Gisèle Pelico’s name is now known far beyond the borders of France. Her case has shattered the silence, exposing the pervasive culture of tolerance, cruelty, and impunity that often surrounds sexual violence perpetrated by men. Yet, the issues her story brings to light run far deeper than they may first appear. This is particularly significant for Ukraine, a nation already struggling with the devastating effects of war. In addition to the immediate horrors of conflict, Ukraine is also grappling with the long-lasting consequences—including a troubling surge in domestic violence.
Let me set the stage for you. In September, France began a high-profile trial that has shocked the world. The case revolved around 72-year-old Gisèle Pelico, who, for nearly ten years, was drugged with tranquillizers by her husband, rendering her unconscious while he and dozens of his accomplices repeatedly raped her. Her husband, Dominique Pelico, orchestrated these assaults with other men while his wife was completely unaware. A total of 72 rapists have been identified, though the actual number may be higher, as these figures only account for those captured on video. Police documented over 200 instances of rape involving her now ex-husband and the other men. Dominique Pelico had even taken photographs and videos of the assaults, storing thousands of files on his computer, all without his wife suspecting a thing. Over time, she started experiencing unexplained gynaecological pain and even feared she might have cancer. But nothing could have prepared her for the unimaginable truth: the man she had spent fifty years with—the man she loved, the father of their three children, the one she’d shared a lifetime of memories with—was capable of such unspeakable horrors.
About seven years ago, a close friend of mine called me unexpectedly one evening. She was in a state of deep psychological distress. She told me that her husband had hit her, that their four-year-old son had witnessed the violence and was terrified, and that she was leaving him, divorcing the abuser. In an instant, the foundation of everything she had believed in within that relationship was shattered. But what is equally significant is this: throughout their time together, she had noticed certain red flags—uncontrollable outbursts of aggression, gaslighting (“You’re imagining things, stop making things up”), emotional highs and lows that reached extreme points. All of these were clear signals of danger. Yet, despite the warning signs, she had feelings for him; they were raising a child together, and she always managed to find rational explanations for his behaviour. But as time went on, the situation never improved.
Now, I recognise that this is about true feminine nature and, most importantly, the voice of intuition—those bodily signals that always tell the truth. But trusting that voice? Not everyone can do so. The system, from childhood onward, has been designed to teach women how they should behave, what they should conform to, what they should endure, and how to please others. It has never shown them how to feel, how to trust themselves, or how to connect with their bodies. It hasn’t taught them to resist the sexualisation of female bodies in every other advertisement or to reject jokes that demean femininity in all its forms. It was at this point that I began to seriously examine the issue of domestic violence through the lens of one central question: why is this possible?
A year ago, a nearly identical situation unfolded with another close friend of mine. She, too, had a 4-year-old son at the time. In her case, she called the police, who documented everything. Her husband was eventually called to court and fined, but the administrative fine he was to pay was so small that it barely scratched the surface of the larger, systemic issue. They are now going through a divorce.
I believe the idea of revenge or rivalry between men and women is a dangerous one, as it sets up a framework of comparison: who is better, stronger, smarter, and so on. This way of thinking inevitably leads to violence in one direction or another. And when men often have greater physical strength, economic power, or simply a better ability to hide their actions, as we see in the case of Gisèle Pelico, confronting the situation is much harder than it may seem from the outside.
In Gisèle’s case, several key points stand out. First, her decision to make her story public has sparked a wave of protests, discussions, and calls for systemic changes to address domestic violence. But can we truly grasp the immense courage and resilience it must have taken for her to undergo such re-traumatisation? Throughout the court hearings, she remained mostly silent, listening to the rapists and the man she had trusted more than herself—her ex-husband. At times, excerpts of videos were even shown, where she lay unconscious while dozens of men took advantage of her.
Second, Dominique Pelico was caught after filming other women under their skirts, secretly hiding his phone in his jacket. Yet, even then, his wife tried to forgive him—until the police investigated those incidents and examined his laptop.
