In Iraq, the decision to have children is not regarded as a woman’s personal choice. Many women find themselves trapped in a coercive cycle of pregnancy, abortion or infertility. These are not isolated cases, but part of a wider system of reproductive violence.

Ranim (a pseudonym), 27, who lives on the outskirts of Wasiṭ province, cannot forget the fury blazing in her husband’s eyes as he shouted at her, waving a packet of birth-control pills in a public scene in front of his relatives. In just a few moments, their quiet agreement to delay having children turns into a family scandal. 

“Do you want to deny me children?” he yelled, as he beat and insulted her in front of his parents and brothers, paying no heed to her attempts to explain. Ranim knows that using contraception is strictly forbidden in her husband’s family, who see it as an affront to God’s will. Even so, she thought the understanding she had reached with him would shield her from the storm. 

The couple had agreed to postpone pregnancy after the birth of their first child, who suffered near-total paralysis due to a medical error. The trauma of her child’s condition pushed Ranim to ask for a delay, especially as he needs special care and she has just started a new job. 

But what she believed was a settled agreement collapsed in an instant, with an implicit blame from her husband for their child’s disability. 

Ranim recalls bitterly how that day ended: her husband imposed his final word — “No more work” — leaving her to swallow her disappointment and humiliation in front of everyone. 

In Iraq, reproduction has become a means of social and legal pressure on women. Custom pushes them towards pregnancy for fear of the ‘barren’ stigma, divorce threats, and violence. At the same time, the new amendment to the Personal Status Law threatens to strip them of custody if they choose divorce. 

This double bind — social pressure to force women into pregnancy, then legal punishment if they demand their rights — amounts to a systematic form of reproductive violence. 

Often in Iraq, the decision to have children lies in the hands of men. It can even extend to choosing the sex of the foetus. Men exert heavy pressure on women, pushing them to undergo sex-selection methods such as in-vitro fertilisation, medications, or herbal remedies to ensure a male child. Some are pressed to repeat pregnancy until they produce a son. 

The psychological and social pressures on women are immense. Marriages often break down if a woman bears only daughters. 

In some cases, women are coerced into repeated, unsafe abortions if the foetus is female, especially when they already have several daughters or no sons. Some are forced to abort a third or fourth female foetus, though this is less common in Iraq due to religious restrictions. 

These practices that many — including women themselves — still consider ‘normal’ fall under what experts define as reproductive violence: “a form of abuse, coercion, discrimination, exploitation, and violence that threatens a person’s reproductive autonomy”. 

Reproductive violence means stripping a woman of the right to make decisions about her own body and fertility — when to have children, how many, or whether to have any at all. 

Women are almost always the victims. The perpetrators are often husbands or intimate partners, but the violence may also come from the husband’s family, the woman’s own relatives, friends, or society at large. 

Pressures that are literally deadly 

Pressure on newly married women to conceive is one of the starkest examples of reproductive violence in Iraq. It has become the ‘normal’ expectation, while any other choice is treated as ‘abnormal’. 

A newlywed is often prevented from using family-planning methods such as birth-control pills. Sometimes these are hidden from her, or she is forced to have sex during her ovulation window, calculated precisely to maximise the chance of pregnancy. Husbands usually control these details, often imposing sex even when the woman does not want it — leaving pregnancy a likely outcome. 

Some women are also pushed into taking ovulation stimulants. This was the case for Furqan, 25, an engineer from Basra who has been married for about ten months. Like Ranim, she thought she had an understanding with her husband: 

“At the start we agreed to delay pregnancy for a year or a year and a half so I could secure my work contract. We also wanted to enjoy ourselves and travel.” 

But just four months after the wedding, questions from her husband’s relatives about pregnancy began to mount. 

Furqan is eager to secure a long-term contract with the private company where she works. On a six-month probation, she needs to avoid long absences, prove herself among her colleagues, and gain more rights such as maternity leave later. All of this was going through her mind as she carefully planned her career and family in parallel. 

