Hacker, Hoaxer, Whistleblower, Spy

by Gabriella Coleman

  That is to say, Anonymous leaves a lot to the imagination. But not everything; it is vital to understand how Anonymous underwent a metamorphosis from underworld trolls into public-facing activists, especially given that nation-states, prosecutors, government officials, and judges would like to cast them all as mere criminals. These powers-that-be are unwilling to acknowledge Anonymous’s actions as driven by an activist calling; indeed, it may be the potency and the politically motivated character of the group’s actions that prompts the state to so swiftly criminalize them.33

  And so, while I have aimed to blot out misconceptions, the prospect of fully stripping away the aura of mystery and magic felt somehow unacceptable (were it even possible). Philosopher Jane Bennett urges us “to resist the story of the disenchantment of modernity,” and to instead “enhance enchantment.”34 This has been my second aim in collecting riveting tales about Anonymous. This deliberate elevation of enchantment, Bennett argues, is a meaningful political gesture, and one that I am driven to make—for reasons that will become more clear in these last pages.

  Given this second goal, it was only natural for me to adopt a mythic frame and invite the trickster along for the ride. The figures in this book embody the contradictions and paradoxes of life, many of which are irresolvable. By telling these characters’ stories, lessons emerge, not through dry edicts but, instead, through fascinating, often audacious, tales of exploits. Trickster lore may be patently mythic, but it bears remembering that, at one point, it was spun by human hands. My role has been to nudge forward this process of historical and political myth-making—already evident in the routine functioning of an entity constituted by adept artists, contemporary myth-makers, and concocters of illusion.

  Now that we have nearly reached the end of this journey and I have unveiled the objectives guiding my book, it is left to you to judge whether I have displayed the cunning requisite to balance the Apollonian forces of empiricism and logic with the Dionysian forces of enchantment. Whatever your conclusion, please permit me the license to weave some final thoughts through and along the gaps which still remain, and on top of other areas already thick with embroidery. While Anonymous still leaves me frequently bewildered, there are a string of inspiring messages we can glean in its wake.

  Anonymous Everywhere

  Though it is shifty, and though its organizing structures can never quite be apprehended, Anonymous is composed of people who decide together and separately to take a stand. Who might these people be? A neighbor? A daughter? A secretary? A janitor? A student? A Buddhist? An incognito banker? You? Whatever sort of people are involved today, one thing is certain: what began as a network of trolls has become a wellspring of online insurgency. What started as a narrow reaction to the Church of Scientology now encompasses a global selection of political causes, from fights against censorship in Tunisia, through salvos against North American rape culture, on to condemnations of economic and political injustices in Zuccotti Park and Tahir Square.

  Despite an unpredictable—not to mention irreverent and often destructive—attitude toward the law, Anonymous also offers an object lesson in what Frankfurt School philosopher Ernst Bloch calls “the principle of hope.” Bloch, having fled Nazi Germany, wrote a three-volume tract on the topic while exiled in the United States. Striving for an “encylopedic” accounting, he unearthed a stunningly diverse number of signs, symbols, and artifacts that channeled hope in different historical eras. The examples gathered range from personal daydreams to time-honoured fairy tales, from the love of music and sports to mystical or philosophical tracts—anything that might spark or communicate a glimmer of hope. Working in the shadow of an overly pessimistic strain of Marxist critique, his opus reminds us that a better world—or at least the understanding of what that world could be—is in our midst. As a sort of philosophical archaeologist, Bloch excavated hidden or forgotten messages of utopia, that they might combat “anxiety” and “fear” in all who encountered them. “The emotion of hope goes out of itself, makes people broad instead of confining them,” writes Bloch. “The work of this emotion requires people who throw themselves actively into what is becoming, to which they themselves belong.”35 That a robust activist politics emerged from the depths of one of the seediest places on the Internet—that geeks chose to throw themselves actively into a process of political becoming—strikes me as a perfect enactment of just such a principle of hope.

