I piece together the past, if only to erase the memory of the great horror that consumed me just seven months after I arrived in France — the day I was raped. I came from Tunisia in July 2017, eager for education and knowledge, and dreaming of short summer dresses. I was 21 years old and I wandered around like a carefree kitten. But I ended up a shadow, swallowed by the machinery of France’s major institutions.
No one ever taught me about my body, the dangers posed by others, or even that I had the right to say no. A flame of vitality burned within me, leading me to dance halls and youthful recklessness.
My uncle, who lived in a Paris suburb, invited me to accompany him on a visit to one of his clients. After he finished work, we stopped by a friend’s grocery store in the 14th arrondissement, a largely residential neighborhood known for its street markets.
The friend’s son was standing outside. My uncle introduced us, then left me alone with him as he went inside to get some drinks. We exchanged phone numbers and met at a bar a few days later. I remember nothing about that date, or what happened afterward, except waking up naked the next morning in a filthy hostel. The man stood before me, with no clothing on except for his socks, boasting about what he had done. In my terror, to keep from going insane, I refused to believe what had happened. My mind numbed itself to the violence, dismissing it as if it had never occurred. This is what the therapist later explained to me when I began psychotherapy. At the time, I was confused about how my faith viewed such an experience. I was terrified — of God, of myself, and of the disappointment in my father’s eyes if I told him what had happened. Questions haunted me: Was he alone? Did he film me? Is he going to blackmail me? Driven by a childlike naivety and the instinct to survive, I convinced him to marry me. And so began a long journey of sexual, physical, psychological and financial abuse, which eventually led to several suicide attempts.
I was so afraid that he would send pictures to my father or my grandfather, who was an imam back home. Our society would not forgive me if the videos or photos went viral and we were not married. And the same society would condemn him if he published anything once we were married, thus giving me more assurances against any revenge porn he might have been scheming. I insisted on getting married, giving in to the violence, rape and all the unimaginable ways he dehumanized me.
At the time, it felt like the only option. I wondered if a French judge would understand that, in Tunisia, their counterpart would dismiss a rape complaint if the accused married the victim. How do I explain the social barriers I grew up with? How do I tell the judge that I chose silence to protect my family’s honor?
When we got married, I became numb to all feelings — even to fear. My family, my previous life and any specter of hope had all abandoned me. Deathly darkness enveloped me like a lost child in a never-ending, stormy night, longing to see the light. Melina Hagel, a social worker in Paris’ 13th arrondissement, became the rainbow I had been waiting for. She appeared in June 2019 when I went to her at my husband’s behest, demanding larger accommodation. She noticed the deep sadness in my eyes, so I confided in her about the truth of what had happened to me.
Many foreign women, especially those of us from Africa, flee from the constraints of our societies only to find ourselves under the guardianship of French institutions, which are even more restrictive and skilled at manipulating us.
So many of us came to France dreaming of freedom, human rights, equal opportunities and justice. Some even dared to dream of a secular country where religion holds no sway. But the harsh reality of life here means many dreams are shattered. This guardianship becomes deeply embedded in their daily lives, and migrant women live in constant fear of being expelled or of having their children taken away and, for those who have become naturalized, fear their citizenship could be revoked if they are found to have provided false declarations.
We have faced the undeniable truth that we will always remain second-class citizens, not protected by the law. Rebellion offers us no shelter and our voices remain unheard in a deeply sexist, racist country.
When I found out I was pregnant, finding a place to live became urgent. Hagel and the Mother and Child Hospital in eastern Paris worked tirelessly to secure shelter for me away from my husband. The social worker explained that the system couldn’t provide me with financial assistance until I was over seven months pregnant, because I was under 25 and held only a student residence card, while the law states that one needs full legal residency.
Desperate to cover my pregnancy expenses and prepare for my son’s arrival, I hurried to find a job. I began working at a bakery but my employer fired me as soon as he discovered my pregnancy, citing planned renovations as an excuse. Since I hadn’t accrued enough vacation days, he pretended to help me obtain unemployment benefits by dismissing me under the condition that he would rehire me once the work was done. I tried to pursue legal action against him, as French law prohibits firing a pregnant woman, but after losing the equivalent of hundreds of dollars, my efforts proved futile. I spent two months without income or my own place. My caseworker urged me to live with my sister.