The pressure around her, however, was relentless. Each menstrual cycle becomes ‘bad news’ that she is expected to share. “My aunt would ask reproachfully, ‘So this month too?’,” she says, “as if I had let everyone down.” 

Over time, the pressure escalated. Relatives tried to force her into medical tests to prove she has no fertility problems — something she refused firmly. “I told them it was our decision as a couple to delay children. They didn’t like it,” she says. 

At home, her husband started retreating from their agreement. 

“He rejected the natural methods we had been using. I felt trapped in my own body and choices. Then my aunt suggested I take stimulants without a prescription — her niece had taken them and conceived twins.” 

Her aunt is not an exception. Unqualified relatives frequently offer such ‘advice’, encouraging women to take strong medication without knowing its risks. Gynaecologist and cosmetic specialist Dr Ḍay Nasif Jasim told Jummar that many Iraqi women now use ovulation stimulants or so-called ‘trigger shots’ without prescriptions. These are sometimes given by midwives or even doctors, but often without the necessary tests for both partners. 

Such stimulants have become a ‘trend’. But what are they, and what do they do to women’s bodies? 

Dr Ruʾa Ali explains that ovulation-induction agents are hormonal drugs designed to stimulate the growth of multiple eggs in women with ovulation disorders, polycystic ovary syndrome, primary infertility or small follicle size. They are followed by the so-called ‘trigger shot’, containing HCG hormone. 

She warns that turning to these treatments only months into marriage is not medically justified, since doctors only diagnose pregnancy as ‘delayed’ after a year without conception. Prescribing them to newlyweds has become a business in some private clinics, she says: a quick pregnancy is produced in women with no medical issues — a ‘false achievement’. 

“Uncontrolled use can cause severe complications,” she explains. “Ovarian hyperstimulation, fluid build-up in the abdomen and chest, rapid heartbeat, low blood pressure — and in the long term, possibly a higher risk of ovarian cancer.” 

Nasif Jasim adds that the consequences can be even worse: “Intense ovarian stimulation may cause the ovaries to rupture, leading to suffocation if their contents reach the lungs, and death. It can also cause ectopic pregnancy, menstrual disorders, or multiple pregnancies — sometimes seen as “positive”, but risky and unhealthy in many cases.” 

All these pressures spring from patriarchal attitudes that reduce a woman’s body to a vessel for reproduction and hold her solely responsible if a couple struggles to conceive. 

“In our societies, women are still blamed for infertility,” says Nasif Jasim. “But medically, men and women share equal responsibility: forty to fifty percent each.” 

The first test for fertility should be semen analysis. Yet many men refuse, believing it undermines their masculinity. Women are pushed into unnecessary tests instead — even when the issue lies with the man — a pattern reinforced by families and communities who pressure women into taking injections that can, at times, unintentionally kill them. 

This bias not only ignores medical fact; it also amounts to reproductive coercion, exerting psychological and social pressure on women. 

Preventing pregnancy is violence too 

Reproductive violence often intersects with domestic abuse, where an abusive partner uses tactics to control the other’s reproductive health and strip away the right to make independent decisions about body and care. These behaviours do not just undermine autonomy — they put women’s safety and health at serious risk. 

These are not just statistics or studies; they are lived experiences. One of them is Sarah’s (a pseudonym), 30, from Baghdad, who faced physical violence and threats because she chose to continue her pregnancy. 

From the start of her marriage, her husband — an officer in the Ministry of Defence — had insisted on delaying having children so they could enjoy their new life together. Sarah agreed temporarily. But when the first months passed, then the first year, then the second, he continued to refuse pregnancy, ignoring her desire to have children despite her repeated attempts to persuade him. 

He relied on so-called ‘natural’ methods such as withdrawal to prevent pregnancy. “He is my husband, yes, but he is not serious about the relationship. He only cares about his sexual desire, not about the home,” Sarah says. 

