Can Bangladesh regulate digital voyeurism without undermining rights?

A few days ago, a mobile journalist went viral for taking a video of a couple at Dhaka University. The couple, husband and wife, were taking photos together, while the journalist sat in front of Modhur Canteen, zoomed in with his mobile phone, and captured the moment without their consent. When he was spotted, he smirked, seemingly proud.

This is just one incident from the recent past that has sparked heated debates on social media regarding such so-called journalists and content creators making money from taking videos of people, especially women, and sharing them online. 

Almost all of those are taken without consent and are just plain voyeurism. The primary targets are well-known female politicians, activists, and social workers, but often, ordinary people as well. It has become a monetised form of digital voyeurism that sits uneasily at the intersection of technology, law and politics.

Against this backdrop, the government's move to invoke the Cyber Security Act 2026 marks a significant, if contentious, intervention. 

Speaking in parliament, Fakir Mahbub Anam Swapan, the posts and telecommunications minister, said that individuals who record and disseminate videos of others without consent under the guise of "content creation" will face legal action. Investigations, he added, must be completed within 90 days to ensure swift justice.

At first glance, the intent appears sound. The harms are real, visible and growing. But the deeper question is whether the law, as framed and applied, can meaningfully address these harms, or whether it risks becoming yet another instrument vulnerable to political misuse, like the infamous Digital Security Act of the toppled authoritarian regime.

Law as shield or weapon?

Section 25(1) of the Cyber Security Act criminalises the intentional publication or threat to publish content for purposes such as blackmail, sexual harassment, or sextortion. On paper, this provides a necessary legal basis to tackle non-consensual content.

Yet the law's interpretation and political framing have already raised concerns.

Sabhanaz Rashid Diya, founder and executive director of Tech Global Institute, a tech policy think tank focused on closing accountability gaps in the Global South, says, "First, recording videos and disseminating them online is not, in itself, an offence. Bangladesh's Constitution recognises the right to freedom of expression, subject to reasonable restrictions imposed by law on specified grounds. Moreover, while the right to privacy is protected, it generally does not extend to conduct in public spaces."

So, she argues, content dissemination of this nature is not inherently unlawful, nor does it always contravene constitutional principles. In this context, the minister's apparent conflation of content creation and dissemination by "content creators" with offences under section 25 (such as dissemination intended for blackmail, sexual harassment, revenge porn, sextortion, or intimidation) appears to impute malicious intent or knowledge without legal or factual basis. 

This interpretation is inconsistent with both the spirit and the letter of the law, as well as with constitutional protections.

But this is where Bangladesh's political context becomes crucial.

"In a system where dominant parties can command overwhelming parliamentary majorities, the line between regulation and control can blur. Laws designed to protect citizens can, if loosely defined, be repurposed to silence dissent," says Samantha Sharmin, senior joint convener of the National Citizen Party.

Samantha herself has been a regular subject of such content. One click and you can find videos of her standing at Shahbagh looking at her phone or going about her political activities, and that footage is certainly neither taken with her consent nor disseminated with her permission.

The 90-day investigation mandate further complicates matters. While speedy justice is desirable, compressed timelines combined with vague interpretations risk incentivising arbitrary arrests and expedited prosecutions. In such a framework, due process may become collateral damage. 

As Samantha puts it, the challenge is not merely legal design, but political neutrality. 

"Regulation, she argues, is necessary. But it must be insulated from partisan misuse through transparency, judicial oversight, and institutional checks," she adds.

There is also the question of legality.

Diya said, "The minister's statement reflects political posturing rather than any binding legal position. He does not have the authority to create new categories of offences or to sanction a specific class of individuals without undergoing a proper legal process of establishing new laws. Singling out content creators is deeply concerning and echoes past instances where journalists, cartoonists, students, teachers, political opponents, bloggers, and critics were similarly singled out and targeted. Such framing raises serious concerns under the constitutional guarantee of equal treatment and equal protection of the law."

The erosion of privacy in the age of reels

If the law is contested, the social reality it seeks to address is far less ambiguous. Armed with smartphones and incentivised by platform algorithms, self-styled "mobile journalists" operate in a grey zone between reporting and intrusion. The mechanics are simple. Capture a fleeting, often mundane moment. Frame it suggestively. Add a provocative caption. Let the algorithm do the rest.

Women, particularly those in public life, bear the brunt of this ecosystem. Young activists, politicians, and even ordinary citizens find themselves reduced to viral clips — objects of scrutiny, speculation, and abuse.

Rezaur Rahman Lenin, a human rights activist, thinks that there should be a clear legal distinction between journalistic intent and commercial exploitation. And in the age of viral vlogging and street interviews, that opt-out versus opt-in debate is very important.

