BSB: Gisele Pelicot's "A Hymn to Life"

What does it mean to move shame back where it belongs? We dive into Gisele Pelicot’s A Hymn to Life: Shame Has to Change Sides—a memoir that confronts sexual violence, courtroom language, and public accountability while fiercely protecting the survivor’s right to joy. I trace Pellicot’s path from the shocking discovery of years of drugging and assault to the rare choice of an open hearing and the powerful moment when all fifty-one perpetrators were found guilty. Along the way, we sit with hard questions: how do institutions perpetuate harm through euphemisms, how can families process conflicting truths, and what does healing look like when love and betrayal share the same house?

Support the show:
 On Patreon
Buy us a book
Buy cute merch
Subscribe to the Babes in Bookland Substack

Link to this episode’s book:
A Hymn to Life by Gisele Pelicot

If you care about survivor justice and the cultural work of shifting blame off victims, this conversation is for you! Press play, reflect with us, and share your thoughts. If the episode moved you, subscribe, leave a review, and pass it on to someone who needs to hear it.

Xx, Alex

Follow us on instagram! @babesinbooklandpod 

Transcript

Context Of Giselle Pellicot’s Case

SPEAKER_00 0:00

Welcome to Babes in Bookland, your women's memoir podcast. I'm your host, Alex Franka, and today I'm discussing Giselle Pellico's A Hymn to Life: Shame Has to Change Sides. So Giselle Pellicot's memoir was written with Judith Perion and translated from French by Natasha Leyeur and Ruth Diver, and I apologize if I mispronounce those. It was released in February 2026 by Penguin Press, and there is no dedication. Alright, so if you aren't aware of who Giselle Pellicot is, this is from her Wikipedia. She is a French woman who became a feminist icon in 2024 when she waived her right to anonymity as the victim in the Pellico rape case. Between 2011 and 2020, she had been drugged and raped by her husband, Dominique, and 50 other men while she was unconscious, mostly in the couple's home. She only became aware of the abuse in 2020 when Dominique was arrested for upskirting women in a local supermarket. It's where he was taking pictures of women up their skirts without their consent. And a police search of his computer equipment revealed images of Giselle being raped. She writes her memoir in the aftermath of the trial and subsequent appeal, but at one point she mentions that her second lawyer, she fires her first, asked her to write down the story of her childhood and her ex-husband. So I imagine that the seeds of the memoir started there. I want to start with this line, and it's a combination of a couple of lines from page 180 and 181. I know my story has fueled disgust for men, but it has not done that for me. The feeling persists. Love is not dead. I am not dead. I still have faith in people. Once that was my greatest weakness. Now it is my strength, my revenge. I think, like many of us, I was incredibly curious about this woman. I remember seeing photographs of her as the trial was unfolding, the comments on her bravery, the way she seemed to hold so many sexually assaulted and abused women on her shoulders, with eloquence and quiet, grounded strength. I needed to hear her story. I needed to know her. And especially during this time when it feels like so many men are getting off unscathed, as our country and the world and I am grappling with Epstein's list, his files, the naming of so many pedophiles and monstrous people. And it seems like there just aren't a lot of consequences. So it was really nice to read a story where justice prevailed. All of Giselle's rapists, all 51, were found guilty. And one man who had the audacity to appeal was given an extra year in prison. So we love that. There's a loveliness about this memoir, and that word may sound strange, but the way that Giselle writes and the way that she describes what she finds joy in, the simple things in life, the love of her children and her grandchildren, living by the sea, long walks. I was sucked in immediately. Of course, this memoir also stirred a lot of anger. What happened to her was an unfathomable betrayal. And I was very angry on her behalf, even while she clung solidly to love and happiness. I was also angry on behalf of her children for reasons that I'll get into in a second, and angry that people dared to imply that Giselle was somehow in on it or enjoyed it, that there is no way that she couldn't have known what happened to her. I don't know why people have to project their own opinions onto experiences like this when they have no idea what they're talking about. Um, and I'm really tired of this narrative that a woman or a girl was asking for it or wanted it when she was sexually assaulted, abused, or raped. In Giselle's case, she was drugged, to the point of, in her own words, that when she saw the photos, it looked like her face was melting into the bed. But even if women aren't drugged or incapacitated, there are many reasons why they might seemingly go along with assault or rape, as we'll cover more when I discuss Virginia Roberts' memoir and in my upcoming discussion with Andrea Leeb about her memoir, Such a Pretty Picture. Can we please just stop blaming the women and the girls? I mean, that's really what her entire memoir is about, how shame has to shift sides, and we'll get more into that. But anyways, there were also quite a few fuck