Two years later, despite attempts to prevent it, Sarah became pregnant with twins. She was overjoyed but also terrified of his reaction. 

“When I told him I was pregnant, he was shocked, picked a fight and said, ‘Go get rid of them.’ He stopped giving me money for the household. I told him, ‘If you don’t want me, divorce me.’ He said, ‘Get rid of the babies and I’ll divorce you.’” 

Verbal threats soon escalated into physical violence. 

“He came home from work and beat me. He would invent petty reasons to hit me so I wouldn’t tell my family he was beating me because I was pregnant.” 

As the violence intensified, he abandoned the house and made his return conditional on aborting the twins. Sarah turned repeatedly to his family, but they refused to intervene, backing their son instead. 

Desperate, she went to a neighbourhood midwife. The midwife demanded one million dinars to carry out the abortion and warned her that it could endanger her life. 

“The midwife told me she would give me pills that would cause a haemorrhage. Then I should go to hospital, and they would complete the abortion.” 

Her husband did not hesitate when she told him; he even agreed to pay the amount. But fear for her life — and the support of her own family — convinced Sarah to reject the abortion and keep her pregnancy, even though her husband abandoned her after that decision. 

Reproductive violence takes many forms in Iraq. Some men marry younger second wives and then forbid them from having children. Others force their wives into pregnancy after pregnancy, threatening divorce or remarriage if they refuse, even when serious health risks exist. Many women are compelled to give birth six times or more in the pursuit of a son, leaving them in constant anxiety, psychological instability, and fear of abandonment. 

Amid all this pressure, what is often overlooked is how the psychological toll of reproductive coercion does not only scar women socially but also affects their physical health and fertility. Stress and anxiety frequently delay conception: psychological strain disrupts the pituitary hormones that regulate ovulation, leading to menstrual disorders and difficulty conceiving. Family and psychological counsellor Ikhlas Jabrin told Jummar that these pressures often turn into a self-fulfilling cycle of trauma and delayed pregnancy. 

Where is the state? 

Women and their bodies bear the brunt of reproductive violence because they lose the power to decide — whether to become pregnant, avoid it, or delay it — for social, economic, personal or even medical reasons. 

This raises the question of the state’s role: what do its institutions and laws do to support or protect women? In Iraq, as in many countries, governments themselves can enforce reproductive coercion through laws and regulations that restrict reproductive choices. 

Lawyer Nur al-Ṭaʾi explains to Jummar: 

“Although the Iraqi constitution, in Article Twenty-Nine, prohibits all forms of violence and abuse within the family and protects motherhood, childhood and even old age, Article Forty-One of the Penal Code contradicts this. It states that no crime is committed when an act is the exercise of a recognised right — including a husband’s “disciplining” of his wife, and parents’ or teachers’ disciplining of minors within limits set by religion, law, or custom. This opens the door to reproductive violence against women.” 

Al-Ṭaʾi notes that Iraqi law does not explicitly address reproduction-related violence, nor does it provide a clear definition of it in any clause. 

When cases escalate to violence linked to reproductive coercion, she says, evidence such as witness testimony or medical reports can be used to press charges under the provisions on violence in Penal Code No. 111 of 1969. A wife coerced into pregnancy, if a medical condition threatens her life should she conceive, can file a complaint supported by medical documents. 

But what about women who refrain from pregnancy for other reasons — like Ranim or Furqan? The law offers them no protection. Loopholes remain around women’s rights to their own bodies and to abortion, even though many women in Iraq see abortion as their only option. 

Abortion in Iraq is tightly restricted. Article 417 of the Penal Code criminalises it: 

“A woman who aborts herself by any means, or enables another to do so with her consent, shall be punished by imprisonment for no more than one year and a fine not exceeding one hundred thousand dinars, or by one of these two penalties.” 

