These generalizations—promulgated by the media and commoners alike—are not only mostly wrong, but they also lead us further away from actually understanding Anonymous. Far from lacking structure or flailing wildly about like a compass at the North Pole, Anonymous incorporates an abundance of relationships, structures, and moral positions. Human beings—speaking, coding, debating, arguing, making art, and acting—are there every step of the way. This sentiment found a particularly nice expression during a conversation I had with Mustafa Al-Bassam, a notable former member of LulzSec, a hacker group that broke away from Anonymous. Exasperated by attempts to catalog every secret channel and collate every relevant note, I found him online one day and pestered him—begged him, really—to provide a neat, tidy, and definitive list of all the channels he could remember. He kindly acquiesced and in the middle of his meticulous explanation, which still left me confused, he asked, “Do you know kittencore?”
Oh damn, kittenporn?, I thought to myself. Thankfully, he reined in my imagination and clarified: “The IRC channel—we had a channel called #kittencore, and another called #upperdeck. The only difference is that #upperdeck had all the same people in #kittencore but one less.” I asked why they kept one person in the dark. He replied, “Because he came very late into it and we became reluctant to have him in the center and also because he came just as we were splitting the bitcoins.”
“Micro-micro-politics and cabals nested within cabals,” I replied.
It is precisely this mixture of concreteness and abundance—one channel, exactly the same as the other, minus one person, since he is too new and not yet trustworthy—which makes Anonymous both so difficult to describe and so resistant to being slotted into a pre-fabricated mental template. Within Anonymous, the pressure and desire to efface the public presentation of self allows the participants to perform an admixture of their souls, conjuring into existence something always emergent and in flux. The number of relationships, fiefdoms, and cliques in simultaneous existence is largely invisible to the public, which tends to see Anonymous from the vantage point of carefully sculpted propaganda and the media’s rather predictable gaze.
And yet, peering through the computer, we find Anonymous in any instant to be an aggregate sack of flesh—meshed together by wires, transistors, and wi-fi signals—replete with miles of tubes pumping blood, pounds of viscera filled with vital fluids, an array of live signaling wires, propped up by a skeletal structure with muscular pistons fastened to it, and ruled from a cavernous dome holding a restless control center, the analog of these fabulously grotesque and chaotically precise systems that, if picked apart, become what we call people. Anonymous is no different from us. It simply consists of humans sitting at their glowing screens and typing, as humans are wont to do at this precise moment in the long arc of the human condition. Each body taken alone provides the vector for an irreducibly unique and complex individual history—mirroring in its isolation the complexity of all social phenomena as a whole—which can itself be reduced yet further, to the order of events: mere flights of fingers and an occasional mouse gesture which register elsewhere, on a screen, as a two-dimensional text or a three-dimensional video; the song their fingers play on these keyboards ringing forth in a well-orchestrated, albeit cacophonous and often discordant, symphony; it is sung in the most base and lewd verse, atonal and unmetered, yet enthralling to many: the mythical epic of Anonymous.
Anonymous was not always this complex; it was only in late 2010 that the activist group became such a tangled and constantly shifting labyrinth. In November 2010, the minotaur running the maze of Anonymous had not yet found its escape route into the world, but it was getting closer. Chanology was still ongoing and AnonOps’ IRC remained the central nerve center for a cavalcade of DDoS campaigns lobbed against the copyright industry. By the end of November, this steady stream of direct action in support of file sharing came to a screeching halt. Participation in the public-facing IRC channels dwindled to an all time low. But the core teams, who had collaborated on the private channels, did not quietly shutter the doors and close up shop (though the low numbers did worry them). Instead, they sought to organize themselves better. A brainstorming session resulted in a collaboratively written document hashing out the purpose and structure of the private channel #command, which scandalized the broader ranks of Anonymous publicized earlier in November (see figure on facing page).
The document, which existed in various garish states, first defined the limited role of #command as “act[ing] as an intermediary” that “does not take decisions alone” and should lead “only the discussion, not the direction” of the operations. The document ends with a list of rules, including the ironic pronouncement that “only grownups” are allowed to be in “Command.” Ironic because a number of the individuals were under eighteen (and really, Anonymous as “grownup”?).
There are many concepts embedded in this document that are likely unfamiliar to IRC virgins and could bear some explanation. First: you use an IRC client to connect to a server, and then you pick a handle or “nick”—this could be your legal name, but more typically it’s something else. You have the option to speak one-on-one with other connected users, or you can join “channels,” which are denoted by a preceding octothorpe (#) and can be joined by any user who knows of the room’s existence—assuming it’s not an invite-only room. Once you join a room, you converse with other users who are there, typically about a channel-specifc topic. Whoever creates the channel is called the channel “founder” and has a certain amount of power to change its properties, determining who can enter, whether the channel is visible in the server’s list of public channels, and so forth. These operators can also bestow—at least in some versions of IRC—power on others, adding them to what’s called the “AutoOp (AOP)” list. Anyone on that list can “kick” anyone else out of the channel for whatever reason they choose, and even ban them from returning. At a higher order of power are the IRCops—a fraction who run the server and have the power to not only kick people from individual channels, but also from the server itself, disconnecting them completely. IRCops also have the ability to alter individual channel configurations and perform many other administrative functions. Typically, there are many individual channel operators but few IRC server operators. For many IRCops, getting involved in any individual channel’s dispute is a frustrating exercise—requiring them to pass judgment on events they were not privy to. As a result, channel decisions are typically deferred to the channel operators, with a server admin intervening only in extreme circumstances.
