A collective sigh of frustration echoed through the crowded seats of courtroom “Voltaire” at Avignon’s Palace of Justice as the lead judge, clad in a scarlet robe, announced an unexpected yet unavoidable delay in a trial that has captivated France.
“He is ill,” stated Presiding Judge Roger Arata, explaining that the case involving 51 alleged rapists would be postponed for “one, two, three days,” or possibly longer, after it was revealed that Dominique Pelicot was too unwell to attend.
His lawyer later confirmed that Pelicot had been taken to the hospital.
On the far side of the courtroom, Gisèle Pelicot, her head gently resting against a wood-panelled wall, showed no outward emotion at the news that she would not be witnessing her husband testify that day.
Last week, 72-year-old Gisèle Pelicot told the court that her composed exterior concealed a “field of devastation,” a pain that began four years ago when a French policeman revealed the horrifying truth: her seemingly loving husband had been drugging her for a decade, inviting over 80 local men into their home, and recording them as they raped her while she was unconscious.
She has chosen to waive her right to anonymity in order to raise awareness about the dangers of drugging and sexual assault, a practice known as “chemical submission.”
Just a short 30-minute drive from the courthouse in Avignon, through the serene hills and vineyards surrounding the striking, almost lunar landscape of Mont Ventoux, lies the charming medieval village of Mazan. The village briefly gained attention when it hosted the wedding of British actress Keira Knightley.
It is here, in Mazan, that the Pelicots lived and where Dominique Pelicot filmed the local men he had contacted online to commit these horrific acts.
Capturing the mood of a place at any given moment is always challenging.
“Honestly, no one here cares,” said local caterer Evan Tuvignon, leaning on his shop counter, suggesting that many were tired of the entire case.
However, several women shared that the village was not only in disbelief but that the ongoing revelations in court were stirring up fresh tensions in Mazan and the neighboring villages.
The names of the accused were recently shared widely on social media, prompting some of the men to complain in court about facing harassment, with their families and children now targeted on the streets and at school.
Two local women, loading their car on a narrow street in Mazan, mentioned that they had seen the names and recognized at least three of the men.
“It’s causing a lot of tension, you can imagine. You don’t know who to trust on the street. I’m just glad I’ll be moving away from here soon,” said Océane Martin, 25.
Beside her, Océane’s mother, Isabelle Liversain, 50, raised a deeper concern.
It’s been revealed that while police have identified and detained 50 of the men whose images were found on Dominique Pelicot’s hard drive, another 30 suspects – still unnamed and untraced – remain at large.
“So, we know 30 out of 80 still haven’t been caught. There’s tension here because people are wondering if they can trust their neighbors. You start to think – is he one of the 30? What’s your neighbor doing behind closed doors?” Isabelle Liversain said, her voice sharp with frustration.
Mazan’s 74-year-old mayor, Louis Bonnet, attempted to downplay the tensions, arguing that most of the alleged rapists were from neighboring villages and trying to frame the Pelicots as outsiders who hadn’t lived in the village for long.
He went on to suggest that the threats against the accused and their families were to be expected.
“If they participated in these rapes, then it’s only normal for them to be considered targets. There has to be transparency about everything that happened,” Bonnet said, while also condemning the accused and their actions.
During his interview, Bonnet touched on the case and expressed attitudes that have already sparked outrage in France, alongside widespread admiration for Gisèle Pelicot’s bravery in confronting them.
“People here say, ‘No one was killed.’ It would have been much worse if [Pelicot] had killed his wife. But that didn’t happen in this case,” Bonnet remarked.
He then went on to discuss Gisèle Pelicot’s experiences.
“She’ll certainly have trouble getting back on her feet,” he acknowledged, but went on to compare her case to another victim from the nearby town of Carpentras, who “was conscious when she was raped… and will carry both physical and mental trauma for a long time, which is even more serious.”
“When there are children involved, or women killed, that’s very serious because there’s no coming back from that. In this case, the family will have to rebuild, which will be difficult. But they’re not dead, so they can still do it.”
When I suggested that he seemed to be downplaying the gravity of the Pelicot case, he conceded.
“Yes, I am,” he replied. “What happened was very serious. But I’m not going to say the village should carry the burden of a crime that goes beyond what can be considered acceptable.”
His choice of words felt awkward. While he condemned the case, he clearly didn’t want the village to be forever associated with it.
However, it also seemed as if he was minimizing Gisèle Pelicot’s trauma.
I pushed back again, pointing out that many women saw this case as exposing deep-rooted male behaviors that needed to change.
“We can always hope for a change in attitudes, and we should,” Bonnet said. “But in reality, there’s no magic solution. The people who did this are beyond comprehension and should never be excused or understood. But the behavior still exists.”
Inside the Avignon courtroom, 18 of the accused, now in custody, sat in a designated glass-walled section observing the proceedings. One man, with grey, unkempt hair, absentmindedly stroked his bearded chin, while nearby, a younger black man appeared to be nodding off.
Earlier, dozens of their co-accused—those not in custody—lined up outside the courtroom, mingling with journalists. Most of the men tried to conceal their faces with masks, though a few did not. One larger man limped forward on crutches, while another pulled a green hoodie low over their face.
French law provides the accused with some protection from media identification, but Gisèle Pelicot has chosen to forgo her own legal right to privacy, instead embracing a role as a symbol of defiance for many French women.
“She has shown incredible dignity, courage, and humanity. It was a powerful gift to all French women that she chose to speak to the world, standing in front of her rapist. They said she was broken, but she was so inspiring,” said Blandine Deverlanges, a local activist present in the courtroom.
Deverlanges and her fellow activists have recently painted slogans on walls around Avignon. One reads: “Ordinary men. Horrific crimes.”
Seated beside her mother, the couple’s daughter, Caroline, 45, did not conceal her emotions.
She was recently shown evidence that her father had taken photos of her without her knowledge or consent. Believing she too was drugged by him, Caroline has become an advocate for raising awareness of rape and drug-related sexual assault—issues that many experts argue are severely under-reported and under-investigated in France.
In court, Caroline often frowned or raised a hand to her face in clear frustration or disgust as defense lawyers raised objections or debated procedural matters. A police officer began testifying, his strong southern French accent filling the room. Bright sunlight poured through a skylight above the judges’ heads.
The atmosphere in the elegantly decorated courtroom was calm, but it was deeply unsettling to witness the family—mother, daughter, and at least two sons—sitting just meters away from so many alleged rapists, now all with their masks removed.
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