It’s a strange tension, isn’t it? On one hand, we say justice should be transparent—that truth needs sunlight to survive. On the other, we know that when that light burns too bright, it can expose the very people who needed protection in the first place. I’ve seen both sides up close, and it never feels simple.
A few years ago, I helped a local nonprofit build a digital archive of court cases. The goal was noble: make public information truly accessible to the public. But one night, as I scrolled through a batch of uploaded documents, something stopped me cold. A victim’s name—address, too—right there, publicly viewable. I imagined that person finding their trauma with a single Google search. My stomach turned. I realized that “open data” can sometimes mean “open wounds.”
This is the space where transparency collides with privacy. It’s not always malicious; it’s structural. We build systems to share information and forget that data has faces. Behind every “record” is a human being who didn’t sign up to have their pain indexed by a search engine.
Freedom of information laws were created for good reason. The U.S. Freedom of Information Act (FOIA) gives citizens the right to access government documents, a cornerstone of democracy. But there’s also an understanding—an unspoken one—that some truths, while real, should remain shielded. That’s why laws like the FOIA exemptions exist. Exemption 6, for example, allows withholding of information when disclosure “would constitute a clearly unwarranted invasion of personal privacy.”
But the line between transparency and protection blurs easily. Take court transparency. Many states publish searchable databases for criminal proceedings. It’s meant to hold the system accountable, but victims’ names, sometimes even addresses, slip through. In Florida, I once read a docket where a domestic violence survivor’s information was accidentally included in a public record—no ill intent, just a clerical oversight. But that oversight can change someone’s life overnight.
In 2023, the Jeffrey Epstein case reignited debates about this. When court filings were unsealed, the question wasn’t just who would be named—it was whether naming them was fair. Victims wanted truth, not exposure. For some, being identified publicly brought re-traumatization. For others, it brought validation. Same act, opposite outcomes. There’s no universal answer.
I once spoke to a journalist who covered a sexual assault case that gained national attention. She told me something that’s never left me: “Every time I write a survivor’s story, I carry their silence with me.” She said the hardest part wasn’t getting the facts—it was deciding which facts belonged to the public and which belonged to the person who lived them.
That’s the impossible balance transparency demands. The press needs access to hold institutions accountable. Victims need privacy to heal and feel safe. And sometimes, those needs clash in ways that hurt both sides.
We’ve seen what happens when privacy isn’t protected enough. Revenge porn cases, for example, show how devastating exposure can be when private trauma becomes public. In response, most U.S. states have passed laws against nonconsensual pornography. But these same laws highlight the tension—they often criminalize sharing, not hosting. Once an image or a name hits the public domain, it’s nearly impossible to pull it back.
Digital permanence adds another layer of cruelty. Before the internet, public records were technically public but practically buried—hidden behind courthouse counters or request forms. Now, one upload means global visibility forever. According to the Pew Research Center, most Americans feel they’ve lost control of how their personal data is used. Victims feel that loss more acutely than anyone.
In 2021, I worked with a lawyer who represented stalking victims. She told me her biggest challenge wasn’t restraining orders—it was the internet. Addresses, phone numbers, court filings—all technically “public,” all available to anyone persistent enough to look. “The law protects them on paper,” she said, “but Google undoes it in seconds.”
There’s a case from California that’s often cited in privacy law discussions. A victim’s address was mistakenly included in a criminal court filing that later appeared online through a third-party records site. Within weeks, she began receiving messages from strangers referencing the case. She had to move. When her lawyer petitioned for the record to be redacted, the site refused, arguing that it was “public data.” Legally, they weren’t wrong. Ethically, it’s a nightmare.
I think about stories like that whenever people say, “If it’s public, it’s fair game.” Maybe legally. But morally? That depends on whether we see victims as data points or as people. The law hasn’t quite caught up with empathy yet. Transparency was built for institutions; privacy was built for individuals. And now the two live on the same network, constantly crashing into each other.
There are glimmers of hope, though. Some courts have started to filter or redact sensitive information before publishing online. The Florida Supreme Court’s access policy now mandates redaction of victim names in certain categories of cases. It’s not perfect, but it’s progress. Technology is also evolving. AI-driven redaction tools can scan for names, addresses, or personal identifiers faster than humans can. But the balance still relies on judgment, not algorithms.
Because the truth is, transparency isn’t about dumping everything into the light. It’s about illuminating what serves the public good and shielding what causes unnecessary harm. Those two things can coexist—but only if we slow down long enough to ask who benefits from disclosure, and who bleeds because of it.
There’s one story I’ll never forget. A young woman testified in a violent assault case. She agreed to go public because she wanted to help others. But after the verdict, her testimony video ended up on social media, shared by strangers who twisted her words. She later said, “I didn’t regret telling my story, but I wish I’d known how public it would become.” Transparency gave her a voice, and then took her peace.
That’s the paradox we live in. Justice needs light, but healing often needs shadow. Maybe the goal isn’t choosing one over the other—it’s learning when to dim the light just enough so truth can exist without burning the people who lived it.
If you’re curious to dig deeper, the Reporters Committee for Freedom of the Press has resources on transparency and privacy exemptions, and the Privacy International organization offers perspective on how open data intersects with human rights. For those working in media, the Dart Center for Journalism and Trauma publishes excellent guidance on reporting ethically about survivors.
Transparency will always be a fight worth having—but so will privacy. The challenge is remembering that both are born from the same place: a desire to protect what’s true, and what’s human.