Rules in Command:
•Nobody kicks and certainly not bans inside command.
•Don’t interrupt another one’s subject.
•First point out the matters at hand, then point out priorities.
•People who troll in command get (permanently) thrown out of the AOP list.
•Personal disputes are taboo.
•Grown-ups only.
•No offtopic subjects in (staff) discussions.
•Pointing out problems in a structured way: name problem, suggest solution. If you can’t hint a solution, then at least give evidence or argue your statements, as long as your point is valid.
•If you don’t like somebody, get over it. Were all in this together.
•Admins/OPs are considered an example. Act on that behavior!
•Don’t expect IRCops to sort out all your problems, try it yourself, if all else fails, ask OP!
Many participants draw (or at least seek to draw) sensible lines of order from IRC and other stable sites of interaction. This order, nevertheless, is delicate and precarious—always on the edge of disorder. However, like so many trickster scenarios of turmoil, these moments of chaos don’t necessarily lead to breakdown and stasis. Instead, they often function as beginnings—necessary for the vitality and even regeneration of the broader community. Juxtaposing two quotes, one by Spanish philosopher George Santayana and another by Henry Brooks Adams, puts this lesson into
relief:
Chaos is a name for any order that produces confusion in our minds but it won’t be chaos once we see it for what it is.
Chaos often breeds life, when order breeds habit.
In the somewhat tangled story I am about to tell, it will be clear how Anonymous, like most social movements, remains open to chance, and chaos. The difference being that Anonymous is perhaps just a touch more open to mutation. Nowhere do we see this demonstrated more vividly than at the beginning of December 2010, when a whimsical decision ended a period of inactivity in AnonOps, flinging open the door for new actionable possibilities and allowing scores of newcomers to arrive as ready conscripts (mostly unaware, again, of the still-private #command IRC channel). This decision revitalized AnonOps to such a degree that the group’s IRC network became a fountain of nonstop activity for over a year, surpassing WikiLeaks as the primary hacker-activist hub of the Internet.
But, before we describe this whimsical decision, we would do well to keep in mind its infamous outcome: AnonOps’ support of WikiLeaks via a massive DDoS campaign in the aftermath of the whistleblowing organization’s most contentious release yet. On November 28, 2010, WikiLeaks publicly released 220 of 251,287 classified US diplomatic cables—the most extensive leak of classified materials ever, timed to coincide with in-depth analyses by the Guardian, the New York Times, El País, Le Monde, and Der Spiegel. The US government was furious, and a trio of powerful companies—Amazon, MasterCard, and PayPal (among others)—bowed to its influence, refusing to process donations or provide website hosting for the embattled organization.
Even though WikiLeaks had already released hundreds of thousands of military documents about the Afghan and Iraq wars, which brimmed with revelations of detention squads, civilian casualties, the solicitation of child prostitutes, and a host of other horrors, “Cablegate” still managed to stand in a class of its own. It pulled back the curtain on not only the intra-diplomatic discussions that were normally hidden behind a veil of diplomatic etiquette, and also—and even more salaciously—on the internal discussions and intelligence gathering of US diplomats themselves. Then–Secretary of State Hillary Clinton had in 2009, we learned, merged diplomacy and spying into one activity, ordering US diplomatic officials to collect credit card numbers, frequent flyer numbers, and biometric information on foreign officials. We learned for the first time that the Obama administration had been secretly conducting a war in Yemen, launching missile attacks at suspected terrorists, while the Yemeni government covered it up by claiming responsibility themselves. We learned that American intelligence agencies believed that North Korea had given Iran nineteen of its longest-range missiles—which the public didn’t know existed in the first place. We learned that Saudi Arabian leaders had been urging the United States to bomb Iran in order to, as King Abdullah himself put it, “cut off the head of the snake.” The cables showed that Israel was bluffing on its threat to launch airstrikes against Iran, and that the United States engaged in criminal dealings with the corrupt, drug-trafficking brother of Afghan president Hamid Karzai. The cables also touched on comparably banal subjects, like US diplomats’ routine bad-mouthing and name-calling of foreign leaders.2 Previously, things were merely interesting and provocative. But now, as the revelations kept coming, members of the public discovered their jaws dropping lower and lower by the day, as if they were strapped into some orthodontic-transparency device, hand-cranked by Julian Assange himself.
