The lulz retained a prominent seat, but not at the head of the table. Chanology was a far cry from a chaotic horde of loons. While working in the midst of an often miasmic environment of drama, in-fighting, and competing groups, Chanology members developed a strong organization, with core participants devoting extraordinary chunks of time to the endeavor. We can take, as a case study, the software behind the immensely popular web forum Why We Protest, largely written by a young French geek named Ravel. He described joining Chanology as a natural fit, given that he had “some mischievous years and strong affinities with both the hacker and freedom of speech cultures. When the call to action came I didn’t bat an eye and pretty much uttered ‘let’s do this.’”13 He made it his life project for the next six years and counting.
The project emerged from the creation of the #website IRC channel. Ravel (known as Sue) disliked the existing proposals and, in classic hacker style, started to code the software according to his own vision with the help of two other programmers. Due to his hard work he was tapped to become part of marblecake:
I was approached and became part of the (unduly) infamous marblecake collective … To date it has been the most organized group I have collaborated with online. I wouldn’t exaggerate when saying the quorum of participants spent over 70 hours a week working on media projects, planning, PR, and brainstorming. It served both as think tank and production studio. Meetings were held near daily, assessments were made, notes kept and so forth.14
“What the dicks is marblecake?”:
First Challenges to the New Anonymous
With a sizeable portion of Anons now firmly committed to this politically engaged style of hacking (complete with a technical infrastructure of channels, monthly meet-ups at Chanology events, and an emergent range of memes and objects specific to activist-Anonymous, like Guy Fawkes masks), it was only a matter of time before this identity would fracture. Homeostasis is not, exactly, the preferred state of Anonymous—certainly not before Chanology, and definitely not after.
Let’s linger for a moment on Ravel’s characterization of marblecake as “the most organized group I have collaborated with online.” By all accounts, marblecake was extremely effective in creating propaganda, issuing press releases, brokering between city cells, and suggesting themes for monthly protests. Among other factors, many attributed its success to a skilled organizer who went by the name of darr. A peer described her to me as “resolute and fierce, kind and understanding”—qualities the Anon thought crucial to marblecake’s accomplishments.
But then darr made the mistake of attempting to push through an unpopular proposal. For the May 2008 protest, marblecake suggested the theme “Operation Psychout,” to air Scientology’s human rights abuses in the field of psychiatry, which was “met with a lot of opposition,” explained one active member to me. Soon after, marblecake hammered the final nail into its own coffin—at least in the form it existed at the time—by seeking to “railroad it through,” which led to Chanology members “taking darr down,” who was seen as a particularly vocal proponent. Or a “power-hungry wannabee leaderfag,” as one Anon put it. Trolls, especially, went for the jugular, doxing her and spreading lies. She quit the project, never to be seen again.
Marblecake existed in a nebulous zone. When the eight members had splintered off in January 2008, they left a permanent notification on the chat channel #press: “Want access to where all the action is? Get your ass on SSL and don’t be a faggot ; D—Topic set by darr on 16/02/2008.” Those intrigued by this enticing message could ask an “oldfag” about it—someone around since the beginning—and be directed through the steps to set up encryption (SSL). They would also have to be prepared to clock a lot of long hours. In this way, marblecake grew to include twenty-five participants. Eventually, the topic message was replaced and growth stagnated—newcomers had no idea about its existence.
Three months after darr’s outing, someone posted a message on Why We Protest: “What the dicks is marblecake?” The answer they received effectively informed a much larger swath of Anons about the semi-secret project. For many, it revealed for the first time that multiple factions had developed under the mantle of Chanology:
I’m in marblecake, and I’ve no interest in being a leaderfag.
I’m happy to answer questions.
The short story is, it is/was a small thinktank that produced media anonymously and secretly. The positive spin would be that it has “suffered from its own success”—it produces enough significant media that it desires to remain completely secret … and producing enough media that the rest of Anonymous became aware—to varying degrees—that there is a secret cabal of anons trying to manipulate things behind the scenes.
The negative spin is … that it’s a secret cabal of anons trying to manipulate things behind the scenes. And there is a case to be made that they got a swelled head early. They produced the original “message to scientology” video (well before I got involved). They were also led by Darr, who pissed off the wrong people, has the wrong attitude, and generally didn’t handle criticism well.
