"Get out of the car!"
The command is sharp, desperate, and filled with a resolve that defies the expectations placed upon women in Baghdad. In a video circulating on social media, a woman confronts a driver on a bustling Iraqi street, accusing him of exposing himself and hurling obscene comments at her. She is not merely shouting; she is filming. The camera captures the man’s physical resistance as she attempts to open his car door, a visceral documentation of the harassment that has become an inescapable reality for countless women in the country.
This footage is one of many featured on the Instagram account of Sarah Jassim, an Iraqi women’s rights activist who has turned to digital advocacy to expose the predators stalking the streets of her city. She serves as a conduit for women who, silenced by fear and societal stigma, have nowhere else to turn. For Jassim, the smartphone is no longer just a communication tool; it is a defensive instrument.
"Your camera is your weapon," Jassim tells the BBC. "It is a way to document evidence in case a woman decides to sue her harasser, or at least it is a means to shame him."
The effectiveness of this approach is tangible. Jassim notes that one of the videos shared on her platform provided the necessary evidence to secure the arrest of a police officer accused of harassing schoolgirls. Yet, the price of this activism is steep. By daring to challenge the culture of silence, Jassim has made herself a target. She describes receiving death threats and chilling warnings of acid attacks, leaving her largely confined to her home, where she finds solace in the company of her dog rather than the streets of the city she is trying to change.
"I have been accused of inciting public indecency because I encourage women to speak in a society that expects us to be silent," she explains. Jassim argues that the core of the crisis lies in the legal vacuum: Iraq’s penal code lacks specific, modern language to criminalize "harassment" or "gender-based violence." Without clear legislative teeth, she asserts, there is no deterrent. "Recognizing the problem is the best way to address it. We need protection; abusers have to be deterred."
A System That Fails the Vulnerable
The struggle Jassim faces is mirrored in the experiences of countless women who report feeling utterly abandoned by the justice and police systems. For many, the path to legal recourse is a labyrinth of complex procedures and discouraging obstacles that often end in futility.
The international community has taken note. A report released in May by a UN committee on discrimination against women described violence against women and girls in Iraq as "widespread and under-reported." The committee issued a scathing list of recommendations, urging the Iraqi authorities to repeal laws that remain inherently discriminatory—most notably provisions that allow rapists to escape punishment if they marry their victims, and the legal leniency afforded to perpetrators of so-called "honor killings."
The human cost of this systemic inaction is profound. Consider the case of "Amal"—a pseudonym used to protect her identity—who has spent the last five years trapped in a grueling, lonely legal battle. Amal accuses her ex-husband of repeatedly raping their daughter, who was a minor at the time, at gunpoint.
Amal recounts her daughter’s harrowing testimony: the father would enter the girl’s room, place his weapon on the bed, and deliver a chilling ultimatum: "No-one will hear you if I kill you."
For many survivors, reporting such crimes is a move of last resort. Sexual abuse remains a profound taboo in Iraq, and survivors frequently opt to remain silent to avoid the inevitable backlash from their own families. However, when Amal sought help, she found herself isolated. She provided the authorities with medical documentation and DNA evidence, yet she says her family turned a blind eye, and she lacked the funds to hire the legal representation her ex-husband could afford. The perpetrator remains on the run, and the case has stalled.
"I fought all alone," Amal says, her voice breaking with the weight of years of despair. She describes the cruelty of her ex-husband, who reportedly told family members to "wash off our disgrace"—an ominous reference to honor killing, a practice rooted in the belief that a woman’s trauma somehow compromises the family’s reputation. Amal fears her ex-husband’s ultimate goal was to murder their daughter to suppress the medical evidence. Today, she harbors little hope for justice. "I just want him to stay out of my way forever," she says.
The High Price of Activism
The dangers facing those who speak out were starkly underscored by the death of Yanar Mohammed, a pioneering and internationally recognized advocate for women’s rights in Iraq. Last March, she was murdered by unidentified gunmen outside her home in Baghdad.
Mohammed had been a central figure in establishing the few shelters available for abused women in the country. Her death sent shockwaves through the activist community. Experts from the UN Human Rights Council noted that she had been the target of online abuse and death threats for years, believed to be orchestrated by extremist religious militias.
Hanaa Edwar, a veteran women’s rights activist who has dedicated over 50 years to the cause, remembers seeing Mohammed just two days before the assassination. Edwar, who has also faced threats, speaks of a deteriorating landscape for women’s rights. "There are no laws, no protection, and no justice for women in Iraq," she says.
Mustafa Saadoon, head of the Iraqi Observatory for Human Rights, echoes this bleak assessment. He argues that the issue is not that women are unwilling to come forward, but that the system is structurally designed to discourage them. "A woman who reports sexual violence has to get past her family first, then a police station, then a court, and at every one of those doors, someone is likely to tell her to settle it quietly," Saadoon explains.
A Pervasive Culture of Harassment
The daily reality for many women is a persistent, low-level terror. "Samira," another woman who spoke to the BBC under a pseudonym, described how the threat of harassment dictates her movements in public. She recalled an incident on public transport where a man forced her to watch pornography on his phone, and another where a man stalked her in his car for ten minutes.
When she approached police for help, she was told they lacked the authority to intervene. "If I tell my family, they will immediately ask me not to leave home in order to stay safe," she says, noting that she has lost faith in state institutions. "Many men, including police officers, find nothing wrong with sexual harassment. If you are not a harasser, you are not a man; this is how they see it."
When these allegations of police indifference and complicity are put to Muqdad Miri, a spokesman for the Iraqi Interior Ministry, he acknowledges that the reported cases of sexual violence are likely just the tip of the iceberg. While he claims that police have received approximately 300 reports since the beginning of the year, he admits that "many cases never reach the police because of society, customs, and traditions."
Miri maintains that police officers involved in harassment face "very harsh punishment," including dismissal and up to 10 years in prison. Regarding the specific complaint that officers refuse to intervene, he suggests that victims should file formal complaints against those individual officers. However, for women like Samira, the institutional culture remains the primary barrier, regardless of official policy.
As Iraq moves further away from the regime change of 2003, observers like Hanaa Edwar fear that the country is regressing in its treatment of women. Yet, in the face of this systemic wall, the defiance of activists like Sarah Jassim remains. She continues to provide a platform for the unheard, believing that total silence is the only true failure.
"If all of us are going to get scared," Jassim says, "no-one will change anything."
