A click away from exposure: Iraq’s privacy dilemma in the digital age
Shafaq News
In Iraq, privacy is disappearing faster than a screen swipe. One careless tap can turn a private moment — a wedding dance, a graduation hug, a family gathering — into public content. With laws that lag decades behind technology, anyone with a smartphone can become a target.
Fayrouz Aqil, a Fine Arts graduate, experienced this first-hand. A passerby filmed her graduation ceremony and posted it online without her consent. “The video went viral,” she recounted to Shafaq News.
“Comments flooded in with insults, curses, and mockery. I tried contacting the pages to remove it — nothing worked.” The backlash spilled into her family life, creating tension she never imagined on her special day.
Her story is far from unique, as personal moments are increasingly becoming public property. Some wedding halls, particularly for women-only events, have banned mobile phones entirely to prevent unwanted filming. Yet these measures are only temporary. The underlying problem remains Iraq’s outdated legal system, which has not caught up with the digital era.
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By early 2025, the Ministry of Communications recorded 48.1 million active mobile connections, 38 million internet users, and roughly 34.3 million social media accounts. Facebook alone counts 20.1 million Iraqi users.
This digital surge has reshaped daily life — for communication, entertainment, work, and even disputes. Yet it has also created a vast arena where ordinary people can be filmed, mocked, blackmailed, and harassed in seconds.
Currently, authorities rely on Article 438 of the 1969 Penal Code, a law drafted long before smartphones, instant uploads, or viral humiliation. The article criminalizes publishing private images or information without consent, including children’s photos. It also prohibits accessing personal messages and calls, with maximum punishment reaching one year in prison.
“The punishment might be one year in prison, but tracking down the person who posted the footage can take months,” Baghdad resident Hamed Khalil told Shafaq News, pointing out that it costs money, time, and repeated visits to courts. He added that most people give up, warning that this gap “encourages those who intrude.”
Moreover, the current law does not define digital evidence, platform responsibilities, or cross-border data. Police also lack tools to freeze content before it disappears and have no clear authority to compel platforms to cooperate swiftly.
Attempts to modernize the system have repeatedly stalled. The 2011 draft “Information Crimes Law” collapsed after criticism from rights groups like Human Rights Watch, which argued that its vague wording and broad punishments could threaten freedom of expression.
Even the 2020 effort to update cybercrime legislation drew concern: it retained unclear definitions of digital offenses and imposed disproportionate penalties for online privacy violations. In practice, this gap leaves digital intrusion cases vulnerable. Police cannot issue fast preservation orders, investigators struggle to secure evidence from platforms, and victims rarely receive timely support.
Read more: Iraqi women face surge in cyber threats with lack of digital protections
Hamed Khalil noted that individuals often expend significant resources just to keep a case alive, while perpetrators face little deterrence.
According to official data, in Baghdad alone, more than 50 women are targeted daily with harassment, blackmail, or cyberbullying. In 2024, community-police units handled 9,384 victims of online blackmail, domestic violence, or escape cases. Seventy percent were women, mostly between 15 and 35.
Without a modern cybercrime law or a data-protection framework, institutions improvise. Universities, such as Al Farahidi University in Baghdad, have begun enforcing internal rules. It recently suspended and downgraded students who posted content violating university norms, warning that “any behavior outside academic values and norms will not be tolerated.”
Families also impose restrictions, while neighborhoods set informal rules. All of this underscores the same gap: Iraqis are left to navigate a digital epidemic with tools designed for another century.
The digital invasion isn’t just a legal problem — it’sa social one. Iraq’s young population, with a median age just over 20, has embraced social media in massive numbers. Private moments now have public consequences, and the line between documenting life and violating privacy is blurred.
Munahel Al Salih, a psychologist, pointed out that decades of war, sanctions, and instability have weakened social norms around privacy. “People are focused on survival. Ethics, dignity, and privacy took a backseat,” she explained to Shafaq News, stressing that social media amplified the situation. “Likes, shares, and viral content became a measure of success, even if it hurts others.”
She added that wealth and tribal influence often override justice, normalizing intrusive behavior. Platforms reward visibility; the rush for attention fuels reckless posting and filming. “This environment encourages random filming and sharing without thinking about the consequences,” she recalled.
Yet she agreed Iraq needs a legal overhaul — not just a cybercrime law, but a broader framework that clearly defines digital privacy, specifies what counts as consent, protects victims’ rights, and equips judges and investigators with the tools to act quickly.
Until then, Iraqis will continue stepping into weddings, graduations, and family events knowing that any moment — a smile, a gesture, a laugh — can be uploaded, shared, and mocked before anyone can react. Exposure moves at the speed of a click. The law? It’s still stuck in 1969.
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Written and edited by Shafaq News staff.
