A growing wave of legal and administrative complaints targeting Slovenia’s investigative newsroom Oštro is raising serious concerns about press freedom, democratic accountability, and the misuse of data-protection laws by public officials. What began as a routine journalistic inquiry into asset transparency has escalated into a coordinated campaign of pressure involving mayors, cabinet ministers, prosecutors, and the country’s data-protection authority-an effort critics warn closely resembles classic SLAPP tactics designed to silence watchdog journalism.

Oštro, a non-profit investigative outlet known for scrutinizing corruption and conflicts of interest, has found itself under attack not because of inaccuracies in its reporting, but because it dared to ask questions. The pressure campaign began in October, when the municipality of Ljutomer filed both a criminal complaint and a data-protection complaint against the newsroom. The trigger was not a published article, but a standard right-of-reply letter sent to Mayor Olga Karba as part of Oštro’s “Asset Detector” project, which aims to promote transparency by verifying the declared assets of public officials.

As is customary in responsible journalism, Oštro contacted Karba to confirm information related to her assets and those of her immediate family before publication. The questions were consistent with the project’s methodology, which has already examined ministers, state secretaries, and members of parliament. Yet Ljutomer officials alleged “unlawful processing of personal data” and the dissemination of false information-claims that press-freedom advocates say stretch data-protection law far beyond its intended purpose.

Despite the preliminary nature of the inquiry, the district state prosecutor in Murska Sobota confirmed that a criminal investigation has been opened. While prosecutors declined to provide details, the mere existence of a criminal probe has had a chilling effect. The municipality’s decision to retain a private law firm with a history of involvement in SLAPP cases against Oštro’s editor-in-chief, Anuška Delić, has further fueled suspicions that the complaints are less about privacy and more about intimidation.

The campaign did not stop with Ljutomer. Within days, two sitting ministers-Defense Minister Borut Sajovic and Education Minister Vinko Logaj-filed their own complaints with Slovenia’s Information Commissioner. Notably, both ministers’ asset profiles had already been published by Oštro without incident. Their sudden appeals appeared less like genuine grievances and more like an attempt to overwhelm the newsroom through regulatory pressure.

The Information Commissioner responded by opening an inspection procedure against Oštro. Data Protection Supervisor Anže Novak demanded detailed explanations of the newsroom’s journalistic methods, legal justifications for collecting and retaining personal data, and correspondence with public officials. Citing the EU’s General Data Protection Regulation (GDPR), the inquiry sought to scrutinize core journalistic practices that are widely recognized as being protected under freedom-of-expression exemptions.

Oštro has strongly contested the Commissioner’s authority to inspect journalistic data processing in this context. The newsroom’s legal counsel argues that collecting and analyzing information about elected officials for investigative reporting is clearly in the public interest and squarely protected by constitutional and European free-press standards. Press advocates warn that allowing data-protection regulators to intrude into editorial decision-making would set a dangerous precedent, effectively granting politicians a veto over investigative reporting.

The situation escalated further when another mayor, Roman Leljak, announced his intention to file a complaint against Oštro, claiming the newsroom’s right-of-reply letter violated ethical standards. The pattern is now unmistakable: public officials, acting individually but in concert, are using overlapping legal and administrative mechanisms to bog down a small investigative outlet with paperwork, legal defense costs, and uncertainty.

International and domestic press-freedom organizations have sounded the alarm. The Slovene Journalists’ Association, the International Press Institute and its partners, and the Council of Europe have all expressed concern that the complaints amount to a coordinated attack on investigative journalism. They warn that Slovenia risks sliding into a system where data-protection law-originally designed to shield citizens from abuse-is repurposed as a tool for suppressing scrutiny of those in power.

Anuška Delić has described the barrage of complaints as “bureaucratic terrorism,” a phrase that captures the cumulative impact of seemingly technical procedures deployed to exhaust and intimidate journalists. While none of the individual complaints may appear devastating on their own, together they form a web of pressure that drains resources and diverts attention away from reporting.

At the heart of the conflict lies a fundamental question: do public officials have a right to shield information about their wealth and interests from journalistic scrutiny by invoking privacy law? In democratic systems, the answer has traditionally been no. Asset transparency is widely regarded as essential for detecting corruption, conflicts of interest, and illicit enrichment. Without it, voters are left in the dark about the financial incentives that may influence political decision-making.

The weaponization of GDPR in this context is particularly troubling. Across Europe, journalists have warned that vague or aggressive interpretations of data-protection rules are increasingly being used to challenge legitimate reporting. When regulators fail to clearly distinguish between commercial data exploitation and public-interest journalism, they risk undermining one of the pillars of democratic oversight.

Delić has warned that the Information Commissioner’s actions reveal a worrying lack of understanding of data journalism and press freedom. By entertaining complaints that arise merely from questions posed to officials-rather than from demonstrable harm-the regulator risks legitimizing efforts to silence critical reporting. The ultimate danger is not just to Oštro, but to the broader media ecosystem. If journalists learn that asking powerful figures to verify facts can lead to criminal probes and regulatory inspections, self-censorship becomes inevitable.

Slovenia has long prided itself on democratic norms and respect for media freedom. Yet the campaign against Oštro suggests a more troubling reality beneath the surface: one in which legal complexity and administrative power are deployed to protect political elites from accountability. Whether institutions ultimately rein in these abuses will be a defining test of the country’s commitment to transparency and the rule of law.

For now, Oštro continues its work under pressure, supported by press-freedom advocates at home and abroad. The outcome of this confrontation will resonate far beyond Slovenia, offering a warning-or a precedent-for how easily the tools of privacy protection can be turned against those whose job it is to hold power to account.

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