This essay examines the consequences of being photographed without consent and the need to redefine our relationship with technology and each other

In this age of ceaseless screens and restless eyes, we find ourselves under siege. Not by armies of flesh and blood, but by armies of lenses and devices—each a tiny tyrant hungry to capture, to document, to possess. There is no silence anymore, no sanctuary in the quiet corners of our existence. We are hunted, not by wolves in the night, but by the cold, unblinking gaze of a camera, creeping into every sacred space we once called our own.

What is this compulsion to capture? To click, to record, to freeze a moment that does not belong to the thief but to the life living it? The camera snaps, the video rolls, and in that instant, something is stolen—a piece of the soul, a sliver of the self. The thief moves on, unaware, unconcerned, leaving behind a hollow echo where once there was a full-throated song of being.

The descent into the shallow

Once, to see someone was a profound act of worship; A look that desired knowing. Now we do not seek the same, but collect. Now, we are the gatekeepers to a possible time; collectors of moments half-pilfered from their original context and stripped of meaning. The act of pointing a camera at a stranger without their consent is not an act of creativity or fun, but one of cowardice and sheer stupidity. It is the coward who does not dare to engage, to ask, to seek permission. The coward hides behind the glass and clicks, clicks, clicks—each shutter a small act of violence against the unseen.

To capture without consent is to declare: “You are not a person but an object for my amusement.” In that act, the perpetrator exposes the emptiness of their own existence, their inability to grasp the profound depth of another’s humanity. They cannot see, so they steal. They cannot feel, so they collect.

The burden of the uninvited gaze

To live under this constant gaze is to bear an unseen weight, a burden that grows with each click of the shutter. It is to live half-exposed, never truly private, never fully whole. The face in the photo, the body in the frame—these are not mere images; they are the fragments of a stolen narrative. They are pieces of a life that the thief will never understand but will parade as a trophy, a digital conquest.

The soul that was captured will be made to roam in a reality–in an image, not their own. It’s a subtle slavery, a silent serving sentence in a gallery you did not willingly walk into. And this, we are informed by all and sundry, is ok; it doesn’t hurt anyone; that’s just the way things go. But it is neither innocent nor harmless; rather, a gradual eradication of an inherent right to not be seen.

Reclaiming the sacred right to be invisible

We must reclaim the sanctity of ourselves. This gallery of thieves must be destroyed and the veil that tells us we should feel comfortable with our capture torn to shreds. This is not an appeal to retreat but a rallying cry — against the insidious tyranny of the lens, and the quiet violence of the unsolicited photograph.

If you are not willing to be captured do not merely walk away from the one who points the camera. Stand firm. Demand your right to be unseen. Let them feel the weight of your gaze, not as a mere object to be consumed, but as a force, a presence, an undeniable reality. Let them know that you are not a piece to be played with, not an image to be traded in their endless game of likes and shares. You are a being, full and complete, and you choose who may witness your existence.

A world reimagined: The art of seeing

So what does it mean, then, to really SEE one another? … To see another not as an object of our lens, but rather in the true sense? With respect, with an inquisitive spirit and a sincere curiosity to connect? It’s the art we have also lost in our frenzy to document. We need to reclaim this depth.

We need to remember how to look without the necessity of seizing, try out observing and walk away. To accept that a moment is short-lived — and to know its true beauty resides in the brevity of: Now! There is a depth here — an organic depth that no photograph will be able to capture, and no video can display.

So let us not be simply recorders of life. Let us be its participants. Let each of us live in our own moments, and let others live as well if you don’t have their permission. And in doing so we not only take back our privacy but reinstate ourselves as a human; by doing so, we can transcend the lowly pilfery of the glass and ascend to our real characters.

By Mahoor Haya Shah

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Mahoor Haya Shah