It was summer, and I spent it knocking on the doors of human rights organizations and those combating violence against women. Anna-Thalia Crespo, a human rights activist and coordinator for marital violence at the Droit d’Urgence organization, was fervent in defending me and criticized the handling of my case by my first lawyer, Sylvie. She recommended a second lawyer, Estelle, who was empathetic to my situation but couldn’t do much (due to the sensitivity of the topic, I’m only using the lawyers’ first names). Sylvie was determined to retain control over my case and refused to share the legal aid funds provided by the state with the second lawyer. This dispute led us to the office of the President of the Paris Bar Association, responsible for resolving disputes between lawyers and their clients. I stood by helplessly, unfamiliar with the law and unable to correctly fill out the payment objection form. I couldn’t appoint Estelle because the law prohibits the same lawyer from handling your case and defending you before the Bar Association. Sylvie was indifferent, showing no sympathy for me; her only concern was securing a quick divorce to access legal aid. The Bar Association ordered me to pay her a divorce fee, yet to this day, I remain legally married. I became legally separated from my husband in January 2020. For divorce, my husband’s assault needed to be proven by a criminal decision, and since the process was lengthy, the separation ruling lapsed after 30 months. Faced with the complexity of the legal procedures, the doors of the associations began to close on me and my only option was to seek a lawyer at my own expense.
My relationship with my sister grew increasingly strained. She was ill-equipped to support someone suffering from severe depression and post-traumatic stress disorder. She couldn’t forgive me for the harshness I showed her while I was with my husband, nor for the toll my situation had taken on our father. She refused to acknowledge the reality of what had happened to me. There remains a silence in our family about what I endured, which has left me with a disability; during our marriage, my abuser beat me so hard that I lost hearing in my left ear. No one wants to hear my story. No one knows the painful details, nor do they understand the violence inflicted upon me — the way he shoved my head into the bathroom or spat in my face. No one knew what I was forced to endure. Instead society, in Tunisia but also in France, demands that I continue living as though only a minor scratch has marred the glass of my soul. Primarily for these reasons, I hastened to leave.
Before being admitted to the hospital, which offers long stays to build parent-child bonds in a supportive environment, I had to meet with Marie-Laure Sfeir, the supervising doctor. This initial interview aimed to assess my health condition, identify my needs and determine the length of my stay. The hospital administration wanted to understand my psychological state to provide the necessary support, as I was grappling with two conflicting emotions regarding my pregnancy. On the one hand, this fetus was the result of rape and violence; on the other, I felt immense joy over the life growing inside me. I was grateful to this unborn child, who had come to teach me how to break my silence. Yet I was also anxious — particularly about the possibility of having a boy. I feared he might resemble his father in appearance, skin texture or facial features. In my mind, I linked these fears to the violence I had endured, making it difficult to separate the two. Sfeir listened attentively before saying: “The goal of this unit is not to sedate women but to help them overcome trauma. For example, you are showing typical signs of post-traumatic stress disorder and emotional dissociation. You need sleep and rest, especially to overcome the silence.” That evening, the supervisor called to inform me that a room was available.
I was admitted to the hospital’s specialized maternal and child care unit, one of 12 such facilities in Paris since the early 1980s, providing services to everyone, even those without residency papers.
The hospital staff welcomed me kindly but inspected my belongings, fearing I might be carrying a sharp object that could harm myself or others. Nonetheless, I was very grateful to be there. I needed someone to gently say, “I believe you, and I’m sorry for what you’ve been through.” I slept well the first night, and in the morning a nurse came to check on me, monitor the fetal heartbeat, check my sugar levels and serve me breakfast. Later, I met with the psychologist and social worker at the center. I was desperate to be treated as a human being and their kindness felt like love to me, so I became attached to them and didn’t want to leave. I cherished the safe space where I could speak and be heard.
At first, perhaps due to my psychological state, I didn’t notice any violations taking place. But it didn’t take long before other female patients confided in me about their mistreatment, which included being forced to take sedatives or having decisions made for them, such as whether they could invite partners or see their children.
Mothers faced difficulties in the discussion groups organized by the hospital with obstetricians and gynecologists, especially when it came to talking in detail about female genitalia or having sex, about which many were ignorant. Some women even screamed at the workers and kicked them out of their rooms. They hadn’t chosen to be at the hospital and refused all help, even from the other residents.
