When Turkey passed its Law on the Protection of Personal Data (KVKK) in 2016, it was widely seen as a bold step toward EU-style privacy protection. Modeled closely after the EU’s General Data Protection Regulation (GDPR), it promised to grant citizens greater control over their personal data. However, nearly a decade later, KVKK stands as an example of how legal transplants can fail without institutional maturity, political commitment, and contextual adaptation. What seemed like a progressive leap has turned into a cautionary tale for countries attempting to adopt foreign regulatory models without first cultivating the local foundations necessary to sustain them.
Consent That Isn’t Always Meaningful
Under GDPR, consent must be “freely given, specific, informed and unambiguous.” While KVKK adopts a similar definition—particularly through its insistence on “explicit consent”—the practical implementation in Turkey has blurred the line between real choice and obligation. For example, access to essential services like online banking or university portals is often conditioned on clicking “I accept” without a viable alternative. In such cases, individuals are left with no option but to consent, raising doubts about how “freely given” such approval really is.
Moreover, a legal inconsistency deepens the issue: while the Law on Electronic Commerce permits implied consent in certain contexts (such as soft opt-in for commercial messages), KVKK does not recognize implied consent at all. This inconsistency confuses both service providers and users, eroding trust in the regulatory environment.
The result is a landscape where legal compliance is technically maintained, yet user autonomy is compromised—especially when compounded by low levels of digital literacy. While the appearance of consent is preserved, its substance is hollow.
Selective Enforcement and the Compliance Industry
Although private companies have occasionally been fined for data breaches, enforcement against public institutions remains conspicuously weak. Government platforms like e-Nabız (Health Data Portal), MERNIS (National ID Database), and biometric systems in public transit operate with limited transparency and oversight. Privacy is enforced when politically convenient—and ignored when state interests are involved.
At the same time, small businesses face overwhelming compliance burdens. Lacking the resources to fully understand or implement data protection principles, many rely on boilerplate “compliance packages” sold by consultants. This has led to the rise of a compliance services industry—a predictable but not necessarily negative development. After all, new regulations often create new markets. Still, the emergence of this industry has inadvertently shifted the focus from building robust, ethical data practices to simply avoiding penalties.
Rather than fostering a culture of data responsibility, KVKK has encouraged a checklist mentality. Documents are drafted, folders are filled, trainings are held—but meaningful safeguards remain rare. The law, in effect, rewards symbolic compliance over real security.
Data Localization and the Politics of Sovereignty
While KVKK does not explicitly mandate that data be stored within Turkey, authorities have increasingly pressured foreign companies to localize data through regulatory interpretation or indirect threats of restriction. These demands are often framed as matters of national security or data sovereignty.
Yet without transparent oversight or judicial safeguards, localization may actually heighten privacy risks. When sensitive personal data is concentrated within national borders and under weak institutional control, the potential for authoritarian misuse increases.
Furthermore, isolating Turkey’s digital infrastructure from global networks could stifle innovation, deter foreign investment, and deepen Turkey’s digital marginalization. The crucial question remains: if not the state, whom should citizens trust with their data? Unfortunately, KVKK does not provide a convincing institutional answer.
How KVKK Works—In Principle
At its core, KVKK seeks to protect individuals by regulating how personal data is collected, stored, and shared. It sets out several principles, including data minimization, purpose limitation, accuracy, and retention limits. In theory, individuals have rights to access their data, request corrections, or demand erasure. Companies and public institutions are required to appoint Data Controllers, register with the Data Controllers Registry (VERBIS), and adopt appropriate technical and administrative measures.
However, meaningful enforcement of these principles depends on strong institutions and civic engagement—two elements still lacking in practice.
Conclusion: Law Without Spirit
KVKK had real potential. Turkey did need a modern data protection regime, and alignment with European norms was a rational choice. But the law’s failure lies not in its content but in its context. Independent oversight is weak. Public understanding is limited. Enforcement is politically uneven.
More importantly, the regulatory culture has prioritized formalism over substance. Rather than fostering digital citizenship, KVKK has created paperwork. Rather than enhancing trust, it has reinforced confusion.
Had Turkey invested more in institutional independence, transparency, civil society input, and public education, it might have become a regional leader in digital rights. Instead, it settled for the surface of compliance without the soul of reform.
KVKK reminds us that laws don’t work in isolation. They require informed citizens, honest governance, and a deep commitment to democratic principles. Without those foundations, even the best-intentioned legal transplants will wither.
* Orçun Koçak
