For the Love of God, Stop Filming Strangers Without Asking

There’s something that has been bothering me lately. Not loudly or dramatically, but in that quiet, persistent way—like Kampala traffic that refuses to move yet refuses to end. It’s the kind of discomfort you carry with you, the kind that lingers long after you’ve scrolled past yet another video that should never have been recorded in the first place.

Why have we normalized filming strangers like they are content instead of people? You see it everywhere. In taxis, in supermarkets, on the roadside, in traffic. Someone is having a difficult moment—maybe they’re arguing, maybe they’re overwhelmed, maybe they’re simply human in a way that isn’t polished or pretty. And almost instinctively, out comes the phone. No pause. No thought. No consideration. Just record.

And let me tell you—sometimes, it’s not even a dramatic moment. I was at Café Javas one day, minding my business, fully in my soft life era. My food had just come, and listen…this was not a small meal. This was one of those big, juicy burgers that require commitment. The kind where you have to position yourself properly before taking the first bite.

So there I am, fully focused, beef burger in hand, opening my mouth to take in this masterpiece like a serious human being—and then I notice it. Someone is recording. Not discreetly. Not accidentally. A full video. And I am in the background…mid-bite. Now tell me—why? What exactly was the plan there? What was the content? What was the goal? Because I promise you, I did not wake up that morning planning to feature in someone’s “people eating in public” series.

And the worst part? You don’t even know where that video is going…or who is watching it.

Before anyone reflects on what they are doing, the video is already circulating. It’s on WhatsApp, on TikTok, on someone’s status, accompanied by laughing emojis or captions that strip the situation of any dignity it once had. What was once a fleeting, human moment becomes permanent, shareable, and open to interpretation by people who were never there.

At what point did we decide that being in public means surrendering your dignity? Because that’s what this really is. It’s not harmless entertainment. It’s not “just content.” It’s not about people being overly sensitive. It is, at its core, about consent—and somewhere along the way, we quietly agreed to ignore it.

Most times when we talk about staying safe online, we focus on things like passwords, codes, and protecting our accounts. But we don’t talk enough about the everyday choices we make with our phones—choices that can either protect someone or expose them without even realizing it. Filming someone without their knowledge and sharing that footage is not harmless. You may not have hacked anything, but you have exposed someone. You’ve taken a real human moment—one that wasn’t yours—and turned it into something that can spread far beyond your control.

That video you captured might follow that individual for years. It might affect their reputation, their employment opportunities, or their mental well-being. It might expose them to ridicule, harassment, or even danger—especially if they are vulnerable or easily identifiable. And the most troubling part is that they may never even know they were recorded, never have the chance to consent, and never have the opportunity to reclaim that moment.

There is something deeply unsettling about that kind of power imbalance. It is a quiet form of cruelty, one that doesn’t feel aggressive in the moment but leaves a lasting impact. It is the normalization of turning people into spectacles without their permission, all in the name of attention, engagement, or entertainment.

The common defense is always the same: “But it’s a public place.” And while that may be true, it does not mean that people become public property the moment they step outside their homes. Presence is not permission. Being seen is not the same as agreeing to be recorded, shared, and consumed by an audience.

If we are honest with ourselves, many of these recordings are not driven by awareness or a desire to help. They are driven by the pursuit of virality, by the need for engagement, by the quiet pressure to produce content that will capture attention. But when that pursuit comes at the expense of someone else’s dignity, we have to ask ourselves a harder question: what exactly are we building?

As TheCyberMamushka, I often speak about protecting families online—about passwords, parental controls, and digital safety tools. But protection goes beyond technology. It is also about the culture we create and participate in every day. It is about the values we model for those watching us, especially children who are learning what it means to exist in a digital world.

When we record strangers at their most vulnerable and share those moments without hesitation, we are teaching that privacy is optional, that empathy is secondary, and that people can be reduced to content. And that lesson, quietly reinforced over time, is far more dangerous than any phishing attempt or malicious link.

There is a simpler, more human way to approach this. It does not require technical expertise or sophisticated tools. It requires a pause. A moment of reflection before action. A willingness to ask whether what we are about to do is respectful, necessary, and fair.

Before you press record, ask yourself whether you truly need to capture that moment. Ask whether you have the person’s consent. Ask whether you would be comfortable if the roles were reversed—if it were you, your child, or someone you love being filmed and shared without permission. The answers to these questions are often clear, even if we choose to ignore them.

Not everything needs to be filmed, and not everything that is filmed needs to be shared. Sometimes the most responsible, most human choice is to simply put the phone away. To choose presence over performance. To choose empathy over engagement.

And if you ever find yourself about to record someone in a moment of distress, pause long enough to recognize what is really happening. You are not witnessing content. You are witnessing a person. A real life, with real consequences attached to what you are about to do.

For the love of God, stop filming strangers without asking.

Cybersecurity is not only about protecting systems. It is about protecting people—their dignity, their boundaries, and their right to exist without being turned into someone else’s story without consent. In a world that rewards visibility and virality, choosing restraint may not feel powerful. But it is. And it is necessary.

And if you ever spot TheCyberMamushka on TikTok, mouth wide open, beef burger in hand…please just scroll quietly like you didn’t see anything.

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