A cut into the flesh: Claire Berest on the trial Gisèle Pelicot

Outside Avignon, a large banner hangs with the inscription "Un viol est un viol" ("Rape is rape"). The author Claire Berest attended the trial for over two weeks in October and November 2024, observing eleven co-defendants. Her literary and philosophical exploration of the so-called Mazan rape case in La Chair des autres von Berest (Albin Michel, 2025) is an example of fearless contemporary literature that transforms a legal catastrophe into a social wake-up call. The author—originally a reporter for Paris Match Sent to the trial – Claire Berest views the proceedings against Dominique Pelicot and his co-defendants not only as a collective trauma, but also as a magnifying glass of cultural blindness and ethical impotence. Her interpretation of the case and the narrative strategy with which she illuminates it make the book one of the most important French texts of the year. At its heart is the so-called "Affaire de Mazan": An elderly man, Dominique Pelicot, invited dozens of men to his home over a period of years to sexually abuse his sedated wife, Gisèle Pelicot, without her knowledge. The acts were meticulously documented, cataloged, and collected. The case was investigated legally between 2020 and 2024; in the autumn of 2024, the first major trial took place in Avignon. Claire Berest was there as a court reporter – and experienced the trial so intensely that it resulted in a literary testimony that goes far beyond a mere report.

Claire Berest was contacted by a phone call from Paris Match Sent to the trial – initially without any literary ambitions. But the experience on the ground captivated her. In a near-ecstatic writing process during January and February 2025, a work emerged in just a few weeks that grapples with the nature of evil – and simultaneously, the nature of good. While the text is divided into chapters, it partly follows a meandering flow of reflection, in which reporting, philosophy, literary narrative, and autobiographical introspection intertwine. Claire Berest's perspective on the trial is informed by her literary and philosophical ethos. What begins as journalistic coverage transforms into a personal and poetic exploration of evil, justice, trauma, and survival. Her literary position is not a neutral point of observation – rather, it marks the intersection of body, text, and experience. Following the example of Camille Froidevaux-Metterie and Maurice Merleau-Ponty, she sees herself as a writing body: “Mon corps est l'instrument général de ma compréhension” – the body as a medium of thinking and speaking.

Berest reports on Chochana Boukhobza's research on women deported to Auschwitz and the survivors' feeling of a "missing image." Women in the camp were reduced to mere "pieces." For returning women, the image of what they had been there was intangible, both for themselves and for others who would not listen. Since there were no mirrors, photographs, or existence reflected in the gaze of another, the image of what had happened to them was missing. This is contrasted with Gisèle Pelicot's viewing of the rape videos. These were "reconstructed images." According to the author, the horror of her endurance is unimaginable. She chose to watch the videos when she was ready. Later, at the start of the trial, she demanded that the exclusion of the public be lifted so that everyone could see the images. An important point of reference for Berest is the Cambodian-French filmmaker Rithy Panh. Just as he confronts the documentary horror in his films—for example, through the montage of archival footage—so Berest confronts the video recordings of the rapes. She describes Gisèle's viewing of the photographs as a reappropriation of the body by the subject. Viewing the images was necessary – because injustice can only be translated into language as an image.

After learning what had happened to her, Gisèle Pelicot felt an urgent need to throw everything away—keepsakes, photos, the traces of her life with her husband, with her abuser. She was forcibly turned into a "blank slate." Gisèle herself said at the trial that she had only been with two men in her life, despite having suffered hundreds of rapes. She emphasized the harmony in her marriage and described her husband as an "ordinary man" and a "perfect man." For her, it wasn't a simple black-and-white story to understand the crimes. – Dominique Pelicot is described as a "collector." Investigators had tens of thousands of hours of video footage. Defense attorneys seized upon the image of "collecting," comparing it to innocent hobbies where one gathers, possesses, and examines items. Pelicot's statement: "I only thought of myself and not of them. Not of her above all." “(I only thought of myself and not of her. Especially not of her.)” is interpreted as an objectification of the men and his wife; there is no “we,” only “I,” “she (male),” and “she (female).” The text also discusses whether Pelicot’s sense of relief after his arrest led him to refrain from destroying evidence, or whether he was unable to abandon or destroy his “collection.” Pelicot sometimes allowed up to three men to come each night, or two at a time. The chapter’s central question is: “Quel est le vide que cette quantité cherche à combler?” (What emptiness does this quantity seek to fill?). There were over eighty men, almost ten years of abuse, over twenty thousand photos and videos—a boundless excess. The only form of otherness in this collection is male complicity, while the woman was symbolically dead. The act of preserving evidence and even revealing the location of the hard drive is linked to this: If everyone is doing it, why should he feel particularly guilty?