I cannot be certain that the hospital can help all its female residents, but it definitely provides support for those who seek it. My two-month stay there helped me maintain some psychological balance and focus mainly on the arrival and acceptance of my son. I remember clearly that one of the nurses, named Mary, said something that changed everything for me: “Violence entered from here [pointing to my womb] and now, when the boy comes out, all the violence will disappear with him. It’s like an inhale and an exhale.” This simple sentence made me associate the arrival of my son with the end of my suffering, and I even began to see him as my savior and liberator.
While the hospital succeeded in providing me with psychological support, the team responsible for administrative and legal assistance was ineffective. The caseworker was unfamiliar with the laws affecting foreigners in France and made no effort to help me find a lawyer or inquire about residency, protection or divorce. Still on my student visa, I failed to find a solution for my residency status, especially since I was close to giving birth and the hospital, which had pledged to keep my identity hidden, would be forced to disclose it to my ex-husband once I gave birth. This was because French public health law does not allow a child or minor to remain in the hospital without the consent of both parents.
I gave birth at St. Joseph Maternity Hospital in the 14th arrondissement, where I stayed for 15 days. Soon after, following pressure from my family, I returned to live with my sister.
After giving birth, the exhaustion from both the physical demands and the disruption of legal matters deepened my fatigue and depression. I was neither divorced nor had I been examined by a doctor for signs of abuse. The initial ruling granted my husband the right to see our son twice a month, which only added to my suffering. I fell into a severe depression and frequently contemplated suicide. My sister, who adored her new nephew, struggled to separate her roles as his aunt and a sort of surrogate mother. His arrival further strained our already fragile relationship.
Desperate for help, I called Hagel again and pleaded for her assistance. She directed me to the Les Lilas shelter center in the 19th arrondissement. Paris has 10 such centers for new mothers in need of help.
There was a lot of favoritism within the center. Moroccans helped Moroccan women, Algerians assisted Algerian women and so on. The staff would invite women from their own countries to lunch in the restaurant for free, provide them with diapers from the center’s nursery and give them dibs on cooking utensils or gifts of shoes, clothes and perfumes.
At the shelter, I met Mounia, a Moroccan woman with twin daughters, who became my friend and later my neighbor. Mounia no longer remembers her dreams in Morocco before she got married. Her father arranged her marriage to a man 30 years her senior who worked for a company in France.
Mounia pleaded with the staff to let her daughters sleep in her bed, as was customary in her culture. But they refused outright and began entering her room at all hours to ensure the twins were sleeping in their own beds, without blankets or toys. They wouldn’t allow her to give them water or bathe them, nor could she put honey on her breasts to encourage the twins to nurse, as is common in North Africa. Mounia initially found great support from Jalloul, one of the shelter’s social workers, but this quickly turned into a curse when the other women accused her of having a relationship with him.
A new director at the center was soon brought in, who implemented significant changes. The director changed the rental price from 75 euros ($79) a month to 20% of the residents’ income. Nonworking women were no longer allowed to place their children in the nursery for one full day per week; they were now limited to only two afternoons and had to pick up their children before 4 p.m. The director also enforced stricter dress codes, requiring women to change their clothes before going to the restaurant or nursery, and tightened the rules on visitors, allowing only married couples to enter. Moreover, she decided to exert more control over the management of aid given to women without residency papers.
I remember Sulaf, the assistant director, who was Tunisian and often treated Black women with disdain. She would not hesitate to expel them from the courtyard where they sat and would mock their appearance, including their armpit hair or baldness. I also recall the cleaning lady, a white French woman, who would scream at all the residents and enter their rooms without permission. If she found anything that she believed or even suspected belonged to the center, she would take it without asking, accuse the mothers of theft and belittle them.
I applied for state protection from my former husband three times. Each time a lawyer is assigned a case, they receive a payment from the state, and I am sure this is why, the first time, my lawyer misled me. Even though I submitted the file on my own, she suggested that she attend, then postponed the session for two months. As a result, the judge had no choice but to reject the request, as there was no longer any urgency. The second time, I submitted the file with the help of Christine Thierre, the social worker at the shelter. I found myself before the same judge, but this time, she approved my request. The protection period lasted six months, during which my husband violated the judge’s orders and threatened to kill me (I filed a complaint about this but he is yet to be arrested).
