In France, the experience of trans people in the justice system remains largely invisible—and often brutal. This is the story of Louna, a trans woman and activist who spent four months in a men’s prison after being accused of sabotaging a highway construction site. Her account reveals a grim mix of legal indifference, isolation, and resilience. Between cold nights, humiliating inspections, and unexpected moments of solidarity, her journey sheds light on the urgent need for reform.
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Arrest and incarceration: a fight against invisibility
Louna, a pseudonym, is a trans activist who became involved in a protest against the construction of the A69 highway in southern France. In May 2024, during a night of direct action, a construction vehicle was set on fire. Louna suffered burns to her face during the incident, an injury that required hospitalization. Despite her vulnerable state, law enforcement pursued her relentlessly.
A few hours after her hospital admission, police officers arrived to seize evidence, ignoring medical warnings about her fragile health. She chose to leave the hospital early, prioritizing recovery over immediate interrogation—a decision later criticized by authorities as “fleeing,” a term she firmly rejects. “I just needed time to heal. I wasn’t hiding. I even went to vote,” she explains.
After months of surveillance, including GPS tracking and phone tapping, Louna was arrested in October 2024 by plainclothes officers from an elite unit. She was charged with “destruction of property by dangerous means” and “criminal conspiracy.” The case quickly gained political and media attention, bringing her fight into the public eye.
Locked in a men’s prison, ignored as a woman
What followed was a stark illustration of institutional failure to recognize gender identity. Despite identifying as a woman, Louna was placed in a men’s prison nearly 400 kilometers from her family home. The prison administration justified this by citing safety concerns but confined her to solitary isolation—an area meant to separate vulnerable inmates from others.
Her cell became a stage for daily harassment. Construction workers nearby would peer through the cell door’s peephole, mocking her presence as “the creature” because of her long hair and chest. Verbal abuse and threats of violence echoed through the narrow corridors. But inside, Louna kept a quiet resolve: “I came in standing, and I’ll leave standing. No prison will break me.”
Life in isolation: a cold, lonely ordeal
The prison was overcrowded, operating at more than double its intended capacity. Louna’s cell measured a mere 9 square meters, with chipped walls and a small plexiglass window that she kept open 24/7 despite freezing winter temperatures. The metal bed was hard as wood, covered only by a plastic mattress designed to prevent bedbugs. The absence of proper ventilation meant the cell quickly became stifling.
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She experienced strange new afflictions: frequent nosebleeds and coughing up blood, symptoms that terrified her. Even the guards were shocked by the dire condition of the prison. Though Louna did not hear transphobic remarks from staff, the harassment from fellow inmates was constant—at times easing only after she confronted her aggressors directly. One cellmate’s crude but honest words—“You may be a tranny, but you’re a good one”—brought a bittersweet smile to her face, a small relief amid harsh conditions.
The invasive routine of strip searches and deprivation
One of the most degrading aspects of Louna’s incarceration was the daily strip searches. A female officer would inspect her upper body, then she had to put on a T-shirt before a male guard examined her lower half. “A strange dance,” she says, “because they refuse to let a man see breasts.”
Her days were otherwise marked by a Spartan routine: a tiny coffee dose at dawn and two monotonous meals of peas, broccoli, or pasta. Being confined to solitary meant no access to the library, gym, or even the prison yard. Television programs, sudoku puzzles, and makeshift weight training became her only escapes.
Louna remembers her 25th birthday spent alone in the cell, as well as a quiet Christmas far from loved ones. The small consolation was receiving signed albums from queer and punk artists she admired, tokens that reminded her she wasn’t entirely forgotten.
Freedom and a fragile hope for change
After four grueling months, Louna was released early in February 2025 by a judge’s order. Stepping outside, she recalls the surreal feeling of being free to walk anywhere without restriction. Surrounded by friends, she celebrated with a simple lemon tart, slowly processing the ordeal she endured.
Her story remains a powerful reminder of the systemic neglect faced by trans people in prison. France lacks public data on trans inmates and no specific laws protect their rights behind bars. The prison system still relies on outdated documents like birth certificates, ignoring the United Nations’ calls for respect of gender self-identification.
Louna’s case stirred political debates, even drawing the attention of the French Minister of Justice. Soon after her release, a court ordered a halt to the controversial A69 highway project she had protested against—a bittersweet victory she describes not as a triumph but as a “great breath of hope.” “We are no longer the only ones considered illegal,” she jokes with a sly grin.
Her experience highlights a harsh truth: the fight for dignity and recognition continues, both inside and outside prison walls.