Sarah Palin suggested Assange be hunted down “with the same urgency we pursue al-Qaeda and Taliban leaders.”3 Senator Joe Lieberman declared it “an outrageous, reckless, and despicable action that will undermine the ability of our government and our partners to keep our people safe and to work together to defend our vital interests.”4 Lieberman’s staff reached out to Amazon—not only the world’s largest book retailer but also its largest web host—and asked it to ban WikiLeaks from its servers. It acquiesced. The financial firms that process credit card transactions worldwide followed suit, cutting the umbilical cord between donors and WikiLeaks. Although WikiLeaks had not been found guilty of anything by any court of law—these companies, without any legal obligation to do what the government asked of them, went ahead anyway. Anonymous was outraged.
Two weeks later, AnonOps became ground zero for the single largest digital direct action campaign the Internet had—and still has—ever witnessed, at least when measured by number of participants. Over seven thousand individuals logged onto AnonOps’ IRC channel, #operationpayback, to lend a helping hand, cheer or, at the very least, simply spectate. Seven thousand users in one channel remains the largest single human IRC congregation ever.5 It was a “mass demo against control,” as free software hacker Richard Stallman described the event in a Guardian editorial.6 In the month of December alone, LOIC was downloaded 116,988 times, far more than during the earlier DDoS campaigns.7 While only a fraction of those actually connected to the Anonymous hive, interest in the tool was undoubtedly fueled by reporting on Anonymous’s activities.
Media attention was frenzied, catapulting this collective of collectives out of relative obscurity and into the international spotlight. Not only did the usual suspects—like technology-oriented publications and blogs—report on the uprising, but so did most of the major nightly news programs. CNN hosted the digital strategist Nicco Mele, who praised Anonymous during an in-depth interview. In the New York Times, one of the Internet’s original patron saints, John Perry Barlow, cast the Anonymous campaign as “the shot heard round the world—this is Lexington.”8
WikiLeaks and Anonymous seemed like a perfect fit. Anonymous’s DDoS campaign solidified the alliance through a spectacular display of solidarity and support. But, as hinted at before, AnonOps’ decision to intervene came about in a rather convoluted, disorderly manner. Journalist Parmy Olson, in her book We Are Anonymous, portrays AnonOps’ decision to rally around WikiLeaks as straightforward:
The people who set up AnonOps were talking about the WikiLeaks controversy in their private #command channel. They were angry at PayPal, but, more than that, they saw an opportunity. The victimization of Wiklileaks, they figured, would strike a chord with Anonymous and bring hordes of users to their new network. It was great publicity.9
But this account barely scratches the surface of what transpired. AnonOps was in idle mode, with almost no supporters outside of the core team. This so-called “opportunity” only manifested once AnonOps command was forced to consider involving themselves following the independent actions of only a few unknown Anons, thus opening the floodgates for thousands.
It could be said that the initial nudge that reinvigorated the team behind Operation Payback, pushing them into Operation Avenge Assange, came from a rather wordy poster. It showered Assange with praise: “Julian Assange deifies everything we hold dear. He despises and fights censorship constantly [and] is probably the most successful troll of all time … Now Julian is the prime focus of a global manhunt, in both physical and virtual realms.” It then called on Anonymous to “kick back for Julian” by engaging in multiple political acts from DDoSing PayPal to complaining “to your local MP.”
On December 4, as this message traversed the Internet, an unknown party DDoSed the PayPal blog—most likely with a botnet.10 This action was followed by a trickle of journalistic coverage and a statement on the PandaLabs security blog that announced, in a matter-of-fact way, AnonOps’ involvement: “The organizers behind the anonymous group responsible for Operation: Payback are in the midst of refocusing their campaign to assist WikiLeaks in their quest to release classified government documents.”11 This was all news to many in Anonymous. As media reports continued to roll out, a convoluted and angry conversation broke out in AnonOps’ #command chat room. Most of the team had no idea they were “refocusing their efforts on WikiLeaks.”
To make sense of this moment, it might help to follow a few members of Anonymous (all pseudonyms have been changed) through the events that unfolded on December 6. We will start wi
th Fred, one of the most important participants on #command (according to one interview subject, “[Fred] is AnonOps”). Fred invested a serious amount of time maintaining the infrastructure. A Kurt Vonnegut adage comes to mind: “Another flaw in the human character is that everybody wants to build and nobody wants to do maintenance.” Fred was willing to do the work others took for granted, and as a result he was heavily invested in AnonOps. On that day, as Fred logged into #command, he was very angry. A conversation would transpire over the next hour that would forever change the future course of both AnonOps (specifically) and Anonymous (in general):
Trogo (author of the PandaLabs blog post) was on the channel. He was one of a handful of embedded outsiders given access to the secret areas—typically there were very few of them—in order to ferret information out of the AnonOps bunkers and into the public domain. (Trogo, however, stands unique for being around #command since its founding.) It seemed that a statement published by Trogo had catalyzed many into the actions now under review. Trogo defended his hasty decision to publish without broad consensus.
Hacker, Hoaxer, Whistleblower, Spy Page 12