[…]
As far as factions go, there’s marblecake, enturbmods, OCMB, and the #enturbulation channers (in addition to each individual city’s cell, and probably many others I don’t know about). MC and entubmods have battled, #enturbulation (specifically Tuesday and WB) have battled with marblecake. OCMB often has drama pour over into enturbulation. #enturbulation generally hates marble-cake. It’s all a bunch of stupid infighting, and many people have been involved with more than one of those groups. And nobody should feel “left out” for not being involved in any of ’em, ’cause they’re all essentially janitors for the *real* anons, the ones that are out in cities fliering and picketing.15
The ensuing thread was long and bitter. Some people were seething, including some members and ex-members of the cabal. After this brouhaha, marblecake foundered for a bit before undergoing what one Anon called “reformation.” Afterwards, they functioned with more transparency regarding their role as “choreographers,” to borrow the phrase used by Paolo Gerbaudo to describe a leadership style common throughout the global protest movements of 2011.16
Marblecake’s outing showed that a simple binary between leaders and followers failed to capture the complex organizational dynamics in a milieu so committed to decentralization. Anonymous is not a united front, but a hydra—comprising numerous different networks. Even within a single project there are working groups that are often at odds with one another—not to mention the civil wars between different nodes of Anonymous more generally. But even if Anons don’t always agree about what is being done under the auspices of Anonymous, they tend to respect the fact that anyone can assume the moniker. The mask, which has become its signature icon, functions as an eternal beacon, broadcasting the symbolic value of equality, even in the face of bitter divisions and inequalities. Of course, despite the lack of a stable hierarchy or a single point of control, some Anons are more active and influential than others—at least for limited periods. Anonymous abides by a particular strain of what geeks call “do-ocracy,” with motivated individuals (or those with free time) extending its networked architecture by contributing time, labor, and attention to existing endeavors or leaving others to start ones of their own, aligned better to their ideals and principles.
Whether a movement even fesses up to the existence of soft leaders is an important question. It relates to another issue plaguing many social movements: how does a social movement maintain enough permeability that newcomers can join pre-existing groups, whose tendency is to become cliquish? Without overt recognition that leadership exists, a project can fall easily into the “tyranny of structurelessness”—a situation whereby the vocalizing of an ideology of decentralization works as a platitude that obscures or redirects attention away from firmly entrenched but hidden nodes of power behind the scenes.17
Following the heated controversy that erupted on Why We Protest, many Anons came to accept that marblec
ake played a valuable organizational role. The group’s soft leadership engendered an impressive amount of organization—both online and in local cities. But the general consensus was in favor of more transparency.
“There is no way Scientology can win
on us anymore. It is over.”
In 2014, Project Chanology is a shadow of its former self. Current monthly protests draw only the hardcore, with small to midsized turnouts in a smattering of cities (like Dublin, Düsseldorf, Hamburg, and New York). However, this situation reflects not failure, but success. While Project Chanology did not demolish the Church, it altered the game so fundamentally that critics could now stand confidently under the sun without fear of reprisal. The Church no longer had the upper hand.
This point was driven home by numerous ex-Scientologists during a conference I attended called Dublin Offlines, organized by ex-Scientologists on June 30, 2012. It had been a little over four years since this unlikely elixir first fomented via a strange brew of ex-Church members, Scientology critics, and uppity Internet geeks. This occasion seemed an appropriate time and place for me to take stock of the projects historical import.
The conference was held in Dublin’s Teacher’s Club (aka Club na Múinteoirí), housed in a four-story Georgian building which provided cozy and intimate shelter from the ever-present Irish drizzle. About seventy folks attended, a sizable chunk of them wearing Guy Fawkes masks. In keeping with the theatrics common to street demonstrations, some Anons from France were dressed with panache in circus and pantomime getups. Two were even dressed as giant leprechauns. My personal favorite was the guy sporting a cow suit.
Speakers included ex-Scientologists from the Scientology ship, some from the Sea Org, Gerry Armstrong (the former personal secretary to L. Ron Hubbard), Jamie DeWolf (the great-grandson of L. Ron Hubbard), a couple of academics (including myself), and a handful of individuals who had lost family to the Church. The master of ceremonies was Pete Griffiths, a local and a former executive director of the Kendal mission, in Cumbria, England; his shimmering silver suit perfectly matched his spirited personality.
Since I was staying on the other side town, I arrived a little late to find the talks already in full swing. I tiptoed in, silently waved to some of the locals I knew from a previous trip to Dublin, and slipped into a seat. I felt okay, if certainly under-caffeinated. But by the end of the day, having squirmed in discomfort during many of the talks, I was left emotionally drained. The ex-Scientologists provided moving personal accounts of the cult’s power to strangle the lives of both those in the Church and those who dared to leave. Church policy mandates that new recruits sever ties with any family and friends who object (as many do); leaving the organization is often a logistical nightmare, since one’s personal network has been so thoroughly eviscerated. If a member is public about his or her exit, the member is targeted under the “fair game policy,” which states that the individual “[m]ay be deprived of property or injured by any means by any Scientologist without any discipline of the Scientologist. May be tricked, sued or lied to or destroyed.”18
A talk by Tory Christman stood out among the rest. Before leaving on July 20, 2000, she had been a Scientologist for thirty-one years, during which period she honed her speaking skills by performing public relations for the church. Christman was confident, eloquent, inspirational, and witty; sporting rectangular glasses and a bright blue suit, she beamed with energy. She spoke for thirty minutes and packed in a whole lot: her entry into the Church, some of her less than pleasant experiences (such as the Church’s attempt to discourage her use of epilepsy medicine), insight into the Church’s mechanics of brainwashing (“It is a slow train of mind control,” as she put it), and descriptions of the Church’s theological tendencies delivered through pricey classes (“Keeping Scientology Working is on every single course”). As she was winding down, she described her harrowing escape (“[Scientology] chased me across the country”) and highlighted the Church’s greatest irony (“they are selling freedom but they enslave you”).