yes moments as justice were served for Giselle. And ultimately, I left this memoir hopeful and humbled. This woman had been through hell, all nine circles and back, and she was still standing, optimistic, faced towards the sun, and she invites me to do the same, no matter what challenges are going on in my life. Giselle's memoir details her own traumatic childhood, the monumental impact losing her mother at a young age had on her, the monumental impact the loving relationship between her father and her mother before her death had on her. And it also details the abusive and traumatic childhood of her ex-husband, Monsieur Pellico, as she starts to refer to him when she can no longer think of him as her husband. But I didn't feel that her memoir in any way was an attempt to excuse her ex-husband's insanely evil behavior. Maybe as a way to understand it for herself. Throughout the memoir, we see her attempt, out of necessity, she tells us, to cling to the good memories she had with her husband of over 50 years. At one point, she likens this experience to a burnt house. She writes, Sometimes after a house fire, a few walls are left standing. Though blackened and burnt, they are still there, perhaps showing the outline of an old staircase, a pattern of wallpaper that needed changing, or a trace of footsteps and moments of togetherness. That was how it appeared to me in my mind. I was looking for a few relics among the ashes. I couldn't face losing everything. I was fighting to keep those walls standing, to stay upright myself. If the last 50 years of my life were taken away from me, it would be as if I had never existed. I would be dead. So this memoir is also a reclamation of her story. The story, the way she chooses to remember it, and that includes remembering the love and remembering the good times. I want to share a couple of quotes that I really loved. So throughout the memoir, Giselle shares many instances where she was made to feel like she wasn't reacting the right way. She was seemingly too calm, collected, even in her own family's opinion. Two of her children really start to pull away from her at a certain point, and she writes that it was her third child who ultimately understood her and how she needed to process this. She writes, I was not turning away from the horror. I was pitting myself against it with my tears, my solitude, my sorrow, and my happy memories. I partitioned Dominique into two, the same way I somehow managed to separate my violated body from my sense of self. I was not protecting him, I was protecting myself. This was how I was slowly able to begin the process of mourning, something my anger would not have allowed. Anger, for me, blocks everything, thoughts, emotions, and possibility of solace. It's a reminder that we all move through life and feelings our own way, and we shouldn't judge one another. And it's hard to not give in to the condemnation of others. She writes about her daughter Caroline's anger. Caroline's anger at Caroline's part in this story. Pictures of Caroline and Caroline's sisters-in-law, Giselle's daughters-in-law, had also been found on Dominique's computer. Pictures of them in states of undress, in the shower, sleeping. And even though her father still vehemently denies ever raping her or having her raped, it's obvious that Caroline doesn't believe this, and she never seems to get the closure that she desperately needs. And that was a very heartbreaking moment in Giselle's memoir, and I didn't know that part of the story. Giselle's first lawyer even tells her that she's Dominique's best advocate. One of the reasons why Giselle will later fire her. But Giselle writes, I believed he belonged in prison, but I would not kick a man when he was down. Again, Giselle knows his personal history, but also this man was the man that she loved for most of her life. And while Mr. Hyde is purely evil, sure, Dr. Jekyll, while not wholly good, was human and lovable. And this Dr. Jekyll loved her and gave her so many moments of joy and three beautiful children. She didn't want to erase all that just to see him as a monster. She gets into so many instances that she now labels as red flags. But in the moment, I mean we can all understand how no one, no matter how clairvoyant people claim to be, could ever imagine that their husband's sexual suggestions of a kink or something like that, or behavior, whatever amount to what happened to Giselle. Giselle processed, faced, worked through whatever you want to call it, what happened to her in this brutal betrayal by the man who at one point, she writes, saved her, however, she could. And his betrayal goes past rapes. Potentially he murdered a woman, and like I said, he might have sexually assaulted his children, maybe even his grandchildren. She also describes the repercussions of a decade of being drugged. Giselle was led to believe that she was dying. I mean, she she had all these blackouts and moments that she couldn't remember, major memory lapses. She couldn't drive a car anymore, and it took away her ability to trust herself and her memory. And throughout all of it, Dominique was by her side with her at every doctor's appointment, every scan, crying about her health, desperate to fix her, acting desperate not to lose her. While all along he knew the reason why. He was the reason why. It's just the epitome of gaslighting. It's evil, it's duplicitous. At one point, her son calls him the devil, and even that