After the protection period expired, I needed to renew it. I naively assumed it would be the same judge as before, so I did little to prepare. Instead, I faced a different judge who seemed indifferent, even though she reprimanded my ex-husband, who interrupted her three times in five minutes during the hearing. Despite this, she rejected my request for protection, instead asking me to show my residency card to the court. I had indeed applied for residency but was yet to receive my card. The judge dismissed us from the session, leaving me alone and unprotected. I fled the shelter because my husband knew the address, and my son and I moved to a southern suburb of Paris.
What has pained me most in my judicial journey is the way the police handled my case. This may be because my ex-husband works as an informant for the police, who overlook his minor drug dealing in exchange for information about major dealers, something he would boast about during our time together. By the time the police got round to interviewing my neighbors, a year and a half had passed and all who knew me then had moved out. There was also a sex tape that my ex-husband made of me and posted online without my consent, where it remained for seven months, garnering thousands of views and comments. It disappeared after I made a formal complaint but police have been unable to retrieve it for my legal case.
This lack of accountability has emboldened my ex-husband, leading to a continued pattern of threats, including death threats and threats to kidnap my son. These have persisted, with the most recent while I was writing this essay.
Alongside other African and Arab mothers, I was to confront an oppressive French system after fleeing my abuser, from whom I am still not divorced. I was caught in a whirlpool of complex procedures at every turn. I have lived — and continue to live — in a state of constant torment, as if France, with all its governmental and nongovernmental institutions, had aligned itself with my rapist against me. I soon discovered that French culture itself is deeply sexist, with the language even favoring men.
The French for “she was raped” is “elle a ete violee.” In colloquial French, however, they sometimes say “elle s’est fait violee” or “she got herself raped,” which implies that the woman enabled the rape or was an active participant in her own violation. This subtle shifting of the blame onto the victim, as if suggesting consent or complicity in one’s own assault, contradicts the very essence of the verb which inherently involves refusal on the part of the victim. This attitude toward rape victims, expressed in the language, mirrors the way French state institutions handle rape cases specifically, and violence against women in general, often treating victims as if they were themselves guilty.
Foreign women in France, particularly those from Africa, face significant additional restrictions from the political and judicial systems, as well as from child and maternity protection agencies and women’s organizations. French victims of sexual violence may at least move freely within Europe and find another shelter or a new job, often supported by state aid. Yet foreign women — especially those without legal residency — are corralled into institutions that instruct them on how to be more French, from using forks when eating to what to wear for a court hearing.
These institutions prepare them for a life within the French system. Any resistance to this authority can result in expulsion from the country or the loss of custody of their children. Besides the horror of what they lived, migrant women have to find a way through complex barriers. The legal system is already deeply skewed in favor of men when it comes to French and European victims of sexual and domestic violence, due to a potent mixture of unqualified workers, outdated laws, misogyny and excruciatingly long procedures. Gisele Pelicot, the French grandmother whose former husband is on trial for drugging and raping her when they were married, and inviting dozens of other men to do the same, has ignited a moment of reckoning across the country, changing how sexual violence is viewed.
Over the years, the culture of exclusion and racism has infiltrated the fabric of French society and its institutions, making single foreign mothers and victims of violence easy prey for health, social, security and judicial systems to trample on.
Women seek refuge in France to escape poverty, unemployment and physical, sexual and psychological violence, only to find themselves at the mercy of institutions that position themselves as custodians over their lives, thoughts and bodies. Although shelters, social assistance agencies and organizations that defend abused women and protect children extend a helping hand to lift victims out of poverty and crime, the cost can be the very freedom these women came dreaming of. The judicial system reinforces this power, placing its authority in the service of these institutions, resulting in the deprivation of children, the stripping of rights, and discrimination based on social class, administrative status and nationality.
In an interview, the lawyer Andre Hoze dismissed the idea of the French judicial system being unempathetic to victims and said that it did not have any such flaws. He supported the notion of scrutinizing victims’ statements until “full conviction is reached,” arguing that justice must “remain impartial and detached until proven otherwise.” He cited his long experience, which had uncovered many cases where female plaintiffs had, in his words, exaggerated. Rape cases in France are still surrounded by ambiguity and social silence, making them difficult for judicial units to resolve. In the end, societal views of rape are not much different in France from those in the Maghreb and other staunchly patriarchal societies. The main difference may be the presence of associations and counseling units in France, which offer some hope that women can escape from their ordeals. But across the board, women are discredited, treated as liars, questioned about their attitudes, their outfits, their habits, going out, parties; it is the impression a woman gives of herself that is put forward, before any questioning of the rapist. Furthermore, women’s professional and social categories, their origins and their religions are highlighted before accepting the complaint.