She also duly acknowledged Anonymous’s role: “Everyone now has the luxury [of being public] because, (A) the Internet; (B) critics even before Anonymous and; (C) Anonymous. Right? Which was totally a game changer. Forever. And it was and we all know this.” She highlighted the bravery of an earlier generation of critics, a handful of whom were in attendance, who acted publicly when the number of defectors was low and Scientology held the power to shatter their lives by targeting critics aggressively and with impunity. “Anonymous would not be around if it were not for the critics before them,” she said.
Her next statement reverberated in slow motion through the room and touched everyone personally: “There is no way Scientology can win on us anymore. It is over.” For the ex-Scientologists in the room, the words likely hit as a combination of relief and joy. The Anons, some whom had become close to ex-Scientologists, likely felt the pride of political accomplishment wash over them. There is nothing, nothing, quite like the sweet taste of political victory, and Chanology had accomplished the unlikely: the group successfully challenged an organization that seemed all-powerful, impervious to critique, and above the law.
More remarkable yet is that what started as a narrowly configured politics launched against a single foe broke out of that frame to encompass a fuller, diverse, thoroughly global political enterprise—a bonfire that burned hot and bright enough to spread across the globe, becoming Anonymous Everywhere. Let’s now turn to the unlikely events that propelled Anonymous’s surprising rise to prominence.
CHAPTER 3
Weapons of the Geek
WikiLeaks: The Gift that Keeps on Giving
It was July 2010 and I was attending a conference called Hackers on Planet Earth (also known as HOPE), held every other year in New York City’s charmingly historic (and, in its resemblance to the hotel in The Shining, creepily historical) Hotel Pennsylvania. Done with my talk, I was ready to soak up the conference’s truly extraordinary, politically charged atmosphere of drama, intrigue, and suspense. The charged mood at HOPE wasn’t the result of Anonymous. At the time, while Anonymous could already be described as politically quirky, the group was—geopolitically speaking—of little real significance. Anonymous activists had started to engage in other arenas (like Iran’s Green Revolution) but were still primarily focused on Chanology, doggedly exposing Scientology’s human rights abuses and protesting every month in cities across North America, Australia, Europe, and a few other countries. A sizeable number of trolls still claimed the Anonymous moniker, but this stream of ultracoordinated motherfuckery was clearly on the wane.
No, the intrigue saturating the conference was due to another player in town: the whistleblowing sensation WikiLeaks. More specifically, interest coalesced around the recent trove of documents and footage leaked by a young army private named Chelsea Manning (formerly Bradley Manning) and laid at the feet of the world by WikiLeaks. Founded in 2006, the driving concept behind WikiLeaks had been simple: provide both a safe house and clearinghouse for leaks. It’d been at it for years, circulating countless leaks but failing to draw significant attention from established media institutions like the New York Times. This lack of attention was not due to unworthiness. In fact, some of these leaks—like the news that the multinational company Trafigura had illegally dumped toxic waste off the Ivory Coast—were both shocking and shockingly absent from the mainstream news media. It also wasn’t for want of trying—at least not exclusively. The British government gagged the left-leaning newspaper the Guardian from covering the Trafigura story. As the editors noted at the time, “The Guardian is also forbidden from telling its readers why the paper is prevented—for the first time in memory—from reporting parliament. Legal obstacles, which cannot be identified, involve proceedings, which cannot be mentioned, on behalf of a client who must remain secret.”1
And so, by April 2010, WikiLeaks had dramatically switched public relations strategies. When they released video footage of a Baghdad air strike
under the title “Collateral Murder,” WikiLeaks left nothing to chance—packaging the already shocking material in a way that delivered an extra punch. They edited the video for maximum effect and added simple but powerful editorial commentary at the beginning. Julian Assange, the Australian hacker who founded WikiLeaks, was then known in the media as an “international man of mystery.” Now he broke with his previous disavowal of the spotlight. To coincide with the publication of the video, he hosted a press conference in Washington, DC, and followed it with a high-profile media tour.
The journalistic and public response was nothing short of explosive. Media scholar Christian Christensen argues the video is “one of the best known and most widely recognized results of the ongoing WikiLeaks project,” because it provides “visual evidence of the gross abuse of state and military power.”2 The black-and-white footage is captured from the perspective of a soldier in an Apache attack helicopter as he mows down civilians in a Baghdad suburb. The video, shot in 2007, provoked questions. Why had we not seen the footage earlier? Two of the men killed in the attack were journalists working for the Reuters news service and the organization had been trying, in the years since the attack, to get its hands on the footage via a Freedom of Information ACT request. They suspected foul play, and their suspicions were not unfounded. The video was an embarrassing reminder of how the mainstream media had failed in its mission to inform the public by turning its back on the direct and gruesome style of war reportage it had practiced in the final years of the Vietnam War.
Hacker, Hoaxer, Whistleblower, Spy Page 8