Many co-defendants defined rape as something that requires physical and demonstrative violence. They did not consider rape or violence to be applicable, as they had not hit or threatened Gisèle Pelicot. They stated that the invitation of husband Dominique Pelicot to a "reassuring setting" (a couple in their own home) had blurred their understanding of the criteria for rape. One defendant said that he did not believe there had been any rape because the husband was present; another stated that he had no concept of consent at the time. The author argues that these men have “lacunes d'éducation et de culture pour cerner le viol” (educational and cultural deficits in order to understand rape) and are “incultes” in this respect. This does not absolve them of legal responsibility, but it provides food for thought. The prosecution also emphasized that the absence of consent from the defendants could not be ignored and that in 2024 it could no longer be assumed that silence meant consent. The psychological assessments of the defendants almost systematically determined that they lacked the “conscience d’autrui” (awareness of the other) as a whole and desiring subject. The defendant Jérôme V., a former volunteer firefighter who abused Gisèle Pelicot six times, is described as one of the clearest, as he admitted from the beginning that he knew he would be raping a woman drugged by her husband. He stated that he had never spoken to her or obtained her consent, and explained an uncontrollable sex addiction as his motive, exacerbated by separation and isolation during the lockdown. A lack of affection suffered since childhood is mentioned. Jérôme V. claimed to have been fully aware of his actions and to have considered the moral and legal consequences. The author views the justice system as a process of questioning, even about seemingly minor details, in order to reveal facts. She describes a lengthy interrogation of a defendant (Florian R.) about the use of paper towels in a video, in order to determine whether he had ejaculated and thus experienced pleasure. The judges' insistence on such details is presented as necessary to understand the words and the underlying reality (e.g., the situation). B. to anchor the full meaning of the brutally described sexual acts. Despite claiming to lead a “banal” life, many men admitted that the situation felt “bizarre” (strange) in contact with Gisèle Pelicot’s body. One chapter illuminates the “gouffres intimes” (intimate depths) in the lives of these men to show that no life is truly “normal”. The report lists personal dramas and traumas that came up during the witness testimonies: loss of a child, stroke, hidden homosexuality, loss of spouse, addiction problems, depression, interrupted schooling, divorces, job loss. According to the experts, three-quarters of the defendants had a traumatic childhood.

The Advocate General once asked one defendant: “Aren’t you interested in seeing the face of someone with whom you are going to have sexual relations?” None of the men had any verbal exchange with Gisèle Pelicot. Some defendants spoke of a vague “fear” of displeasing Pelicot and felt “trapped” by it. One stated that he, too, had been a “victim” of Mr. Pelicot. Berest wonders what mystery conceals this desire that overcame the men’s reluctance toward an inanimate body. She emphasizes the effort (travel, time) for a few minutes of rudimentary sexual intercourse with an unconscious woman with whom no communication took place. The chapter ends with the observation that Gisèle Pelicot’s face, which the defendants neither saw nor sought, will never be erased. – Dominique Pelicot’s lawyer argued that the Pelicot case would not exist without the network. The exchanges on online platforms like Coco.fr, Skype, and by telephone were highlighted as a way of overcoming loneliness and taboos, leading to the sharing of photos/videos and a sense of strength and masculinity. The use of the possessive pronoun "ses" (his) in reference to "ses fantasmes" (his fantasies) with a non-consenting woman is questioned as a potentially unconscious denial of responsibility or as perverse irony. The phrase "Nuits seules" (lonely nights), which Pelicot used for the moments with his sedated wife, suggests that during these times she ceased to exist for him, and the loneliness only ended with the presence of other men. Pelicot stated that he always gave explicit instructions and described the situation. "Je ne prends pas de plaisir. Ma femme n'est pas une aclice, mais une victime." "C'est eux qui ont détruit leur famille, pas moi. Qu'ils prennent leur responsabilité." (I feel no pleasure. My wife is not an accomplice, but a victim. They are the ones who destroyed their family, not me. They should take responsibility.) is quoted. Whether this is a defense strategy or a piece of truth remains an open question.