word doesn't feel strong enough. Um, it's sickening. And none of us can imagine what this is like. But the way that Giselle seems to know herself so fully and unapologetically, is really inspiring. I think it can be so easy to succumb to the shame when you feel you aren't acting the way that's expected of you. It about anything in life. All you can really do is walk your own path towards peace. And she demonstrates that in her memoir, how she did that. And she'd been practicing that since her childhood. She writes that her stepmother, who never showed Giselle or her brother any care or love, would often remark that life was a shit sandwich and you take a little bite of it every day. But Giselle rebels against that fatalistic attitude. She writes, Life was to be savored. I wanted to keep my hymn of life inside me. And she does. All right, here's another quote. So this one is after Giselle decides on an open hearing for her case. She had previously decided on a closed hearing, but then she came to a different conclusion, and this was actually really unprecedented in rape cases specifically. Here's how she came to that choice. She was walking. She writes, I arrived at the beach, the sea air was brisk, it filled my lungs, I felt exposed to the elements, small but utterly alive. I had the physical sensation that I needed the rest of the world. I didn't want to be alone anymore. So many strangers had shown me such kindness, made me feel welcome when I had nothing left. I wasn't scared of being seen now, of people knowing. Shame has to change sides. The words I'd first heard over a decade ago, a slogan supporting women who had survived rape and domestic violence came into my head like a refrain, as if tiny blades were honing my thoughts. Everyone needs to see the faces of the 51 rapists. They should be the ones to hang their heads in shame, not me. And as I read this memoir, I couldn't help but draw parallels to Chanel Miller's Know My Name. We covered it on the show in a book club episode with my friend Becca. Both women took on the weight of other women's experiences and stories because they had an opportunity to do so. Evidence when so many other women didn't. In Giselle's case, it was hours of video footage, photographs of her husband and other men raping her. In Chanel's case, it was other witnesses, DNA. Both women experienced attempts at character annihilation. Giselle writes about how she felt like she was punched every day at the trial, but they were both able to stand tall against that. And it's interesting because I said earlier that she carried the stories of other women on her shoulders, but it also feels like she stood on the shoulders of other women. I took that from Chanel Miller's memoir as well. Both were buoyed by other women. Chanel writes about receiving letters. Giselle receives letters too. And there was a chorus of women that showed up outside of the courthouse every day, sometimes even singing for Giselle. They gave her strength. She writes, I could feel the warmth of their bodies, their emotion, and their vulnerability melding with mine. And I think it's really human when you read women's memoirs like this to ask yourself, would I have asked for an open hearing? Would I have shared my name with the world? There's a phrase I've heard, you don't know how strong you are until being strong is your only option. I think strength comes in many shapes and sizes. And while we can definitely credit women like Giselle and Chanel for sharing their stories, I think we can credit every single woman who experiences something like this and wakes up the next day and chooses to move through her life in hopes that she can find peace, joy, happiness, whatever she needs to keep going. And I think that there are many ways to help shame change sides, even if sharing your story isn't one of those ways. Reading other women's accounts, believing them, talking about them. We all know that shame breeds in silence. And so if you can't be a mouthpiece, you can at least be ears. And I know that that's really cheesy, but it's what came to me. So okay, this quote, this was a fuck yes moment for me. Um, because I think throughout her memoir, Giselle is just so grounded, like I said, and she's worked really hard for that, but I needed a moment for venom, and uh she gave it to me. Here it is. I listened to the defense lawyers make a request that the word rape not be used in order to preserve the presumption of innocence. One proposed sexual relations, one of the judges suggested sex scene. I was fuming inside, but from the bench where I sat, I wasn't allowed to react. I had to restrain myself all the time, restrain myself while my lawyers responded, restrain myself while the presiding judge asked a doctor if my vaginal secretions might be a sign of pleasure, restrain myself when a female lawyer sneered at a medical examiner testifying to the gravity of my physical condition. Oh, let's weep for Madame Pellico, shall we? I will not record her name here, nor those of her colleagues, nor those of the defendants, not out of any consideration for them. Their identities are easy enough to find online or in court records, but so that they will be remembered only for what they are parrots, deplorable mouthpieces, violent, cowardly little people. I want all that remains of them to be the words they use to trample over me, to reduce one woman and therefore all women to absolute submission in the name of