Patriarchy is in the dock at Gisèle Pélicot rape trial

I think about it every single day, several times a day. It’s a mass rape trial taking place in the quiet, medieval town of Mazan.

It is claimed that over a period of 10 years, Gisèle Pélicot’s husband, Dominique, repeatedly drugged her and permitted the assaults, which he filmed, using the footage both for his own gratification and as leverage over the perpetrators, ultimately leading to their identification and prosecution.

Pélicot took the decision to waive her right to anonymity. In a remarkable display of courage, she did it so the men responsible could also be named, exposing the entrenched culture of violence and impunity that continues to pervade French society.

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With #MeTo, I often felt that France lagged behind, not fully reckoning with the patriarchal culture that still clings to our everyday interactions. Now, however, with this trial dominating headlines and conversations, it feels like a shift is finally happening.

I’ve been having conversations with the men in my life. There’s a level of discomfort, a reckoning I haven’t seen before, as they begin to understand that this case isn’t just about one woman’s suffering or a handful of “bad men.” It’s about the system that enables this violence, the culture that makes it so pervasive.

Pélicot’s decision to demand an open trial marked a ground-breaking moment in the fight against sexual violence. By choosing to expose the atrocities she endured in full public view, she forced society to confront not only the crimes themselves but also the broader culture that enabled such violence.

This trial was not just about seeking justice for her personal suffering. It was about shifting the narrative around shame, accountability, and transparency in cases of sexual assault.

Gisele Pelicot speaks to media as she leaves the Avignon court house (Image: AP Photo/Lewis Joly)

In refusing to allow her trial to be held in private, Pélicot became an icon for the feminist movement and a symbol for all victims of sexual violence. Her insistence on public scrutiny moved the focus from her own experience of shame – so often placed on victims of sexual violence – onto her attackers.

The fact that Pélicot could stand in court, recount her trauma, and demand that her story be heard without anonymity or fear was truly revolutionary. It echoed a central feminist message: the shame belongs to the abusers, not the victim.

Pélicot’s stance is particularly significant because, by keeping the trial open to public scrutiny, she also exposed the misogynistic and cruel tactics often employed by defence lawyers in rape cases.

The line of questioning Pélicot faced – questions that implicitly blamed her for the violence she endured, suggesting she somehow invited it – was shocking in its cruelty. Yet, because the trial was held openly, these tactics were exposed to the world, igniting widespread public outrage.

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Pélicot’s refusal to let her trial remain hidden forced the public to confront the ugliness of patriarchal violence in its rawest form. Had this trial been behind closed doors, would society have been compelled to reckon with it? The answer is likely no.

As a consequence, the trial has ignited intense debate around the “Not All Men” defence, a familiar refrain that surfaces whenever violence against women is exposed. The argument, often presented by men as a way to distance themselves from the horrors of sexual violence, goes something like: “Not all men are rapists,” or “You can’t blame all men for the actions of a few.”

However, the diversity of Pélicot’s accused attackers – 50 men from all walks of life – simply shatters this simplistic and defensive response. These men weren’t the stereotypical “monsters” society often imagines when thinking about rapists.

They were fathers, grandfathers, nurses, journalists, truck drivers, construction workers – ordinary men you encounter in everyday life, men who could easily be your neighbour, your colleague, your family member.

Gisele Pelicot's bravery has shone a light on misogyny in France (Image: AP Photo/Lewis Joly)

They spanned generations, with ages ranging from their 20s to their 70s. They weren’t confined to any particular class, ethnicity or religion. But they were all happy to rape an unconscious woman, expose her to diseases, destroy her in this way.

This fact is crucial. It demonstrates that sexual violence knows no boundaries. It is not limited to men from marginalised groups, nor does it adhere to the racialised and class-based stereotypes society often uses to scapegoat certain communities.

The real threat comes from patriarchy itself, a system that crosses all social, racial, and economic lines. It is the cultural conditioning of men – the entitlement over women’s bodies – that breeds violence, not their individual backgrounds.

Recognising this reality obliterates the myth that sexual violence is an anomaly, something that only happens in the dark corners of society. The fact that Pélicot’s attackers came from all walks of life highlights a stark truth – patriarchy is everywhere and conditions all men.

When men invoke the “Not All Men” argument, they are deflecting from the real issue: the widespread, systemic nature of patriarchy. Yes, not all men rape, but all men are socialised in a society that normalises the objectification of women, that teaches men – whether consciously or unconsciously – that women’s bodies are available to them.

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Take the mayor of Mazan, who came under intense criticism after an interview with the BBC. He said: “When there are kids involved or women killed then that’s very serious because there’s no way back. In this case, the family will have to rebuild itself. It will be hard. But they’re not dead so they can still do it.”

THE fact he was happy to downplay Pélicot’s trauma and the gravity of what the men are accused of in front of a journalist just shows how much work needs to be done.

In the end, it’s clear why the accusations that arise from cases like Pélicot’s are so unsettling for many men. The realisation that any man – someone who looks and acts like them, a father, a husband, a colleague – could be capable of such violence is deeply troubling.

It disrupts the comfortable illusion that rapists are outliers in an otherwise just society. It forces men to confront the fact that ordinary men, shaped by the same culture, are capable of extraordinary harm.

But here’s the key point: acknowledging this reality isn’t about casting suspicion on all men or demanding that women retreat from public life out of fear. This is not a call for women to assume every man they meet is a predator, nor is it an indictment of men as inherently dangerous. Instead, it is an invitation for men to understand the world women live in, a world where the threat of violence is ever-present because rape culture is so deeply embedded in society.

THE Pélicot case is a powerful reminder that no man is exempt from the cultural conditioning that perpetuates rape culture. The entitlement to women’s bodies isn’t a trait of “bad men” alone, it is a learned behaviour reinforced through social norms and institutions.

It’s uncomfortable, yes. But this discomfort is the first step towards real progress. Patriarchy conditions men to view the world – and women – in ways they may not even realise.

So what can be done? It’s not about individual men fearing they might “become rapists.” That’s not the point. The point is men must begin to question the subtle, ingrained behaviours and attitudes that form the basis of this culture.

They must reckon with how they’ve been socialised to see women and actively work to unlearn those behaviours. Rather than seeing themselves as victims of a societal shift that demands more from them, they should view themselves as agents of change. The solution must come from them recognising and challenging the structures that create this culture in the first place.

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Feminists aren’t asking for shame or guilt from men but a collective awakening. The Pélicot case, with its shockingly ordinary accused, forces us all to ask difficult questions about the culture that produced this violence. And it forces men to

reckon with the ways in which they are part of this culture, whether they like it or not.

The real problem with the “Not All Men” defence is that it derails the conversation, making it about individual innocence rather than collective responsibility. It deflects attention from the broader societal structures that enable violence, allowing men to distance themselves from the problem rather than participating in the solution.

This is the true reckoning the Pélicot trial demands – not just from the men in court, but from all men.