Well-Organized Traps: On Libya’s Cybercrime Law

Danger in Libya doesn’t always come in the form of someone wielding a weapon or setting off gunpowder. Sometimes, it comes in a coordinated, meticulously planned manner, written in clean but deeply tainted legal language, cloaked in promises of protection but harboring deliberate targeting.

This is what the Cybercrime Law looks like: a text that doesn’t raise its voice, doesn’t insult, doesn’t threaten directly, but silently monitors, leaves ample room for suspicion, and skillfully sets traps with meticulous regularity. The threat of the law does not stem from its strictness, but from its vagueness, and from the fact that the language in which it is written is capable of expanding to swallow any dissenting voice, and the first of these voices is often that of women.

The situation of women in Libya has witnessed a marked decline over the past ten years in terms of safety, quality of life, and opportunities for public participation. The political division and security fragility coincided with a rise in the unspoken exclusion of women, especially within shared spaces. Women continue to face inadequate protection and direct or indirect threats when present in public spaces, whether in protest squares, organized feminist discussions, or civic activities related to human rights in general.

This reality is compounded by a communication language ​​laden with misunderstandings about women, based on rigid and reductive interpretations of the body within a gendered category, limiting women's presence and silencing their voices. Women's participation in public discourse is often viewed as "abnormal" rather than a legitimate right, opening the door to extremist interpretations that empty civic and political action of its substance and reframe it morally or security-wise.

When moving to the digital sphere, the harshness becomes even more pronounced. There, confrontation is less direct, and legal deterrents are more fragile. Libyan women in the digital space are not ordinary users. Rather, they are always treated as an exceptional case. They are a potential embodiment of scandal, an opinion open to interpretation, and a presence that constantly needs justification. A personal photograph might be labeled "indecent," a political post might be interpreted as a threat to social peace, and even educational or awareness-raising content might be reclassified as incitement.

Language is the first trap in this law, and words like values, morality, security, and peace are not precisely defined because they don't want to be. Leaving them vague gives the authorities enough flexibility to adapt them to the context, the person, and the degree of annoyance their voice represents. And the women who are an annoyance to them are numerous: feminist activists asking uncomfortable questions, female politicians refusing to be relegated to the sidelines, influencers with uncontrollable audiences, or journalists writing without apology. Each one of them is walking on a digital minefield, ready to explode at any moment.

Feminists, in particular, are not seen as serious rights defenders. Rather, they are seen as a source of disruption. Their problem isn't breaking the law, but dismantling what is silenced. When a woman speaks about violence, about the body, about patriarchal power, her discourse can easily be legally reframed to appear dangerous, not because she did anything wrong, but because she called things by their names. The law here isn't used to protect them from digital violence, but to isolate, silence, or even turn the tables on them: from victim to accused, from defamed to responsible for publishing "inappropriate" content.

Influencers aren't safe either. In a society that monitors women more than content, digital fame becomes a legal burden. The number of followers doesn't signify power, but greater vulnerability. Every video can be edited, every image can be reused against its owner, and every small mistake can be magnified into a moral, then a legal issue. The law here doesn't employ online armies or blackmail campaigns, but waits for the opportune moment to be invoked against those who lack sufficient social protection.

Let us now turn to an in-depth analysis of Law No. 5 of 2022 on combating cybercrimes in Libya. In what many see as the “severity” of the legal flaw is always many times greater against women and marginalized groups. The loose formulations that speak of “harming values” and “damaging reputation” do not combat violence as much as they open a wide door to moral interpretation that is often practiced at the expense of women, where the complaint turns into a trial of behavior, digital evidence into a search of the phone, and reputation into a punishment that precedes any judgment.

What's even more bizarre is that the law claims to protect digital rights, but actually grants broad powers to the authorities to restrict freedom of expression and privacy. These extensive powers have made the law a subject of controversy among human rights advocates, who describe it not as a law to combat cybercrime but a law to suppress any opinion that displeases the rulers. For this reason, human rights organizations such as the National Council for Public Liberties and Human Rights (NCPLHR) have described the law as a violation of fundamental freedoms and freedom of opinion and expression, and have called on the Libyan parliament to review or repeal it. International organizations like Human Rights Watch and local ones like Hexa Connection and the Anir Initiative have also condemned it as a repressive law for everyone, especially women.

Then we can move on to the censors' favorite tool: the National Information Security and Safety Authority, the agency that can monitor, remove, and even block online content. It often requires little more than a subjective interpretation of what constitutes a "threat to security" or a "violation of public morals." The result? A picture of your cat or a landscape can be labeled as offensive content, or a tweet criticizing excessive internet shutdowns can become a matter of national security!

Because of this law, popular singer Ahlam Al-Yamani and blogger and content creator Hanin Al-Abdali were arrested and detained in February 2023 in Benghazi for "offenses against honor and public morals and for violating Cybercrime Law No. 5 of 2022," according to a ministry statement that provided no details about the objectionable content.

The fundamental flaw in this law is further highlighted by the list of crimes itself, which appears to have been written with the logic of "anything is possible, and everyone is a suspect." The law criminalizes unauthorized access to any computer system, without distinguishing between deliberate hacking and accidental technical errors, and includes "data manipulation" as a serious offense without even bothering to define what constitutes manipulation, as if intent is automatically inferred from usage.

Even more dangerous is the criminalization of "challenging the system" and "publishing data that threatens public security"—vague terms capable of encompassing any opinion, criticism, or even innocent question. This transforms online writing into a legal risk that has less to do with the crime itself than with its interpretation. And it doesn't stop there. Defamation, criticism, or free thought, if expressed digitally, can be reclassified as a threat. Even the use of encryption tools, considered essential for privacy protection worldwide, can become a crime in itself if not licensed.

Thus, the law makes no distinction between an actual cybercrime perpetrator and a user attempting to express their opinion or protect themselves. It lumps everyone together, burdening them with punitive measures that deprive them of their freedom and impose hefty fines. The implicit message is clear: we will combat cybercrime, but those who use their digital voices consciously and boldly will be the first to suffer, especially women activists, journalists, and bloggers, who face additional risks of online harassment, stalking, and even defamation simply for expressing themselves or publishing information.

The law in this form does not protect the digital community but increases the isolation of women and discourages them from participating or exposing violations, thus putting freedom of expression and social accountability in real danger.