When a government promises to defend the media with one hand and writes a law to police it with the other, believe the law. By the standards that matter—legality, legitimacy and legibility—the Maldives’ new Media Act fails each test. Vague offences, sweeping powers and executive capture convert “regulation” into censorship with due-process cosmetics.

The United Nations’ leading human rights official has warned that the Maldives’ new Media and Broadcasting Regulation Act “will seriously undermine media freedom and the right to freedom of expression.” 

That is not just diplomatic throat-clearing; it is a legal diagnosis under the International Covenant on Civil and Political Rights (ICCPR). The legislation centralises power over news and online speech in a commission tasked to investigate, fine, block and even shut down outlets in a polity where the presidency already dominates the state. 

On paper, the Act merely “unifies” regulators. In practice, it abolishes the Maldives Media Council and the Maldives Broadcasting Commission and replaces them with a seven-member Orwellian truth commission covering broadcast, print and “electronic” media. This body can subpoena documents, compel “corrections,” enlist police, halt live broadcasts mid-air and seek court-ordered suspensions or closures—supported by fines of roughly US$1,620 for individual journalists and US$6,485 for outlets. The legislation also relies on vague standards—“fake news,” affronts to “honour and dignity,” or content “contrary to Islam”—that fail basic rule-of-law tests of clarity and foreseeability.  

Ministers insist otherwise. Information Minister Ibrahim “Asward” Waheed offered “100 per cent assurance” that the law will not curtail press freedom; Foreign Minister Abdulla Khaleel said ordinary personal social-media accounts fall outside its scope. But institutional design trumps intent. When the same political forces that hold a parliamentary super-majority can pressure the regulator, discretion over speech becomes an extension of executive power, not a check on it. 

Power and Process: The Method is the Message

From the moment an “independent member’s bill” was floated from the government’s shadows, the Media Act’s path through parliament became a study in obfuscation; with closed-door edits, recess time sittings and the expulsion of reporters standing in for deliberation. Former president Ibrahim Mohamed Solih stated the law “signifies the end of press freedom in the Maldives,” criticising the “underhanded manner” it was forced through.

Independent MP Abdul Hannan Aboobakuru (Thulhaadhoo Constituency) introduced the bill, although even the Deputy Speaker—caught in an unguarded moment—described the text as “proposed on behalf of the government.” What followed was a rush: tabled on 18 August, hustled through committee largely behind closed doors and passed in an extraordinary evening sitting on 16 September. Seven opposition MPs were expelled from the chamber before the 60–1 vote. Ratification came two days later. 

Inside the building, parliamentary security twice evicted journalists from the committee corridor; outside, the press waved a petition signed by 151 journalists from 41 outlets. 

The opposition Maldivian Democratic Party (MDP) called it “a sad day for democracy in the Maldives” and called on citizens to “join us to protest this draconian control bill.” Former Foreign Minister Abdulla Shahid said the government had “declared war on free speech,” adding: “Instead of fixing the crises our nation faces, they are trying to censor the voices that hold them accountable.” 

Not every government voice adopted a conciliatory tone. Parliamentary Majority Leader Ibrahim Falah was quoted saying, “When you work at this level, the media shouldn’t be jailed, they should be impaled”—rhetoric the Maldives Journalists Association (MJA) condemned as incitement. In contrast, President Mohamed Muizzu described his administration as “100 per cent pro-media.” 

Streets that Speak: Policing Around a Speech Law

Civil liberties analysis considers the context, and the environment surrounding the vote was not neutral. On the day the legislation was passed, riot police pushed back a crowd gathered outside the Parliament; when protesters sat down, officers lifted and dragged them away. 

Leevan Ali Nasir, an Adhadhu journalist and member of the Maldives Media Council, was detained and later released. In preceding days, the International Federation of Journalists documented detentions and harassment of media workers. It condemned assaults on Leevan and Ahmed Aaidh (Adhadhu), describing the majority-leader’s rhetoric as “abhorrent.” 

The United States Embassy urged the government to “uphold the freedoms of expression, including dissenting and opposition voices,” a line that echoed the concerns of many Maldivians who do not work in newsrooms but rely on them. 

The Committee to Protect Journalists added, “CPJ is deeply concerned that the Maldives Parliament has passed a bill that would undermine the work of independent journalists and place the media under government control,” posting the statement on X as the law advanced toward ratification.  

A Professional Consensus—Unusual and Unanimous

It is rare in any democracy for the domestic epistemic community—those who gather and verify facts—to speak with a unified voice. In this instance, they did. During a marathon committee hearing, 21 out of 22 participating outlets called for withdrawal. The Maldives Media Council opposed the merger on principle and capacity grounds. The Human Rights Commission warned that the draft could require citizens to seek authorisation to blog or express opinions online. 