This means anyone involved — medical staff, midwives, pharmacists — can also face punishment. According to al-Ṭaʾi, these are considered aggravating circumstances, and penalties can extend to stripping professionals of their licences. If a woman dies during the procedure, the doctor may face up to seven years in prison. The same applies to husbands who force their wives to abort because the foetus is female, for example. 

Previously, abortion was permitted only in very limited circumstances — such as severe foetal anomalies or when pregnancy threatened the woman’s health. These cases were tightly regulated. Today, it is allowed only if the pregnancy threatens the mother’s life, according to al-Ta’i. 

Muhannad al-Waʾili, head of the Najaf Bar Association, explains that this narrow allowance relies on Article 41 of the Penal Code, which exempts doctors from punishment if they perform an abortion to save the woman’s life. 

“The law considers the mother’s life a certain right, while the foetus’s life is considered uncertain. Therefore, it prioritises the mother’s life, and the doctor’s decision in such cases is treated as justified.” 

Gynaecologist Ruʾa Ali adds that such procedures are not automatic but bound by strict rules: two specialist consultants and one resident doctor must approve them after thorough assessment. “The most common method is using misoprostol tablets (Cytotec), which induce bleeding that often requires surgical intervention through curettage to end the pregnancy safely,” she says. 

These strict conditions put women’s lives on the line. The warnings Sarah heard from the midwife when her husband demanded she choose between abortion and divorce show how close such restrictions can come to costing women their lives. 

Many women, however, feel they have no choice but abortion to avoid violence or even death. 

Dr Nasif Jasim explains: 

“When a patient asks for an illegal abortion and we refuse because of the legal ban, she turns to a licensed midwife. Complications often follow: bleeding, adhesions, infections, or uterine damage from perforation during curettage. Even if the midwife has experience, she lacks the specialist knowledge of a doctor. Because we are banned from providing abortions, women resort to the black market to buy drugs at exorbitant prices. Pills worth no more than 10,000 dinars are sold for 300 US Dollars — and women still buy them, out of fear of scandal or divorce.” 

In effect, banning safe abortion except in rare circumstances only intensifies reproductive violence. Once again, women lose autonomy over their own bodies — now left to a black market that trades in their desperation. 

Who supports them? 

Amid the pressures imposed by society and the state, women find little support from health institutions or mental health professionals — not even the space to be heard. 

Gynaecologist and cosmetic specialist Dr Nasif Jasim says: 

“Many women are afraid to speak openly to doctors, fearing exploitation, harassment or that their suffering will be belittled. They prefer silence over disclosure. There is no psychological support for women exposed to reproductive coercion in health institutions or from doctors. We lack a culture of listening to patients, even though listening can be half the treatment. Many women may not suffer from physical pain so much as from psychological wounds — but they find no one to listen, neither husbands nor doctors.” 

What deepens the silence around reproductive violence is the absence of active organisations specialising in women’s reproductive and sexual health. Despite thousands of civil society organisations in Iraq, very few — if any — take women’s suffering seriously or run effective programmes to break the silence. 

Women’s-rights activist Shahd Ḥusayn, who works in one such organisation, attributes this neglect to the way many Iraqi NGOs operate. 

“Most women’s organisations work broadly on rights without specialising in areas like health, education or politics. Even when they adopt projects related to reproductive health, they fail to deliver them effectively because they lack the expertise to manage such sensitive work.” 

She adds: 

“There is a deep ignorance within organisations themselves about reproductive health, its importance, and how to educate women about it. So they focus instead on issues that bring wider social acceptance — like domestic violence or economic rights — to stay visible. By contrast, topics like reproductive health lack public recognition, so NGOs avoid them in order to preserve social approval.” 

Ending the cycle of reproductive violence requires serious recognition of its dangers — not only for women but for the fabric of families themselves. Its persistence drains motherhood of meaning and turns family life into a psychological and social burden. What is needed is legislation that protects a woman’s right to decide about her body, shields her from violence, and breaks free from the grip of tradition and custom. Rights organisations, too, must take an active role in awareness and support, standing with women whose right to choose has been stripped away.