As someone who has been in the public eye for the past 15 years, I am used to scrutiny and criticism. Online hate – especially when it targets women, and Black women in particular – has been extensively documented. So I have a pretty good idea of what to expect if I choose to speak out about sexism and racism in a country unwilling to acknowledge its misdeeds. Anonymous abuse and attacks from political or public figures come with the territory, and I have little choice but to face them.
But I could never have imagined that a French celebrity could subject me to persistent criticism in plain sight, yet escape being called out for it by any of the media figures who invite him to appear on their shows and platforms. It has been a chilling lesson to realise that instead it was me who would end up victimised and put on trial for attempting to expose what I felt was harassment.
I didn’t initially pay much attention when, in 2017, this high-profile figure, a philosopher who regularly appears on French TV and radio, dedicated a radio segment to me and ideas of mine that he disagreed with. This is all part of public debate, which I totally accept.
But then he started to mention me on Twitter (now X) on a regular basis. At first I responded, but realising that no answer I gave would satisfy his so-called wish to debate, I asked him to call a halt to the conversation.
Over subsequent months, I asked him numerous times to leave me alone, for example in May 2018, August 2018 and December 2018. But he would not stop, once even answering, strangely: “I never held on to you. I have nothing to let go of.”
According to research I commissioned (at my own expense), he mentioned me 478 times between 2018 and 2022 with almost no engagement on my part. In fact, he mentioned me more times than any other public figure in France, ahead of Emmanuel Macron or the far-right leader Marine Le Pen.
The obsession didn’t go unnoticed. Le Monde published an op-ed that condemned “the consistency with which several personalities, including the philosopher Raphaël Enthoven, attack Rokhaya Diallo”, adding: “Almost daily, with an obsession bordering on pathology, these white men, media intellectuals, expose her to their followers.”
On TV, Samuel Laurent, a journalist who has worked on online bullying, praised my courage in the face of this situation. Many others protested online that the philosopher should stop. Instead, he added to his X bio the ironic label “neocon harasser, according to her”, referring to my words about him. I eventually blocked him, but even that did not discourage him.
In 2020, when another writer attempted to include this man in a conversation we were having on Twitter, I asked her to remove him, adding that his persistence was well known. I did not expect what followed.
On the basis of my tweet, I was charged with public defamation and placed under formal investigation. The charge? Making an allegation likely to harm the honour or reputation of an individual. Under French law, defamation is a crime punishable by a fine, or sometimes even a prison sentence.
This powerful man, heir of a rich and famous family, with connections to France’s media elite, had made a criminal complaint and was seeking €12,000 from me to repair the alleged harm I had caused by simply describing what had happened to me. The only harm he could have suffered was the blow to his ego on realising that I had refused to engage in debate with him, accustomed as he is to mainstream French media attention. He had pursued his unacceptable conduct towards me entirely in public, yet I was the one who had to defend myself and risk a criminal conviction.
I had successfully avoided ever meeting him in person, but because he could, he forced me to face him in court. I had to both overcome my sense of disgust and bear the costs of a legal ordeal initiated by a man who I felt was using the court as a playground to assert his power. Since I refused to interact with him, I would have to pay.
On the day of my trial, I was grateful to see the courtroom packed with people who had come to support me. The philosopher came alone. He cast himself as the victim, but addressed the court with an incredible nonchalance: he delivered a prepared script as if he were performing in a theatre. He argued his right to publicly oppose any idea as long as the debate was “courteous”. He appeared to treat my trial as another opportunity to reach an audience.
In my defence, I argued that a debate had to be consensual and that since I had repeatedly refused to interact with my accuser, there was no consent. The public prosecutor hardly bothered to hide his impatience, sighing and rolling his eyes as I put my side of the story. After stating that I was proficient enough with words (which, to me, sounded patronising) to have known I was harming the man’s reputation, and that it was therefore intentional, he asked the court to convict me.
In putting his client’s case, my opponent’s lawyer attributed to me a book written by a group of Black actors. Incredibly, even in my own trial I was confused with other Black people.
I still don’t understand how anyone could treat a prosecution so casually. I guess that for someone who can afford to hire lawyers and the time to spend his afternoons making speeches, the trial was a game – an entertaining episode. Before the trial, the philosopher had sent me a signed copy of his latest book so I would know I was the inspiration for one of his satirical characters.
In contrast, I was trembling as I spoke, outraged at the absurdity of having to convince the court I was not a criminal. Outraged at the unfairness that so much of my precious time, over several years, had had to be spent defending myself.
But I could afford to hire the brilliant lawyer who defended me skilfully and I had the mental resources to stand up for myself. Not everyone can. The French justice system, and the defamation laws in particular, seem to be available to the most privileged to discredit or intimidate their critics. What was my case if not an attempt to silence women who do not submit to the will of powerful men?
In the end, the judges cleared me of all charges. The ruling acknowledged that I had not committed a criminal offence, but had “reproached my accuser for a personality trait, that of a malign obsession” with me. Leaving aside the prosecution, I felt that I was treated with empathy by the judges and given the opportunity to explain how feeling harassed can be an ordeal that affects your mental state.
But I know I will never get back the time and money that my defence has cost me and all those who supported me. My accuser still has the support of the mainstream media and can appear on their shows with impunity. And he still has the option of appealing the judgment – so can, if he wants, plunge me back into a new and costly legal whirlwind.
Rokhaya Diallo is a Guardian columnist. She is a writer, journalist, film director and activist
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