  Bloch indicted “fraudulent hope,”36 characterized by blind or overt optimism, for its failure to catalyze movement. Instead, his hope is a restless one, sustained by passion, wonder, and even mischief—all qualities embraced by Anonymous. We can see, then, a strong positivity inherent in Anonymous—a striving toward a realistic form of hope that, once manifest, seems suited to impel disruption and change. Of course, these activists hold no monopoly over such affective states of passion and hope. Nevertheless, with the exception of a narrow band of important thinkers like Chantal Mouffe and Jacques Rancière, the emotional character of political life is often relegated to the sidelines—odd, because desire and pleasure are so central to its very being. But there are other reasons, more urgent than simply undoing the omission of such a primary component of activist endeavors, to convey the emotional factors that play an integral role in social change.

  In 2008, when the fearsome, Loki-esque band of trolls that then constituted Anonymous took that decisive left turn away from “ultracoordinated motherfuckery” and toward activism, they in essence conquered one of the prevailing sentiments of our times. Media scholar Whitney Phillips convincingly argues that a widespread cynicism pervades our moment—and that in trolls we find one of the most distilled, concentrated, and grotesque extremes of an emotionally dissociative (or politically fetishistic) subculture.37

  Many theorists and writers from radically distinct traditions, stretching from the American novelist David Foster Wallace to Italian autonomist Franco “Bifo” Berardi, have persuasively argued that cynicism has become a prism through which large swaths of North Americans and Europeans filter and feel the world. Wallace writes about the pervasiveness of “passive unease and cynicism,” and calls for “anti-rebels, born oglers” to rise up and “and dare somehow to back away from ironic watching.”38 Bifo, who has written multiple tracts on the topic, turned to poetry to convey the frightening, dead emotional burden of cynicism:

  Before the tsunami hits, you know how it is?

  The sea recedes, leaving a dead desert in which only cynicism and dejection remain.

  All you need to do, is to make sure you have the right words to say, the right

  clothes to wear, before it finally wipes you away.39

  Feelings of dejection are not merely figurative shackles. Even when citizens are aware of the forces that fleece the majority, cynicism can disable political change. When this stance becomes prevalent enough, it settles into the sinews of society, further entrenching atomization, preventing social solidarity, and sharply limiting political possibilities.40 Add anxiety to the mix, and the resulting cocktail becomes the most lethal of poisons. The UK-based radical collective Plan C has penned a perceptive tract entitled “We Are All Very Anxious Now.” It connects the dots between dire economic conditions, precarious labor, preemptive crackdowns against activists, a cultural emphasis on self-promotion, and an overpowering technical state of surveillance: “One major part of the social underpinning of anxiety is the multifaceted omnipresent web of surveillance … But this obvious web is only the outer carapace,” they write. “Ostensibly voluntary self-exposure, through social media, visible consumption and choice of positions within the field of opinions, also assumes a performance in the field of the perpetual gaze of virtual others.”41 When this push toward the panopticon is stacked with a litany of broader issues—from growing wealth inequality, waves of global and national recession and unrest, and the looming prospect of climate-induced environmental disaster—it is not difficult to understand how a disabling, pervasive, and frightening uncertainty ha
s come to colonize our states of being.

  Cynicism and anxiety may be prevalent, but they are neither omnipotent nor omnipresent; they run up against friction and resistance—every single day. Untold numbers of activists, immigrants, displaced people, refugees, various unknowns, artists, and, remarkably, even some politicians, are all fighting against oppression and pushing against the emotional onslaught that can so easily lead to such existential traps. If we are not careful, we might paint too bleak a picture and reify the very cynicism and anxiety we seek to dismantle. Bloch insisted that we contribute to a living archive of hope, that we take care to listen to and take hold of “something other than the putridly stifling, hollowly nihilistic death-knell.”42

  When we consider that the members of Anonymous know such conditions well, it is either less remarkable, or more remarkable, that they were able to add to this “living archive of hope.” I am unable to decide whether Anonymous attracts those with dark, emotional lives, or whether the pseudonymous environment creates a safe space for sharing what are simply universal facets of the human condition. Likely it is some combination of the two. I nevertheless was struck time and again by this pairing of personal pain with the ardent desire for its overcoming.