"Implied consent needs to be carefully examined: participation in a public event or protest implies consent to be documented, obviously, but at the same time active revocation needs to be respected, because Bangladesh's data protection framework should emphasise the right to be forgotten, or the right to request removal of content if a private individual becomes an unintended focal point of a viral video that causes them social or professional harm," he explains.

The issue is not confined to politics. Festivals, campuses, even casual gatherings are increasingly subject to what one interviewee described as a "predatory lens". The effect is chilling: a subtle but pervasive deterrent to visibility, expression and freedom. This Pahela Baishakh saw a significant amount of such content being shared on social media, which invited offensive comments and suggestive remarks in the comment section.

"Implied consent needs to be carefully examined: participation in a public event or protest implies consent to be documented, obviously, but at the same time active revocation needs to be respected, because Bangladesh's data protection framework should emphasise the right to be forgotten, or the right to request removal of content if a private individual becomes an unintended focal point of a viral video that causes them social or professional harm."

Rezaur Rahman Lenin, human rights activist

And yet, the legal framework struggles to keep pace. Traditional notions of privacy — often tied to private spaces — fail to fully capture the harms of contextual misuse. A moment recorded in public may not violate privacy in a strict legal sense. But its selective framing, amplification, and weaponisation create a new form of harm — one that existing laws only partially address.

Lenin says, "Obviously, legislative synchronicity is needed to avoid legal ambiguity. The government must harmonise several key factors, particularly the Right to Information Act 2009, the Personal Data Protection Act, and the cybersecurity framework. All three need to be synchronised."

He adds, "The law should transition from vague terms like 'cybersecurity risks' to specific, narrowly defined criteria. Particularly in the context of content blocking, data seizures, or privacy fines. So, the balance is achieved when seizure action is limited to emergency preservation, while the final adjudication and punishment remain strictly within the court's jurisdiction. Without this separation, the ICT division risks becoming both prosecutor and judge in the digital space."

Umama Fatema, a prominent student activist who has often been a victim of such content, thinks that such a top-down approach often risks becoming a political tool.

"We need social awareness regarding privacy and consent. There should be a mass campaign to raise awareness. The government will need to focus on educating the people, not just penalising them," she suggests.

The economics of intrusion

At the heart of this phenomenon lies an often-overlooked factor: money. In Bangladesh, content creators report earning roughly $10 per million views. For many, this creates a powerful incentive structure. The more provocative the content, the higher the engagement. The higher the engagement, the greater the income.

Any regulatory response that ignores this economic dimension is likely to fall short. Legal penalties may deter some actors, but as long as the incentive structure remains intact, the behaviour will persist — perhaps shifting forms, but not disappearing.

A global dilemma, not a local anomaly

Bangladesh is not alone in grappling with these challenges. Around the world, governments are attempting to regulate the complex interplay between digital content, privacy and free expression.

The European Union has adopted perhaps the most rights-centric approach. Through the General Data Protection Regulation (GDPR), consent is central — data cannot be processed without a "clear affirmative act". The "right to erasure" allows individuals to demand the removal of their data. Complementing this, the Digital Services Act imposes accountability on platforms, requiring them to moderate harmful content and maintain transparency.

The United States, by contrast, operates through a patchwork system. Recent measures such as the TAKE IT DOWN Act focus specifically on non-consensual intimate imagery, mandating rapid removal. But broader regulation remains fragmented, reflecting ongoing tensions between free speech and privacy.

India offers a more hybrid model. Its Digital Personal Data Protection Act emphasises consent, while amendments to IT rules impose stringent takedown requirements — sometimes within hours. Simultaneously, criminal provisions target organised cybercrime, including deepfakes.

In comparison, Bangladesh's Cyber Security Act leans heavily towards punitive enforcement. Its focus is reactive — criminalising harmful acts after they occur — rather than preventative. Unlike the EU, it lacks a comprehensive consent framework. Unlike India, it does not impose rapid takedown obligations on platforms. Instead, it emphasises investigation and prosecution.

Each model carries trade-offs. The EU prioritises rights but faces enforcement challenges. India's aggressive takedown rules raise concerns about overreach. The US struggles with inconsistency. Bangladesh's approach, meanwhile, risks over-criminalisation without sufficiently addressing systemic drivers.

Beyond law, a question of culture

Ultimately, the crisis of digital voyeurism is not just legal — it is cultural. It reflects a broader shift in how visibility is produced, consumed, and monetised. It raises uncomfortable questions about the boundaries between public and private, consent and exploitation, journalism and spectacle.

For women in particular, the stakes are high. The erosion of privacy is not an abstract concern — it shapes their ability to participate, to speak, to exist in public spaces without fear. The newly proposed regulation is, in many ways, a necessary response to a real problem. But its success will depend not on its severity, but on its restraint.