The author reflects on her own approach to criminal cases. She tries to consider all involved—victims and perpetrators—with the same humanity. However, she notes that she has a “tendance plus nette (…) à prendre en considération les criminels, qu'une évidence à me concentrer sur leurs victimes” (a distinct tendency to consider the criminals more than to obviously focus on their victims), which worries her. In the Mazan case, her sympathy for Gisèle Pelicot was undeniable, but she also considered the accused with attention. She wonders if this means she is “a bad feminist.” She connects this self-doubt to the general fascination with criminals in true crime, while victims are often relegated to the background. This chapter addresses the recurring question of how Gisèle Pelicot could have failed to notice the crimes. Although the question was legitimate, it implied distrust of the victim's testimony. The author explains that Gisèle Pelicot was indeed alarmed by a number of "très angoissants" (very disturbing) signs. These included massive memory lapses, abnormally long sleep phases, weight loss, and hair loss. Others noticed that she seemed "hagard," stammered, and had a blank expression. She suffered from gynecological problems. She consulted doctors who found nothing. Her husband explained her symptoms as fatigue and did not wake her because she looked so exhausted. He also gave her Stilnox without a prescription.

Berest describes a large tapestry or painting on the wall of the courtroom (Salle Voltaire) in Avignon. She studied the details of the work closely for days but could find no further information about it; online, it was lost in the search results for the Mazan case. Because witnesses and defendants spoke with their backs to the public, the author focused on their voices, the faces of the judges, and this wall painting. She sketched it in her notebooks, as photography was forbidden in the courtroom. She draws a parallel to a painting by Dominique Pelicot called "L'emprise" (The Control/The Grip), which was found in his home after his arrest. This painting of a reclining naked woman, labeled "L'emprise, 2018," was interpreted by the family as an allusion to his crimes, which Pelicot denied. The author compares this to the mystery surrounding Jack the Ripper and a theory that the painter Walter Sickert was the perpetrator and that a picture of himself in a "Jack the Ripper costume" exists. She sees Pelicot's painting as a kind of "Lettre volée d'Edgar Allan Poe" (Stolen Letter by Edgar Allan Poe) – the crime, openly displayed.

Berest describes the trial as a site of staging and confrontation—a stage where roles, power, guilt, and powerlessness are publicly performed and negotiated. In a remarkable intertextual approach, Berest links the Avignon courtroom drama with the very concept of theater: the trial becomes a pedagogical stage, a dramatic allegory of enlightenment, a reversal of silence into language. Berest situates the crime as a "fait divers" in Roland Barthes' sense: a self-contained, anonymous unit of information that explains nothing but merely reveals. But in Mazan's case, reality shatters the form: it "flashes into the whole of society." The horror is not contained by context but radicalized by its complete absence. The fait divers becomes a cultural rupture. For Berest does not content himself with speaking of a "rape culture" in the sense of feminist classics. She names a lack of culture, an emptiness: an intellectual vacuum in which the Other is not conceived, a "culture of violence." The lack of attention to the woman's face, the suppression of her humanity, becomes a symbol of this blindness. The men encountered not a subject, but flesh, "chair," and therefore it is also the "incarnation" of the Other in the worst sense—her reification.

Dominique Pelicot's demeanor in court is described by Berest as calm, precise, and almost detached, with a tendency to incriminate his co-defendants. He opened his testimony with the words, "I am a rapist like everyone else in this room." He gave the others "good and bad marks." The elevated position of his glass booth in the courtroom is described as symbolic of metaphors such as "conductor and musician" or "master and disciple." The term "bombe paraphilique" (paraphilia bomb) is introduced, a metaphor used during the trial. The term paraphilia is explained as sexual practices that deviate from acts traditionally considered normal, or as abnormal sexual attraction. Examples such as pedophilia, zoophilia, candaulism (arousal through partner sharing), somnophilia (attraction to unconscious individuals), and necrophilia (attraction to the dead) are given. The author discusses the etymology of the prefix para- (opposite, beside, almost) and asks whether paraphilia means "beside love" or "almost love." She concludes with the idea that living in disguise, becoming one with masks (good husband vs. rapist), may come closest to what one imagines evil to be. Berest refers to Hannah Arendt's famously controversial category of the "banality of evil" without oversimplifying it. Like Arendt, she describes not demons, but conformist, intellectually lazy followers. At the same time, she warns against the popular misinterpretation of Arendt: Evil is not banal because it is commonplace, but because it lacks depth. It is not metaphysical—it is shapeless, opportunistic, incapable of thought. Berest's second philosophical point of reference is Simone Weil. The good, according to Weil, is attentiveness to the existence of the other. Berest makes this his political and poetic maxim: Evil has no poetry, no depth. Only good is radical. Gisèle Pelicot, the central character of the book, becomes a witness to this good: not through heroism, but through a return to otherness—to the ability to see the other, even in the moment of one's own annihilation.