Beyond the Majlis, the MJA organised Q&As, open-mic forums at Artificial Beach, and a “Save Our Socials” campaign to make the bill understandable to the public. After the passage, many reporters pledged to boycott elections to the new commission and began sketching an independent press council in an act of civil disobedience as constitutional defence. 

The country’s legal profession mirrored that judgment. The Bar Council of the Maldives urged the president to reconsider, saying the bill “requires substantial revision and reconsideration to align with constitutional principles and international best practices,” as its president, Hussain Siraj, told Al Jazeera. The Committee to Protect Journalists echoed the call. When lawyers and reporters agree that the model invites arbitrary enforcement, the burden shifts decisively to the state to explain why it needs such sweeping discretion over speech.  

Why does the System Magnify the Danger?

The problem is not just a bad law; it is a bad law inside a hyper-presidential architecture. Independent analysis describes the Maldivian executive as “an institution of absolute power,” with parliament often acting as a rubber stamp, local councils marginalised, and independent bodies “defanged.” Now, include a commission that can investigate suo moto, subpoena, enlist police, order corrections and forced apologies, impose fines, and seek blocks and shutdowns—using standards the commission itself will set in its code. 

Combine that with a system already tilted towards the executive, and you have built an information veto into the state. The predictable result is anticipatory self-censorship in which editors rationally lower their sights before any fine is enforced. In a small market, the risk of losing a licence or facing investigation can threaten existence. 

The Regional Warning: When Youth Meet Narrative Control

Across South and Southeast Asia, governments that try to administratively “own” the narrative often catalyse the very social force they fear: organised youth politics. 

In Sri Lanka, the Aragalaya toppled a president during economic freefall; attempts to restrict assembly and censorship platforms radicalised a digitally connected generation. In Indonesia, students rallied against perceived power-entrenching manoeuvres around the Constitutional Court; the backlash helped stall the push. 

The pattern is comparative, not prescriptive: information chokeholds in youth-heavy societies tend to relocate politics from institutions to the streets. The Maldives is not predestined to repeat that arc, but this law makes it more likely, not less so. 

Gen Z: Apathy, or Risk Management?

At home, a Maldives Independent essay challenges the trope of Gen-Z apathy, arguing that disengagement is often a rational form of risk management in a system where formal politics feels closed and reprisals are real. Participation can pivot quickly when silence becomes costly—mirroring regional “youthquakes.” 

However, by pulling “electronic media” into a punitive regime and keeping definitions vague, the Act narrows the forums where young Maldivians learn, argue, and organise—such as TikTok, Instagram, and X—into zones of legal uncertainty. The result is a negative feedback loop: muted speech, less debate, fewer opportunities for youth, and inevitably, suffocating the freedom of expression. Breaking this cycle requires lowering the risk of speech, not increasing it.

The Legal Test the Law Fails

Article 19’s framework is clear. Restrictions on expression must be (i) defined and narrowly tailored by law, (ii) aim to achieve a legitimate goal, and (iii) be necessary and proportionate. 

The Media Act’s offences are vague and capacious; its enforcement tools—from suspending broadcasts mid-air to shutdowns during investigations—are extensive; and the regulator’s susceptibility to executive influence is embedded. 

Even if one accepts “combating disinformation” as a legitimate aim, the Maldivian approach is neither precisely defined nor proportionate. That is at the heart of the OHCHR critique—and why repealing the law, not just amending, is the appropriate remedy. 

A Responsible Way Out

The antidote to disinformation is not a political body adjudicating truth but a resilient information ecosystem. The government should repeal the Act and publicly commit—through legislation—to an independent, industry-elected self-regulatory mechanism aligned with ICCPR standards. Any future rules must be narrowly tailored, exclude prior restraint; carve out explicit protection for personal social-media speech, and insulate oversight from political dismissal. 

Transitional steps are readily available: re-empower the Media Council, suspend fines and suspensions temporarily, commission a time-bound, open, multi-stakeholder review with jurists, editors, creators, and youth groups, and adopt a due-process charter ensuring clear notice and independent appeal.

The Generational Stakes

This debate is not about “standards.” It is about whether we feel safe questioning a minister on Instagram, whether a campus page can livestream a rally without a takedown, and whether a small newsroom will name names when a contract stinks. 

In the Maldives’ current constitutional setup, a speech-policing regulator completes an executive consolidation that spans parliament, the judiciary, and councils. If left intact, it will narrow the horizon of what is possible for an entire generation.

The UN’s sentence deserves to be the final word: if not withdrawn, the law will seriously undermine media freedom and the right to free expression. The government can choose confidence—by trusting citizens with a free press—or control. One sustains democratic legitimacy. The other invites the regional story now unfolding from Colombo to Jakarta. Repeal, reset, rebuild—before caution becomes our country’s status quo.