On 7 November, France enacted a landmark law redefining rape. Abandoning the traditional framework that required proof of physical violence or coercion, the French legal system has now fully embraced a new definition centred on lack of consent. Although France’s Supreme Court (Cour de Cassation) had already hinted at this shift through its case law, the formal legislative change marks one of the most decisive social transformations of our time. Its influence is felt even in Greece—inviting us to ask why France moved forward, and why we did not.

The Meaning of Lack of Consent

Many may wonder why such a new definition is needed, when violence, threats, or sudden assault can already signal the absence of consent. Yet this was precisely the problem. Lack of consent exists in many situations outside physical force or explicit threats.

Power-imbalanced relationships—where one person is inherently vulnerable—create psychological conditions in which silence or submission does not mean “yes.”

Employer–employee, supervisor–subordinate, coach–athlete, professor–student, doctor–patient, guard–inmate: depending on the surrounding circumstances, these relationships can evolve in ways that nullify the weaker party’s ability to resist. They can suppress a person’s will so profoundly that it resembles the effect of physical violence.

During debates in the French National Assembly, lawmakers presented stark numbers: only 20% of rape complaints involved the use of physical force, and only a tiny fraction of all complaints resulted in prosecution or conviction. Something was deeply wrong—either in the law, its application, or both.

The Objections

France’s transformation did not happen without resistance—objections that went beyond political divides and had to be taken seriously.

Critics argued that basing rape law on lack of consent undermines a fundamental principle of Criminal Law: that the definition of an offence must rest on clear, objective criteria. Shifting the focus to consent, they said, introduces subjective elements that are hard to assess.

Others warned that it threatens the presumption of innocence and effectively reverses the burden of proof. In situations involving dependency, intoxication, or impaired judgment, defendants might be forced to prove that consent existed—an unsettling prospect.

At first glance, these concerns seem substantial. But they were directly addressed in the opinion issued by the French Conseil d’État (Council of State), the country’s highest administrative court, before the bill was passed.

Consent was defined as free and informed agreement, specific to each sexual act, given beforehand, and capable of being withdrawn at any moment, even during intercourse. The law emphasised that contextual factors—dependency relationships, alcohol use, or any condition that impairs judgment—must be taken into account. Physical violence, threats, coercion, or surprise would always constitute lack of consent.

Crucially, these considerations apply not only when judging guilt, but even when deciding whether a criminal investigation should begin.

The Substance of the Shift

Still, some readers may find these explanations unsettling. They may worry that this shift signals the arrival of an overly puritanical society where suspicion lurks beneath every interaction.

This is the real risk. Prosecutors and judges must handle it with full awareness. Yet the effort required is the price of safeguarding the sexual autonomy of individuals who suffer the violation of their will without any visible physical force—in the most private space of their being.

The new law’s message is simple: “Giving in does not mean wanting.”

Those who believe they can exploit structural dependency or a person’s diminished ability to resist will no longer find shelter in legal gaps. For “yes” to truly mean “yes,” it must be a reasonable yes—one that, under the circumstances, can genuinely be considered voluntary. And from now on, everyone must understand this. Ignorance of the law is no excuse.

The State’s Responsibility

Consider a real case.
A bar employee met an 18-year-old foreign visitor and her mother one night. The following night, their interaction continued until after closing time. The mother eventually left, trusting her daughter with her new acquaintance. But before morning, the young woman reported that he had raped her.

The prosecutor closed the case, arguing—at length—that the apparent lack of physical coercion suggested consent.

The case reached the European Court of Human Rights in Strasbourg, which ruled that the state had violated the young woman’s right not to be subjected to inhuman or degrading treatment. When you report a theft, authorities have minimal obligations; but when you report rape—treated under European human rights law as equivalent to torture—states must take multiple, proactive steps to investigate thoroughly.

Reading the Court’s judgment in case 38588/21 is essential to grasp the full depth of the transformation underway.

A Living Legal Notion

This transformation is occurring in Greece as well—quietly, without fanfare from some and without loud doubts from others. The concept of rape is alive; it evolves as society’s values and priorities evolve.

It overcomes the resistance of traditional criminal-law doctrines. And under strict conditions, it can now encompass even cases of prolonged psychological manipulation.

The French Conseil d’État stressed that the new law simply recognises what the legal system already implied—meaning it applies immediately to all ongoing cases.