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312 pages, Unknown Binding
First published February 17, 2026
I listened. It was like being punched.
I had to squeeze past them during breaks in the proceedings. I heard them talking, not even bothering to lower their voices, naturally buoyed by male camaraderie. I saw them high-fiving each other, going to the café across the street at lunchtime, chatting at the bar, buying rounds of beer, laughing. They bonded with each other simply because they were convinced they had done nothing wrong. And yet they didn't resemble one another: some were articulate, others could barely string a sentence together in the witness box; there were old men, bald men, men with paunches, men who were young and athletic; one was constantly chewing gum; another had brought along some policeman friends for support. But they did share one thing: a sense of entitlement.
An attitude of complete indifference to whatever anyone said or thought, because power had always been on their side.
I wanted to leave. To go home. For the trial to continue without me. So many times I was tempted to go back to my island. But there were all those messages I kept receiving, that crowd, the women waiting for me outside the courtroom whom I could not disappoint. Just as I could not concede a victory to the rapists and their defenders.
'What is rape?" the judge asked him.
'It's when someone is tied up and forced to have sex, he said. 'But I didn't use any violence.'
His answer was steeped in grotesque male entitlement.
The year that had gone by since the first trial had not forced him to reflect on what had happened, just as it had not stifled the sniggers and comments that can still be heard in the outside world; even among supposedly thoughtful people, apparently there are still those who don't entirely believe me. We should ask all these idiots with their millennia-old misogyny the question that the judge enunciated slowly and clearly, the way one would to a child:
"Did she act in the way that a woman does when she agrees to it?'
'No, the defendant conceded.