knew everything men were capable of inflicting on women but never imagined a husband drugging his wife and offering her up to dozens of predators for 10 years,” said one woman who has been attending court to support Gisèle Pelicot.
The case has also raised broader questions over the toxic masculinity riddling French society, how the police, courts and society treat rape victims, the use of drugs in rape, and, of course, consent, or the absence of the concept in French law. In France, rape is defined as “sexual penetration, committed against another person by violence, constraint, threat or surprise”. The Mazan rapes have been shoehorned into the “surprise” category – but feminist groups are divided over whether adding consent to the law would be a good thing or simply place undue focus on the victims.
Statistics from the Institut des Politiques Publiques in France suggest that over a 10-year period there were more than 400,000 cases of sexual violence in France, 86% of which resulted in no action and only 13% in conviction. There are about 700,000 cases of domestic abuse each year, only 27% ending in conviction. Campaigners are hoping the Pelicot trial will signal a watershed in a country where the #MeToo movement has struggled to maintain much impetus.
The case has been shocking because of its scale and perversity, but we have been here before. In 2018, as French women began to open up about sexual abuse in the wake of the Harvey Weinstein scandal, a collective of 100 women, including the grande dame of French cinema, Catherine Deneuve, wrote an open letter saying it had all gone too far and was stifling men’s ability to seduce.
Blandine Deverlanges, a teacher and founder of the local feminist group Amazons of Avignon, says the Pelicot trial is already encouraging other rape and sexual assault victims to speak out. “Gisèle Pelicot has offered us her story and it is our story. She has held her head high and in doing so encouraged other women hesitating over whether to report rapes to come forward.”
The Avignon trial lies on a continuum that began in France in 1974, in Aix-en-Provence, when another Gisèle, feminist lawyer Gisèle Halimi, represented Anne Tonglet and Araceli Castellano, two Belgian women who had been raped by three men while camping.
Like Pelicot, they also waived their anonymity and refused a closed-door hearing at a time when rape was treated as a public indecency misdemeanour under laws that dated back to the Napoleonic era. Halimi said at the time: “You must convict these three men, because otherwise you will condemn women to never again be believed.” The men were convicted and the trial led to a rewriting of France’s criminal code.
Agnès Fichot, a lawyer who worked with the late Halimi on the case, says attitudes have changed in the past 50 years, but there is “still a long way to go”.
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Fichot argues the law does need a “consent” clause but that the burden of proof should be inverted. “It should not be for the victim of rape to prove she [has not] consented, but for the man to prove he had her express and clear consent,” she says.
Fichot has attended the trial and is astonished that none of the men recruited by Pelicot had considered reporting him. She is dismayed by their refusal to take responsibility for their actions. “Not one of them came out of that house and thought of going to the police to say there was a woman in danger, to tell of the horrors her husband was inflicting, so she could be saved.”
The videos ruled out suspicions, fostered by some defence lawyers, that Gisèle Pelicot had been complicit in the abuse. Still, they questioned her about her sex life – whether she was a swinger, an exhibitionist, an alcoholic, a manipulated and subjugated wife. One asked why she had not appeared angrier with her former husband, and why she had not cried more in court. As more videos were shown, the questions seemed as obscene as the images we were watching.
“I went to court hoping the [defence] arguments would be changed since the 1970s but they had not,” says Fichot. “The testosterone excuse was the absolute worst. It was the archaic argument that males, who have all the privileges and domination over women, have this weakness and we cannot blame them for it because they are male and have uncontrollable urges.”
It took four years after Pelicot, a retired electrician, was arrested in November 2020 for the case to come to trial. Until she walked into court in September this year, Gisèle Pelicot had not seen the man she once considered a “perfect, loving, attentive and caring” husband, father and grandfather, who she had been married to for 50 years, since he had been taken into custody.