Police stations are rated and evaluated by the number of complaints that are solved, so it benefits them to doubt the testimonies from victims of sexual and domestic violence. Indeed, units to combat violence against women were not established within French police stations until Jan. 1, 2024, as part of government promises to protect women following the #MeToo movement.
However, not all centers have these units, and in those that do, staff members are often not qualified to take victims’ statements. Hoze emphasized that the evidence supporting the plaintiffs’ claims is left entirely to the judge’s discretion. Such evidence could include testimonies from neighbors, relatives or psychological and social specialists who have followed the victim’s case, especially if the victim cannot provide a medical certificate proving the violence inflicted on her.
In 2022, the French judiciary refused to issue protection orders for around 58% of cases involving violence against women, according to the French National Institute of Statistics and Economic Studies. Hoze justified this high rate of rejections by arguing that some women misuse the legal system by filing complaints with the sole intent of harming the other party. “This is not a flaw in the French judicial system,” he said. He added that women sometimes file complaints over “simple” disagreements about household management, children, finances or even social relationships. Hoze underscored the importance of questioning the plaintiff’s statements in all cases, especially those of violence against women, particularly those that lack strong evidence or legal arguments and “suggest that the plaintiff may not fully believe their own statement or could be overreacting,” as he put it.
Catherine Mathieu, president of the Judicial Court in the Parisian municipality of Meaux, has made combating violence against women a central focus of her work. At the end of 2023, she wrote on the legal news platform Acto Juridique, “When we hear prominent and influential figures, and even elected representatives, belittling violence against women, and when we see them engaging in victim-blaming, we face a challenge that the justice system alone cannot overcome.”
The contrast between Hoze’s and Mathieu’s perspectives highlights a divide in how cases of violence against women are addressed. Hoze, who graduated in the 1980s, received his academic and judicial training at a time when the handling of such cases was different from current practices. By contrast, Mathieu, a younger — and female — judge, was educated within a more modern legal framework that approaches these cases with a different methodology.
In Les Lilas shelter, Mounia told me of her high expectations when she got married. Shortly after the wedding in Morocco, she spent 15 days with her new husband in his mother’s house. She didn’t feel any of the emotional or sexual happiness she had imagined from watching her favorite Turkish films. When they came to France, she found his home dirty, cramped and small. The furniture was worn out and there wasn’t even a bed in the bedroom. The smell of hashish filled the air and its traces littered the floor. Seeing her dismay, her husband told her that the situation was temporary, as the house he was building was not yet finished and he would soon take her to see it. He left her alone at home, locking the door behind him. When he returned late at night, drunk, he found that she had cleaned the place and organized it as best as she could.
A few months passed and the signs of pregnancy began to show in Mounia’s body. In her seventh month, her husband severely beat her when she refused to have sex with him. Seeing her bleeding, he called the authorities, telling them she had fallen. A nurse examined her and took a statement about the incident. With her limited French and overwhelming fear, Mounia didn’t contradict her husband’s story, claiming she couldn’t remember how it had happened. However, the nurse noticed the extensive bruises covering her body, which didn’t align with her explanation. The nurse reported the case to the public prosecutor, suspecting a case of domestic violence with the victim in denial. The hospital then presented Mounia with a difficult choice. As she was about to give birth prematurely to her twin daughters, she could either return to her husband, leaving the twins behind at the hospital, or file a complaint.
“The psychiatrist’s words felt more like a threat than help,” Mounia told me. “I never even complained to my mother when my brothers beat me as a child, so how could I complain about my husband, the father of my daughters? But I chose my daughters.”
Mounia spent a year at the Mother and Child Hospital, after which the authorities moved her and her daughters to Les Lilas. She came to the shelter before me and knew how things worked. She introduced me to other Arab mothers and showed me how to get diapers for free.
