When the verdict came down in the Gisèle Pelicot trial, it made international headlines. For nearly a decade, Gisèle’s husband, Dominique Pelicot, drugged her and invited strangers to rape her while she was unconscious, filming these heinous acts. Dominique received the maximum sentence of 20 years for aggravated rape, while 49 other men were also convicted of rape, and two additional men were found guilty of sexual assault.
Many victims would understandably prefer to keep such a case private, inadvertently shielding their perpetrators in the process. But Gisèle, now 71, made a different choice. She broke her silence and waived her anonymity to shift the shame from herself to the offenders. She is, without question, a hero.
Her decision to take this case public in every possible way ― down to pushing for the videos to be shown in court ― has done much to shift shame back to its appropriate place. It’s incredibly courageous of a grandmother without a history of activism to take such an unwavering stance. But as much as her bravery deserves celebration, the verdicts left me neither relieved nor hopeful for the future.
The scale of this case ― with 51 perpetrators identified and 92 recorded assaults ― is staggering. In U.S. legal terms, Dominique would be the ringleader of a RICO-style rape conspiracy. Yet, the French justice system treated it as a series of individual transgressions, ignoring the systemic misogyny underpinning the crimes. And, as this wasn’t a crime like fraud or bribery, I doubt we would have done any better here. It seems like the only time rape is taken seriously is when there’s DNA evidence, and the victim is dead.
Yes, the trial ended with guilty verdicts, but I was shocked by Dominique Pelicot’s sentence. Twenty years ― the maximum penalty under French law for aggravated rape ― feels woefully inadequate. It’s significant on paper, especially near the end of a person’s life, yet it feels like a drop in the ocean of justice that such a case demands.
How can 20 years account for nearly a decade of methodical, sadistic abuse that left Gisèle questioning the reality of her entire adult life and contemplating suicide? How does it measure up to the horror Dominique induced by drugging his wife into submission, and gaslighting her as he drove her to doctor’s appointments as she tried to solve the medical mystery of her increasing blackouts that he willfully caused? Or to the depravity of orchestrating a network of predators who exploited her body, treating it as an object, their own private property?
Prosecutors sought 652 years for all the men combined, but the total length of the sentences came to 441 years ― over 200 years short.
As I watched this case unfold, the most disturbing part was the excuses from this network of predators. Even with damning video evidence, many denied culpability. Their rationalizations ranged from incredulous to absurd: Some claimed they thought Gisèle was pretending to be asleep as part of a consensual role-play. Others argued they were told she had taken sleeping pills to relax before their arrival. A few even alleged that Dominique had drugged them, casting themselves as unwitting participants. One man dismissed his actions by saying, “It’s his wife; he does what he likes with her.”
Perhaps worst of all were the men who claimed it was “involuntary” or “accidental” rape, including one man who, as Catherine Porter reported, excused himself by saying, “I raped her with my body, but not with my mind.” This collective denial echoes a horrifying truth: Rapists, even when confronted with irrefutable evidence, often refuse to see themselves as such.
I know this denial all too well. I’ve been raped twice ― also by men I knew. One gave me Klonopin when I was looking for Adderall. The other was a family friend who played golf with my dad. I awoke from a blackout, knowing I had not consented. Days later, I got sick and gave birth to the tampon I had been wearing, which had gotten lodged in my body and decayed like a putrid, poisonous coral reef. I could have died from sepsis.
But I didn’t go to the police. Unlike Gisèle, I had no video evidence, and as her case proves, rapists don’t want to admit they’re rapists even when there is. All I had were text messages painting these men as nice, normal guys ― the kind of “Mr. Everyman” types who assaulted Gisèle. Unlike Gisèle, I was 21 and feared a character assassination. Unlike Gisèle, my rapes weren’t extreme enough to make headlines, but they were still life-altering, reality-shattering crimes against my body.
If you asked these men if they raped me, I’m sure they’d deny it, appalled by the suggestion, despite my attempts to tell them otherwise. In the “he said, she said” scenario that so often defines these cases, I knew justice wouldn’t be served, and I would only hurt myself by coming forward, by being an imperfect victim. So I just dealt with it on my own. I grew suspicious of men, even those I knew, and I hardened myself to the reality that rapists walk among us, often unpunished.
Some might argue that this trial represents progress: Gisèle’s public bravery, Dominique’s maximum sentence, and the convictions of 51 men signal a cultural shift. And to some extent, that’s true. Gisèle’s choice to go public, to declare that shame belongs solely to the perpetrators, is groundbreaking. It has inspired women around the world and brought unprecedented attention to drug-facilitated sexual violence, which accounts for over 20% of sexual assaults.
Yet these victories feel hollow. Gisèle’s case had irrefutable evidence, provided by tens of thousands of videos neatly documented in a computer file labeled “abuse,” proof most survivors of sexual violence can never obtain. Her age and grandmotherly image garnered her public sympathy that most victims don’t get. These factors make her case exceptional and highlight how far we remain from systemic change.
As Gisèle’s trial came to an end, I found myself circling back to the words of her supporters: The shame changes sides. Indeed, that shift is monumental, but it’s not enough. True justice requires more than symbolic victories and insufficient sentences. MeToo didn’t fix this, nor did Gisèle’s incredible bravery. Rape remains ingrained in our culture. Nick Fuentes’ “Your Body, My Choice” tweet said the quiet part out loud ― bodily autonomy is not a universal right.
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To truly enact change, we must dismantle the norms that enable men to view rape as excusable, accidental or inevitable. If this much evidence and a survivor as compelling as Gisèle cannot decisively change what the public demands of these perpetrators, what hope is there for the rest of us?
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