On 2 November 2020, the couple left their neat home with a swimming pool, where they had intended to spend their retirement, to drive to the police prefecture in Carpentras. Six weeks earlier, Dominique Pelicot had been arrested for filming up the skirts of four women in the Leclerc supermarket. He had made a tearful confession to his wife, promised not to do it again and to seek medical help. He told her on this occasion they would be home by lunchtime.
But at the police station, a senior officer showed Gisèle Pelicot some photographs and told her what her husband had been doing to her for almost a decade. After the shock came the indignation that prompted the decision to waive her anonymity and insist that the trial – including appalling videos described by Roger Arata, the president of the court, as “particularly offensive to human dignity” – be held in public so that “shame changes sides”.
It was a decision that made the 72-year-old grandmother internationally recognised and gave feminists a new slogan.
“We warned her holding the trial in public would cause a storm, but it meant the outside world could look in and see exactly what had happened,” Camus says.
His fellow lawyer Babonneau says Pelicot’s determination that this should not happen to another woman is her driving motivation. “Normal people need to read about it to be aware it can happen. She was an ordinary woman, a pensioner living in the south of France … what could she expect from life: no trauma, no dramatics, a nice house in a nice village and she thought this would be her life for ever.”
Babonneau and Camus are struck not just by her former husband’s manipulation but his cynicism. The drugs he had been giving her had caused blackouts and memory loss. She had inexplicable gynaecological problems, and was convinced she had a brain tumour or degenerative neurological disease.
Her children had persuaded her to see specialists. She was accompanied by her husband, who did not once try to ease her fears.
“When she was tired, when she said she had gynaecological problems, Dominique would joke: ‘Gisèle, what are you doing at night?’ It is beyond belief. Disgusting,” Camus says.
He likens her betrayal to that of the moment in The Truman Show when the film’s main character discovers his existence has been a reality television programme. “He discovers that everything he believed was real is false … For Gisèle, it has been the same, except it was a pornographic film and the director was her husband.”
The trial will indelibly mark all those who spent time at it. Reporters who jostled for a seat in the small courtroom listened to Arata read the list of alleged crimes for each accused in a monotone, as if repeating a weekly shopping list: digital penetration, vaginal penetration, oral penetration, anal penetration, sexual touching. We would hear the most appalling evidence, see the most appalling videos and think nothing could be worse. Except the next day it often was.
Marion Dubreuil, court correspondent for the French radio station RMC, was there almost every day, live-tweeting and sketching those in the courtroom. “What saved me was documenting it,” she said. “I found sense in my work.
“I tell myself: this trial will change things. Rape is the most absolute crime; the most banal and the most common. Now we are speaking about it, people realise it is happening all the time. I see this in those around me. The trial has made them think.”
The public prosecutor, Jean-Marie Huet, who had originally wanted the case to be held behind closed doors, admitted to Gisèle Pelicot he had been wrong. “I salute your courage, madame, and your dignity throughout these proceedings,” he said. “We asked for a closed-door hearing without knowing the force of your character.
“In an incredible burst of resilience, you asked for a public hearing, and you were right, madame.”
Sitting in a local cafe, Camus taps the table irritably when reminded of the defence lawyers who have attacked Gisèle Pelicot.
“When people say she is not feeling enough hate, that she doesn’t cry enough … I ask, what do people want of her?” he says. “What do they expect her to do? Kill herself? That she is still standing is a testament to her amazing resilience.
“My preoccupation, my obsession since the beginning of this trial, is that she does not come out of it more damaged than when she went in and, in fact, I have the impression she has come out of it strengthened, strengthened. She went into it very fragile with her head held high and she has come out of it … with a sort of pride.
People will remember Gisèle Pelicot because there are many lessons to be learned from her and this trial. She is a monument, she raised her head, she lives, she refuses to be swallowed by the shadows or by hate.”
It is the job of courts to ask questions and dig out the answers. Reporters, too. In this instance, we have both failed. The question of how so many men were able to dehumanise Gisèle Pelicot will take psychologists and social anthropologists some time to unravel.