Third, his accomplices in these crimes were completely ordinary men from various walks of life—of different ages, professions, and seemingly good reputations. The small town in Provence, France, where this unfolded, has a population of just 5,000 people. This means that these dozens of rapists were simply walking through the local shops, crossing paths in the park, going to work, and then, in the evening, agreeing to a gruesome endeavour when Domonique was offering to them to take advantage of his wife.
Doesn’t this point to the way society still legitimises the “respectable image of a man,” who could, in reality, be nothing more than a sexual predator? Does violence have a particular face or profession? Of course, it does not.
Since the start of Russia’s full-scale war in February 2022, domestic violence in Ukraine has been on the rise, with incidents increasing by 86% in 2024 compared to the previous year, according to Iryna Shurkhno, head of the Department for Combating Domestic Violence at the Prosecutor General’s Office. But these statistics only tell part of the story—only the cases that have been reported, where victims, mostly women and children, have found the courage to reach out to the police or support organisations. The harsh truth is that many more go unreported, leaving an invisible trail of suffering that too often remains hidden.
At the onset of the invasion, most people had no direct experience with the harsh realities of war. They had to quickly adjust, make life-altering decisions, and navigate an overwhelming flood of information. As volunteers joined the military, a massive support network was required from those left behind on the home front. In this context, the image of the soldier—the hero, romanticised with steely determination and often sexualised—became a symbol of that vital support. Public spaces were filled with videos and photo campaigns. However, over time, and as the war continued, there was a growing recognition, especially among volunteers and within society, that the idealised hero narrative needed to evolve into something more grounded and realistic.
I can’t say for certain what these images should look like, but one thing is clear: they need to be more grounded in reality. The issue goes beyond the image of a soldier; it’s about how parts of society have interpreted that image as a kind of licence for boundless entitlement. Heroic deeds don’t grant carte blanche, yet some have taken this idea far too literally.
I experienced this firsthand on a train. A conductor illegally sold alcohol to two soldiers, clearly in a fragile psychological state after returning from the front line. They were in the same compartment as my pregnant neighbour, who was four months along, and me. Their behaviour became overly familiar, and their tone made me wonder if there were any lines they wouldn’t cross. For the first time, I found myself unsure of how to ask them to let us rest without risking an aggressive or unpredictable reaction. Ultimately, I chose to address them politely despite their intoxication. Somehow, the situation didn’t escalate.
The next morning, when we asked the conductor why she had sold alcohol to the soldiers, her response was telling: “The boys have been through so much.” While this may sound compassionate, it highlights a troubling mindset—one that too often excuses harmful behaviour in the name of sacrifice or heroism.
That moment left me deeply reflecting on the significant gap our society must bridge in how we navigate and communicate trauma. How many instances, phenomena, and reactions must be addressed and clarified? For example, without undermining anyone’s heroism, it should be made clear that selling alcohol to people who have endured extreme experiences is neither helpful nor supportive. It certainly wasn’t for the two young women left alone in that train compartment with those men.
Similarly, if a soldier returning from the front demands sex from his partner or forces her into any non-consensual act, this must be openly confronted. If he justifies it with a statement like, “I’ve been to the frontline, and I need this,” then it becomes even more critical to have public conversations about it.
As a society, we are still grappling with phenomena we have never had to face on such a large scale before. Heroism on the front lines is undeniable, but that doesn’t grant anyone the right to engage in violence or coercion. These actions cannot be excused simply because the individual is a soldier. This issue will continue to arise in Ukraine, as it is complex, multi-layered, and profoundly difficult to address. Other countries with long-standing wartime experiences are also grappling with similar traumatic realities.
Boundaries and preventive measures are a shared responsibility. Gisèle Pelico’s story has empowered many women to speak up, to shed the shame of what they endured, and to refuse to tolerate such abuse. At the heart of it all is the understanding that our primary responsibility is to ourselves.
The courageous Frenchwoman has been open about how gruelling the court proceedings have been—how, at her age, she is forced to rebuild her life from scratch. Yet, by going public, she has once again brought much-needed attention to issues of domestic violence, the stigmatization of women’s bodies and identities, and the false notion of “weakness” so often projected onto them.