Mounia introduced me to Djambe, her neighbor at the center. Djambe was forced to undergo female genital mutilation (FGM) in her village of Kivu, Congo, at only 5 years old. Djambe described the horrific scenes of the cutting to me. Afterward, the women of the village would periodically lock Djambe in her room to verify her virginity. Djambe could think of nothing but leaving her village and reaching the capital, Kinshasa, where she hoped to work and save money to immigrate to Europe. She told me, “I didn’t think about my mother or my brothers, only about survival. So at the age of 14, I fled with my lover to Kinshasa. We worked there for two years before deciding that I would immigrate to France, and he would join me once I had secured my residency.” The journey was arduous and dangerous. When Djambe arrived in Libya with other migrants, the Libyan smuggler responsible for taking them across the sea began to treat them differently, separating the men from the women. As the time for departure approached, he came to her at night, informing her that she was the only one who hadn’t paid the full amount. She recalled, “He told me I had to pay immediately, or he wouldn’t let me travel.” I pleaded with him, offering to give him my fiance’s number so he could pay the money. Suddenly, his demeanor changed as he approached me, and I caught the strong scent of alcohol on his breath. The man then raped her. When he finished, he told her he could still see the wound despite her pubic hair. “You should shave it,” he said, laughing.
When Djambe arrived in France, she discovered that she was four months pregnant with a girl as a result of the rape. It was too late to have an abortion. This situation placed her in a complex legal predicament, as French law prohibits the expulsion of children from the country. The law also makes it difficult to separate parents from their children unless the parents are stripped of their civil rights, although parents can still be expelled from French territory for certain reasons. Determined to secure her rights as a mother, Djambe complied with all the psychiatrist’s orders at the hospital, undergoing every examination, taking all prescribed medications and participating in all workshops, regardless of her psychological state.
However, when she was transferred to the shelter center, her suffering intensified. Her financial resources dwindled and her daughter’s needs increased, leaving her feeling overwhelmed. She realized she was struggling alone against the odds but she knew she had to persevere to ensure a better future for herself and her child. She eventually lost custody of her daughter.
The center’s staff was diverse, with workers from different nationalities and backgrounds, though Arabs and French made up the majority. Among the staff were only two men; the rest were women. One of the men, an Algerian named Hakim, worked as a night guard at the center. In his 50s, Hakim was a large man with a thick mustache, a fair complexion and a hoarse voice. He had a habit of making inappropriate jokes, often using hand gestures, and would sometimes enter rooms without knocking. When he saw a group of women gathered, he would mutter, “The whores are all here.”
Women with legal residency in France receive financial support from the Family Allowance Fund (CAF) and also receive assistance to pay the room rent, which is around $80 per month and includes electricity, water and heating expenses. However, women without residency status live on a meager grant from ADIME, a public agency that assists single mothers in Paris. The allowance was insufficient, leaving many women in a precarious financial situation. Shelters accept women from the seventh month of pregnancy until their child reaches 3 years of age. In 2021, approximately 85% of the shelter residents were foreign women, mostly from the Maghreb, Sahel and Sahara regions, compared to only 15% who were French.
Most shelter center workers have certificates or training in educational, social or administrative support but lack training in dealing with severe depression, mental illness or postpartum stress. They also have little knowledge of the laws affecting foreigners in France, despite being required to identify critical and urgent cases and provide the necessary support. While psychologists do work in these centers, they are not medical doctors and are few in number, making up only about 2% of the staff. As a result, women are often referred to external psychological treatment centers.
Statistics show that the acceptance of women’s protection cases has been increasing. Although the law for the protection of women from violence (Law No. 769) was enacted in July 2010, the rate of issuing protection orders increased after 2017, following the #MeToo movement. Previously, the judicial system was hesitant to fully utilize this legislation, partly because it combined civil and criminal law, and partly because the lengthy decision-making process often meant victims were rescued by social workers or died from violence while waiting. The law has since undergone several revisions and, in 2019, the time required to decide a case was reduced to six days. Acceptance of protection cases requires evidence of prior violence along with other proof of imminent danger. However, only 66% of these requests are approved by the authorities. Hearings on these cases are held within six days of submission and the ruling remains in effect even if appealed.
One of the biggest concerns for families here, particularly those that are marginalized, poor or in need, is the constant fear of losing children to the system. My repeated attempts to contact Helen Tambor, head of the Child Social Assistance Unit, were met with complete silence. Despite messages to her secretary containing my questions about how the system works, which cases are dismissed and why some are recalled, the director refused to speak with me, without providing an explanation.
