Law needs a culture shift in talking about sexual assault
Trigger warning: sexual assault, rape, violent crime.
In September 2024, the “Pelicot Rape Trial” began in France. One of the most intensely covered sexual assault trials of our generation, it brought the survivor, Gisele Pelicot, face-to-face with her attacker, her ex-husband Dominique. Mr. Pelicot was convicted of drugging and raping his ex-wife while she was unconscious and inviting 51 other men into their home to do the same.
The trial was unprecedented for two reasons.
Firstly, in any sexual assault trial, it’s difficult to get evidence beyond the words of the survivor, or hearsay. Madame Pelicot was lucky. Her attacker recorded every encounter. There was no room for the old adage “he said, she said” to dismiss her experience.
Second, and perhaps more importantly, Gisele Pelicot released her name. Usually, sexual assault trials are done under the hush of anonymity, and for good reason. The survivor is often required to relive the horrors of their experience in court. Why also subject them to the media? Combine that with deep-rooted misconceptions about shame involved in these ordeals, and many choose to stay silent for fear of social repercussions (I’m sure we remember what happened to Christine Blasey Ford).
But not Madame Pelicot, who demanded that the trial be held publicly to help all survivors of sexual violence, “whose stories often remain in the shadows.” In the end, she left us with these words: “It’s not for us to have shame—it’s for them.” And law students, it’s time to listen to her.
Madame Pelicot was right when she said that survivors have stories that “too often remain in the shadows.” By releasing her name, she was determined to change the social conversation surrounding sexual assault. And as members of a profession dedicated to both protecting sexual assault survivors and prosecuting the perpetrators, we should take Madame Pelicot up on her offer. However, when doing so, we should begin to discuss sexual assault as not just the hypothetical experiences of our clients, but also as the lived reality of our colleagues. Something that, until now, has been severely lacking.
For the last three years, I’ve walked around this law school, attending classes to hear people debate in ‘theory’ the realities that I have had, and will have to live with for the rest of my life. There is a general ‘otherness’ with which we treat topics like sexual assault and disclosure, as though they’re theories to be debated, or stories of clients to be “saved.” Too easily we forget that general statistics also apply to members of our own profession, both as survivors and as perpetrators.
Like you, I am a law student. Unlike you (or perhaps more like some of you than many realize), I am also a victim like Madame Pelicot. I understand the trauma and horror of sexual assault as a lived reality. A few years ago, I was raped by my ex-boyfriend a few days before he started law school. It was a messy, violent altercation that left me with bruises, a concussion, and a constant self-gaslighting that every survivor seems to go through. After all, law students are supposed to uphold the law, right? Not break it. We tell ourselves we’re the “good guys,” and clad ourselves in self-righteousness, in the belief that these things could “never happen here.” That the perpetrators could never be “one of us.” But it can… and they are.
Five months later, in a different city, with a different law student, I was again, violently sexually assaulted. This time, there wasn’t even a question about consent. Just brute force, bitter tears, and too much blood for me to call it anything but (sexual) assault. And those same thoughts about law students being paragons of virtue still made me doubt my own experiences.
I have spent the last three years of my own time in law school thinking about those two men, who are now lawyers in the profession I will soon enter. I have spent the last three years hearing similar anecdotes about victims and about assailants, both of whom walk these halls. Through these experiences, I realized one thing: we don’t talk about sexual assault within law schools or the profession enough, and when we do, we don’t talk about it like a personal reality for some of our own.
The victims of sexual assault are not just the clients we’ll take on as lawyers, but also members of our own profession. Collectively, we have ignored that reality for far too long. Rape rarely takes place in dark alleyways, and both its perpetrators and victims are not just our clients – they’re our classmates.
In confronting the men that raped me, I saw a replication of the pattern I’ve seen time and time again at school. Law students, when confronted with these issues, learn the tests for what constitutes sexual assault, and turn a lived experience into a debate about the intricacies of consent, and merits of evidence. Eventually, these claims of sexual assault are often dismissed, with the lack of consent boiled down to pithy one-liners like it’s a “he said, she said” and “this will never stand up in court.” These future lawyers turned their learning against me, turning what I knew to have happened into a question of evidence and threatening me with retaliation, including ruining my reputation in the profession we all share.
Madame Pelicot was right—she spoke for all those that cannot without actual consequences.
As a profession we must do better. As law students, we are not cloaked in virtue, and it’s time to take a closer look at our own actions (and inaction). We cannot continue to debate the merits of these experiences as though we’re defence counsel for a rape trial that will never be held. We cannot dismiss these experiences as though they’re a crim law exam problem. There is no worse way to create a culture where the victims are too scared to say anything.
There is also the question of evidence. Unfortunately, and all too often, the complex trauma of these brutal crimes disintegrates into what people call the “he said, she said” game. A pithy one-liner that makes the life-altering rape of a person look like a difference of opinion rather than a crime. As a profession we must do better, not to force the survivors to speak out, but to make it part of the general dialogue. We are in a profession with high ideals, but we should check our own self-righteousness, lest we find ourselves excusing our own inexcusable actions. Or worse, making the mistake of thinking things like this could never happen here, to us, or by us (especially after learning the skills to defend against these crimes).
We all can’t be Madame Pelicot, willing to put our names out there to the scrutiny of the world, lest we ruin a career before it begins. Maybe many of us lack the evidence to do so. Maybe the perpetrators are those with the same training, attending the same classes, and armed with every trick in the legal rule book to silence us. In a career where reputation is paramount, there is a rationale for not wanting to publicize our stories. However, we cannot continue to silence them either. It cannot be our shame any longer, and it’s time to start talking about it among our own numbers.
So, “merci” Madame Pelicot. You released your name for all the survivors that never could. But even in Jackman Hall, we exist, and as a collective, it’s time that we acknowledged it. It’s not just an outside problem. It’s also an ‘us’ problem, and per Madame Pelicot, it’s time we had a conversation.
Editor’s Note:
For all U of T services, programs and resources related to sexual violence, sexual assault and sexual harassment, contact the U of T Sexual Violence Prevention & Support Centre.
- Community Safety Office: 416-978-1485
- St. George Health & Wellness: 416-978-8030
- UTM Health & Counselling Centre: 905-828-5255
- UTSC Health & Wellness Centre: 416-287-7065
You can also contact Chantelle Brown-Kent, the Student Mental Health & Wellness Program Manager at the Faculty of Law, to receive support and resources.