male domination. I love that. And look, I know that it's an important part of the judicial process, innocence, pres presumed innocence, and I know that we also need people to defend all sorts of the lowest of the low out there. But it is hard for me to understand how someone can defend men like this, especially with the irrefutable evidence. I mean, there were videotapes, and Giselle does ultimately have to watch them. At first, she chooses not to, but then when the trial happens and she realizes that the tapes will be played in the open hearing, um, she opts to watch them by herself first so that she doesn't have to experience that at the same time as being in the room with the men. But she writes again about the separation of self. It was not her in the videos, but then later she realizes that she needs to embody it herself again. She writes, I had to embody it, set upright with my presence, the tortured body that was being talked about all the time, give it a voice, a face, a consciousness, elegance too, all the things that rape seeks to destroy. Giselle's memoir is just beautifully written, honest, vulnerable, without leaning into sentimentality. At the beginning, she bounces back and forth between her childhood and the initial discovery of what her husband had done to her, and then she moves us through the years to the trial and her reflections after. She doesn't make herself out to be a saint. She even writes about a marital affair she had. And it's important to her that she's not a victim. She is a mirror, quote, reflecting nothing more than the inner conflict we all feel, the wars we wage against ourselves. And I would call her courageous, but this is what she has to say about that. Midway through the trial, she addresses the court. She writes, Every day people thank me for my courage. I want to tell them this is not courage, but a deep urge and determination to change our patriarchal sexist society. And she says these were words I would have never uttered before. You see the evolution that she goes through, the way that she is able to find her strength, and the way that she shares that strength with us. In cases of sexual assault and rape, one of the most powerful and damaging dynamics is how shame often shifts from perpetrator to survivor. And we see that play out in Giselle's memoir, how they attempt to do that. The person who commits the assault is the one responsible for the harm. Yet social stigma, victim-blaming attitudes, and myths about consent frequently place scrutiny on survivors' behavior, clothing, choices, or past. This misplaced shame can silence survivors, making them feel isolated, doubted, or somehow complicit in what happened to them. With her memoir, Giselle challenges these narratives and reaffirms that responsibility lies solely with the perpetrator. And when we all believe this, shame can begin to move back where it belongs, onto the act and the person who committed it. While survivors are met with validation, support, and dignity. Her memoir does all this. And it's also about Giselle finding her strength, yes, but also realizing that the thing she was made to feel made her weak was what made her strong. Her ability and readiness to focus on happiness and love. What happens when the person you love who promised to love you, care for you, the person who you trust the most betrays you in the worst possible way? With many betrayals, actually. What happens when you can never really know why or understand how? How do you move on? How do you choose happiness or love again? Do you punish yourself with all the clues of the things that you should have picked up on, all the things you feel you missed, or do you shed that shame however you can? Like Giselle does, long solo walks, holding on to good memories, remembering the love, remembering you can love and are worthy of love. Giselle keeps her heart open and she seems to be in a beautiful place at the close of her memoir. And there's a phrase that keeps popping up these days. Joy as resistance. Joy is an act of resistance, is the famous phrase coined by black poet Toy Derrickot in her poem The Telecycle from the 2011 book The Undertaker's Daughter. And yes, she wrote a memoir, so we might have to cover that on the show. Anyways, this phrase perfectly encapsulates Giselle's memoir to me. She refused to be defined by her suffering or allow this experience to reduce her humanity or her worth. Through her journey, I'm reminded that there is power in fighting for joy, leaning into happiness, and sustaining my belief that the world is good, that there are good people doing brave and courageous things every day. And her memoir is a hymn to life, a work in honor and in praise, all the things that life is: the beauty, the destruction, the resilience, the strength, the fragility, the loss, and the love. Thank you, Giselle, for sharing your story and your strength with us. This one will stay with me for a long time. So I don't rate memoirs with stars. I don't know how I could possibly judge someone else's journey or the way that they decide to share their journey. But ultimately, I hope you pick up this book. I think it's very worth your time. I hope you enjoyed this bite-sized babes episode. We'll definitely bring more bite-sized reviews to you soon. Until then, take care. If you'd like to further support the show, you can subscribe on Apple Podcasts or find us on Patreon for exclusive content and extended episodes.