  By sacrificing the public self, by shunning leaders, and especially by refusing to play the game of self-promotion, Anonymous ensures mystery; this in itself is a radical political act, given a social order based on ubiquitous monitoring and the celebration of runaway individualism and selfishness. Anonymous’s iconography—masks and headless suits—visually displays the importance of opacity. The collective may not be the hive it often purports and is purported to be—and it may be marked by internal strife—but Anonymous still manages to leave us with a striking vision of solidarity—e pluribus unum.

  “A small fire demands constant tending. A bonfire can be let alone. A conflagration spreads”—so said Anonymous activist papersplx. By embracing the mask, which sociologist Richard Sennett rightly notes is “one of culture’s oldest stage props connecting stage and street,” Anonymous took the dynamics of theatrical trickery and transferred them from the Internet to the everyday life of resistance.43 Anonymous became a generalized symbol for dissent, a medium to channel deep disenchantment with a dictator, with a law, with the economy, with the culture of rape—basically, with anything. Anonymous, always the risk-taker, liked to play with fire—and many participants despised or shunned safety measures; it is not surprising that the group itself, as a whole, eventually caught fire, blazing a path for others. Some got burned—both participants and targets alike. Or as Firefly put it in the film We Are Legion: “It’s like a phoenix. It might occasionally catch fire and burn to the ground but it’ll just be reborn from the ashes. It’ll be reborn stronger.” Pushing hard against rules and boundaries may often lead to entrapment or demise, but the entity’s core animating idea—Anonymous if free for anyone to embody—positions it well for resurrection and reinvention.

  Anonymous has appeared many times like a vision, confounding us as we watch the bright flashes of its delightful (and offensive and confusing) dreams. It is this quality of straddling, on the one hand, mythic space, and on the other, the reality of activists taking risks and taking action, that makes the group so enticing. Taken at a distance, it’s like observing the northern lights, a quiet but mythic battle of gods and tricksters in the night sky, a sky all the more enchanting because it is everyone’s to watch. The power of Anonymous’s eponymous anonymity is that we are all free to choose whether or not to don the mask.

  Acknowledgements

  Even if a single concept is destined to fail at adequately conveying the vast and intricate geography fabricated by Anonymous activists, in writing this book I found myself consistently returning to one particular governing trope: the maze. Every attempt to traverse, understand, or describe a given state necessarily corrupted it, adding further entropic inputs which ensured a different experience for any who would participate within it or even simply watch. So, as it turns out, researching and writing about Anonymous was a thrilling but taxing enterprise. I spent years collecting too much material, attempting to build my own labyrinth that would allow me to chart a course through theirs. But when I set out to unravel the tangled threads, to find my way out of the collected stories, rumors, conversations, and secrets into some coherent and lucid narrative, I realized in horror that the gossamer material was disintegrating in my hands. I was lost in the nether regions between mazes, with no bearings and no way out. Thankfully, a host of friends, colleagues, strangers, and Anons helped me find my way, nudging me along on my journey and contributing to its ultimate manifestation as a book.

  This project was long in the making. Its beginnings can be traced to a Killam Postdoctoral Research Fellowship I held at the University of Alberta in 2006–7, and a fortunate introduction to Dr. Stephen A. Kent, who, in his work as professor of sociology, curates the largest academic Scientology archive in the world. In the midst of a frighteningly frigid winter, I dove into the archive with hopes of emerging with a short historical side project describing a case known among geeks as “Scientology vs. the Internet.” Being more accustomed to interviewing people than making sense of heaps of (in this case, very strange) documents, Kent thankfully and graciously walked me through the confusing, fascinating, and at times disturbing innards of an organization so many geeks love to loathe.

