Until September 2024, few people outside her close circle knew Gisèle Pelicot’s face. She wasn’t a public figure or a social media fixture. But by the time the final verdict was read in the harrowing four-month trial that found her ex-husband and 50 co-defendants guilty of rape and assault, her image had become a symbol of strength and defiance.
Pelicot has emerged as an icon for survivors of gender-based violence, her face plastered on posters at protests, projected onto buildings, and depicted in powerful portraits shared online. Her striking orange bob and round sunglasses, initially worn as a shield of privacy, became visual shorthand for resistance. Her face, as one of her lawyers, Stéphane Babonneau, put it, represents a seismic shift: “The shame has switched sides.”
The details of Pelicot’s story are as grim as they are shocking. For almost a decade, her then-husband, Dominique Pelicot, drugged her unconscious so he and dozens of other men could rape her. He meticulously recorded the abuse, cataloguing it in files with titles like “abuse” and “her rapists.” It was a supermarket incident in 2020—when Dominique was caught surreptitiously filming up women’s skirts—that led police to his trove of abuse material. The evidence, totalling over 20,000 images and videos, revealed an extensive network of abusers and exposed the complicity of 50 men, ranging in age from 27 to 74.
As the trial unfolded in the French city of Avignon, Pelicot’s decision to waive her right to anonymity—a move many survivors are hesitant to make—was a defiant act of visibility. She insisted that the violent videos her ex-husband had recorded be shown in court. “I’ve decided not to be ashamed. I’ve done nothing wrong,” she testified. “They are the ones who must be ashamed.”
Her courage, both in court and outside it, became a rallying point for activists fighting sexual violence. In an era where #MeToo had often spotlighted high-profile survivors from elite spaces, Pelicot’s ordinariness—a retired power company worker, a grandmother—struck a deep chord. “She could be our mothers,” said LaDame Quicolle, a street artist whose large-scale posters of Pelicot’s face appeared in Avignon, Lille, Paris, and Brussels. It’s this everyday relatability, Quicolle argued, that gave Pelicot’s image such resonance.
On Thursday, the courtroom’s air was heavy as Roger Arata, the presiding judge, read the verdicts. One after another, he declared each man guilty—47 of rape, two of attempted rape, and two of sexual assault. The most severe sentence went to Dominique Pelicot, who was handed 20 years—the maximum—for his role as the orchestrator of the abuse. For some of the other men, the sentences were lighter than expected, a disappointment to campaigners who had hoped for more severe punishment. Six of the defendants were released, having already served time while awaiting trial.
Outside the courthouse, the crowd—many of them survivors and activists—followed the proceedings via phone updates. When the first guilty verdict was announced, a cheer erupted. Women’s rights group Les Amazones had covered city walls with posters of Pelicot’s face and slogans like “MERCI GISELE” (“Thank you, Gisèle”) in the lead-up to the verdict. Some supporters held oranges as a symbol of solidarity, a nod to Pelicot’s signature hair colour and her audacity to stand out when so many survivors feel compelled to disappear.
Pelicot’s impact has been profound. Her choice to be visible has sparked new conversations in France—not only about how rape cases are prosecuted but also about how society views survivors. Her presence in court, always composed but never subdued, challenged the deeply embedded notion of what a “proper” victim looks like. She wore a silk scarf adorned with a print by Aboriginal women—a quiet, powerful signal of global solidarity—and a simple jacket with upturned collars. As her lawyer noted, every choice she made, from her refusal to avert her gaze to her symbolic wardrobe, became a statement. Even her sunglasses, initially worn for protection, shifted from a tool of concealment to a badge of autonomy.
Her face is now a visual landmark of a broader cultural shift. It’s being compared to other iconic images of resistance: the unknown man blocking tanks in Tiananmen Square, the woman in a red dress being tear-gassed in Turkey, and the figure of Ieshia Evans standing stoic before riot police during a Black Lives Matter protest in Baton Rouge.
The trial’s conclusion is not the end of Pelicot’s influence. Her story has reignited debates about rape culture, consent, and the lengths to which abusers will go to justify their actions. Several of the defendants attempted to argue that Dominique Pelicot’s “consent” covered his wife as well. Their warped rationale highlights the urgent need for legal systems to address consent in more explicit, uncompromising terms.
Gisèle Pelicot’s story—and her face—is now an enduring symbol of accountability. Not just for her abusers, but for the societal structures that have long normalised looking away. She’s proof that courage doesn’t always wear a cape. Sometimes it’s just a woman with an orange bob, a pair of round sunglasses, and the resolve to make the world see her.