The unit can intervene if a child — whether a minor, an adolescent or young adult up to the age of 20 — is deemed to be at risk. There are five levels of intervention, which I categorize here according to the degree of involvement in the child’s relationship with their family. The first is educational assistance at home, an administrative intervention that involves setting goals in a contract between a district agent and the family for a period of three to six months, with the possibility of renewal. The statistics suggest that approximately 51,000 cases involve this type of intervention. Alternatively, there is “educational assistance in an open environment,” where family specialists visit the child, by order of the judge, for a period of six months to two years, with the possibility of renewal. The first method is often followed by the second, as directed by the judge. The number of interventions of this type is estimated to have reached approximately 120,000 in 2022.
The second section primarily involves two types of intervention: administrative and penal. In the administrative context, children are placed under the care of the child protection unit. This applies to minors who have been abandoned by their families or who have entered French territory unaccompanied or illegally. According to statistics for the same year, there are approximately 4,000 such children and minors. In other cases, a child may be removed from their family without a judicial decision if their life is deemed to be in danger, with around 10,000 children and minors experiencing this. For young people aged 18 to 20, they must approach the Social Protection Unit themselves for assistance. This last category numbers 31,000.
Studies and data on the unauthorized removal of children are scarce, especially since such information is not made publicly available, making it difficult to form an objective and impartial opinion on the matter. The issue remains contentious in France. When I contacted the statistics center, they responded curtly, stating that they did not track the nationalities of children, clearly understanding that I was attempting to monitor the situation for children of foreign mothers. Although the Directorate for Research, Studies, Evaluation and Statistics — established in the 1990s — tracks the interventions of these units, their types and costs and the nationalities of the children involved, the statistics are not definitive. They differentiate between minors who entered French territory illegally and foreign children born or present on French soil. However, within the latter category, the unit only distinguishes between Europeans and non-Europeans, disregarding specific nationalities. Many of these children have dual nationality, further complicating the reliability of these studies in revealing the extent of French institutions’ dominance over foreigners. It is also worth noting that the areas with the highest concentrations of these interventions also have a significant presence of foreigners on French soil.
When I asked Samba Niangane, director of Sauvegarde, a Paris-based association that helps refer women to shelters, why the treatment is so poor, he explained that social workers determine priorities and send the files of women who need accommodation. He confirmed that “workers in shelter centers receive periodic training on how to interact with female residents.” He explained that the women in charge of the center hold monthly meetings with the mothers to establish and work toward their goals. “The goal of the center is not just to provide shelter but to protect children,” he said. Niangane acknowledged that most of the residents are of foreign nationalities but insisted that managing the center’s affairs and addressing the specific needs of each individual are the responsibilities of the directors alone.
The journey ahead for me is still long. I have had to forgo financial and legal assistance and instead hired a lawyer, paying in installments, to handle both civil and criminal cases for substantial sums of money. I work two shifts to earn enough to ensure my son has the life he needs without compromising his well-being. My life revolves around seven working days a week, seven monthly appointments with my psychiatrist and seven different medications each day to get some sleep without nightmares. My lawyer will have to resubmit the complaint and request that an investigating judge be appointed to reexamine the case, seeking justice from my ex for rape and death threats in addition to the revenge porn. In the best-case scenario, this process will take two or three years, perhaps longer, and there is no guarantee it will yield any results. I am still officially married and the man who abused me is walking free.
I’m no longer afraid to go to Paris but I still wake up every night, imagining that the shadow on the closet is him. Mounia and Djambe share this fear. Mounia found a passion for sweet-making and decided to turn it into her profession. But when her daughters turned 3, she and her girls were moved to another center, where it became too difficult to share a room with other families. She worked and waited until she finally obtained residency and a work permit, allowing her to rent a room for herself and her daughters. The judge sentenced her husband to a fine equivalent to $5,500 and granted him visitation rights, allowing him to take the girls with him during visits. But he continued to harass and insult her at every opportunity and only contributed the small amount the judge ordered, despite one of her daughters being disabled due to his abuse. Mounia told me she tries to maintain contact with him in case he takes the girls away to Morocco for good.
Djambe studied to become a medical assistant and now works with the elderly. She is still fighting for her right to her daughter and was finally granted the right to have her one day a week, after two years of only one hour per week.
I tell my son to never allow someone to touch his body without his consent. I tell him to be kind, as that makes him stronger. But as he gets older, his questions get harder. With his French accent, he asks me for his father. “I have no brothers, no sisters, I have no one. Mama, you are too fat to play with me!”
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