  In January 2008, my historical project leaped into the present when, in the course of targeting the Church of Scientology, Anonymous underwent a broader and surprising metamorphosis from fearsome pranksters to fervent protesters. I was hooked. It seemed only natural to follow these mad hatters and see if anything would come of their bold and unexpected foray into protest culture—and clearly something did. By that time I had relocated to New York City and discovered a physical portal into Anonymous through the rambunctious local cell that welcomed me to its monthly protests. In turn, I welcomed members of the cell into my classroom, where my students and I benefited from both their eloquent lectures on the political significance of Anonymous and their theatrical antics demonstrating the lulz. Little Sister, Sethdood, and Matthew “PokeAnon” Danziger met with me on numerous occasions and proved lively interlocutors. The latter two even sat for formal interviews. I also experienced the delight of close acquaintance with Chanology Dublin and other Irish Anons; they were some of my most intrepid teachers. I crossed the ocean to draw upon this valuable resource on numerous occasions, and by my third trip in a three-year span, it was clear that a few of them, notably Pete, David, Firefly, and Donncha, had become more than sources—they had become friends. I look forward to future exchanges.

  In 2010, when Anonymous broke into public consciousness with its direct-action digital campaign protesting the banking blockade leveled against WikiLeaks, I was fortuitously on sabbatical at a sanctuary—the Institute for Advanced Study at Princeton. The punishing pace of activity that subsequently cascaded from the AnonOps network would have been nearly impossible to follow were it not for the glut of time I was afforded. Conversations with two colleagues in my cohort, Manu Goswami and Tanya Erzen, helped shape my thinking on the topic. Anthropologist Didier Fassin proved an inspirational mentor, whose boundless willingness to share feedback was confirmed again after I presented on Anonymous at a recent workshop on public ethnography held at the IAS.

  As 2010 turned into 2011, I lost myself full time in the ever-shifting maze of Anonymous. At times ambling with no direction or purpose, and at other times ardently driven to fulfill a mission, I spoke with dozens upon dozens of participants, benefiting from their time, experiences, insights, and critiques. I thank every one of you and I am sorry for my inability to remember and list all of your names—whether real, fake, or pseudonymous. A few folks necessitate special mention, going beyond the call of duty in their willingness to guide me. Early on, Trivette, meddle, and n0pants each spoke to me one-on-one and opened various doors in so doing. I found welcome homes in #reporter, #freedommod
s, and eventually #cabincr3w, where conversations ran into the hours and were always lively and illuminating. Over time, a handful of other folks put me on different paths of thinking. Anonymous9—teeming with energy—was inexhaustibly helpful. This book, at least in this form, would simply not be possible without him. m0rpeth was probably the first of a handful of insiders to implore me to stop drinking the Kool-Aid; his trenchant critiques of emergent power structures made it easier for me to intuit them and, in so doing, apprehend the many strains of internal critique existent in Anonymous. blackplans, a consistent presence spanning different eras and scenes, was boundlessly erudite and witty about Anonymous and hackers (not to mention life in general). Andrew Auerhenheimer, certainly far from being anonymous, or a fan of Anonymous, taught me a lot about trolling, often through his trollish arguments and statements, but thankfully never trolled me. Many others spent quite a bit of time chatting with me, including c0s, AnonyOps, Barrett Brown, evilworks, q, mr_a, sharpie, kantanon, shitstorm, owen, Avunit, emmi, Jackal, p0ke, crypt0anonymous, Nicole Powers, Nixie, Commander X, JMC, papersplx, Lauri Love, and others who will remain anonymous.

  Over time (and due to a string of arrests), the circumstances of my research changed in equal measure with the public perception of its subjects. Many Anons have endured difficult legal battles and time in prison. Given just how complicated their lives became, I am all the more grateful that they made time for me. The book could simply not have been completed without the generosity and the acumen of Jeremy Hammond, Mustafa Al-Bassam, Donncha O’Cearbhaill, Darren Martyn, and Mercedes Haefer, each of whom poured hours into answering endless strings of sometimes repetitive questions. Chris Weatherhead and Jake Davis also met with me in person to share many of their experiences; Ryan Ackroyd, who I only started to interact with recently, commented thoughtfully on the “Internet Hate Machine” and informants.