Prosecutor Laure Chabaud's question still resonates: "Pourquoi elle? Celle qu'il aime le plus au monde?" (Why her? The one he loves most in the world?). The prosecutor concluded her remarks on Pelicot with this question, suggesting that even at the end of the trial, the questions were only just beginning and concerned everyone. She then turned to the co-defendants and discussed the central theme of "awareness of the act" and the underlying issue of Pelicot's "influence." She explained the difference between "premeditation" and "intent." She emphasized that the victim's condition resembled a coma rather than sleep ("She seemed dead"). Citing a psychiatric expert who linked the acts to "necrophilia," she argued that the defendants "could not ignore the absence of consent." Addressing society, she declared: “On ne peut plus considérer, en 2024, que si elle n'a rien dit, c'est qu'elle était d'accord.” (In 2024, it can no longer be assumed that if she said nothing, she agreed.)

Berest's writing style is strongly characterized by ellipses, parenthetical remarks, and questions. She writes in a style that intertwines literary reflection with essayistic thought. The first-person perspective functions not as self-narrative, but as a space for resonance—an instrumentalized body that, through its own history and sensitivity, reveals why writing is a moral act. She doesn't remove herself, but rather enters into it. Her language is never pathetic, but always charged: a slow, probing tone that doesn't approach the subject to explain it, but to encounter it. With this book, Berest has become radically consistent in what pervades all her previous work: writing on the border between truth and representation. The author mentions in La Chair des autres explicitly that her last novel L'Épaisseur d'un cheveu was. She states that her research for this book, which deals with the topic of "féminicide", led her to read a work by Joëlle Guillais on "crime passionnel" in the 19th century, whose title La Chair de l'autre they in a modified form for the title of La Chair des autres has taken over. From her debut Mikado (2011), which dealt with a fragmented family history, up to artifacts (2021), where she explored art, deception, and manipulation, a central theme emerges: the questioning of identity, reality, and representation. In Gabriele (2017), written together with her sister Anne, she created a portrait of her great-grandmother, an avant-garde artist – an attempt to make female genius visible. In Rien n'est noir (In 2019) she ventured to explore Frida Kahlo – also an icon poised between pain and aesthetics. But La Chair des autres It breaks the mold. It is her most realistic work to date, yet simultaneously her most metaphysical. It combines research with philosophy, testimony with poetry. This is not about art, but about life itself. flesh, the flesh, as the bearer of violence and as the place of ethical salvation.

The author deliberately refrains from drawing a conclusion regarding the Mazan case. Nine men have appealed, and Dominique Pelicot will face further investigations into other alleged crimes. Gisèle Pelicot expressed respect for the court's work and thanked them. She has opened an existential debate about the relationship between men and women. Berest emphasizes how many women are affected by this. Referring to Joë Bousquet's words about Simone Weil, the author understands the absolute significance of the message that emerged from this horrific incident. By saying that shame must change sides, Gisèle Pelicot has spoken "words of unlimited human importance." La Chair des autres It is not a factual report, a court transcript, or a feminist polemic—and yet it is all of these in one. It is a dense, disturbing, and unsettling essay-novel about human vulnerability and the necessity of traversing the world—even in its horror—with thought. The author writes against the silence, against the banalized narrative form, against the normalization of the monstrous. Claire Berest gives the trial and its ethical dimensions a literary form that is both documentary and poetic. Her strength lies in its complexity: she questions, she does not judge. La Chair des autres It is an attempt to give voice to silence, a text to the abyss – and a place in history for the victim.