Inside WikiLeaks

by Daniel Domscheit-Berg

  Slowly but surely, money started coming in.

  We had announced that we needed $200,000 for operating costs and, ideally, $400,000 more for salaries. By February or March 2010, we had gotten the first $200,000 together, and that was just in our account with the Wau Holland Foundation, which ran our German account for us. This had been set up in October 2009. The Chaos Computer Club had put me in touch with the foundation, which was named after the deceased information philosopher. Holland was one of the founding fathers of the CCC, and the foundation managed his estate and supported projects that furthered freedom of information. The good thing about the foundation was that it took care of the donations and ensured that everything went through official channels. Anyone in Germany who wanted to give us money could deduct it from his taxes. I made contact and took over the paperwork. The lion’s share of our donations came from Germany.

  In the first two weeks after our initial post-strike publication, the “Collateral Murder” video, we raised another $100,000. By summer 2010, it was already $600,000, and the last time I was able to check, the foundation had collected as much as a million dollars for us. When I left the project in September, we had invested $75,000 in hardware and travel costs. In the following two months, a far greater sum was withdrawn—probably because a way had been found to pay salaries.

  With the submission system sorted out, we went back online in January 2010 so that people could upload new documents. The background system was, technically speaking, far more advanced than it had been before our break, but the wiki—the user interface with the start page, the explanations of all the leaks, and the links to the documents—remained offline for another six months. For half a year, we could receive new material but were otherwise unreachable via the Internet. That was because our repair operations had proved a bit trickier than we originally imagined.

  Suddenly there was plenty of money available, and unlike Julian, I was in favor of spending it. Between March and May, for instance, we got some seventeen new servers up and running.

  Transactions with the foundation were relatively simple. The foundation advanced me money, and I bought things and submitted the receipts. Once I received 10,000 euros, and later, on another occasion, 20,000, which went to buy hardware and pay for transportation and travel costs. In late August we updated our infrastructure again. When I left WL in September 2010, the project was in the sort of technological shape I’d always dreamed of. We had Cryptophones, satellite pagers, and state-of-the-art servers—everything we needed. We were on solid footing, and our architecture was exemplary.

  We also needed an office and some permanent employees. We’d been talking about this for some time. As a headquarters, we’d considered Berlin or somewhere in the Alps. Julian enjoyed the fresh air and the mountains just as much as I did.

  In 2009, we briefly toyed with the idea of getting an air-raid shelter. I went as far as to ask the German military if there were any unused sites for rent or sale. The plan was to set up a computer center, which could have also served as home for related projects by other people we wanted to support. We would have hoisted a giant WL flag above it. It would have underscored our reputation as an unassailable fortress. Our stated goal at this point was to become “the most aggressive press organization in the world.”

  Then suddenly, as money began pouring in, Julian changed his mind. He thought we should become an “insurgent operation.”

  Insurgents? Insurgents don’t have offices. They work underground. To my mind, he was casting doubt upon the basic idea of everything we’d worked toward for years.

  Increasingly, he would talk about how we were being shadowed and how we needed to make ourselves “untouchable.” He was convinced we were no longer safe on the streets, that our mail and belongings were being searched, and that we had to disappear and live underground. He fantasized about bulletproof vests and international secret services always on our heels.

  Now, I’m a big critic of the German government, but I still believe we live under a government that respects the law. I didn’t think we needed to fear being kidnapped on our trips to Iceland, Italy, or Hungary. And before we started complaining about people breaking into and searching our office, it would have been nice to have one.

  Our first truly serious fights were about the money. I explained to Julian that he wouldn’t be the only one to have access to the funds from the Wau Holland Foundation. I wasn’t interested in paying them out to myself. I just wanted to be able to make decisions. To be able to get money when it was acutely necessary and when Julian, as was often the case, couldn’t be contacted for a couple of days. Our two technicians and the close circle of assistants that had coalesced within WL shared my view. They even suggested splitting the money into two halves so that no one could squander it all individually. Even if one of us made an awful decision, our war chest as a whole would have been safe.

  We all worked full-time for WikiLeaks. We had talked about the need to pay salaries for quite some time. I would have been content with 2,500 euros a month gross. I didn’t need anything. What’s more, the foundation had told us that any salaries shouldn’t be too nominal, to avoid running afoul of German labor laws concerning who was a freelancer and who a permanent employee. That was fine by me. We had talked about modeling what we did on the practices of other charitable organizations such as Greenpeace or Worldwatch. But Julian blocked any and all changes. There was more money around than ever before, but precisely at this juncture arguments broke out about every cent. Such quarrels were unworthy of the project. The fundamental underlying question was much larger. Gradually I realized that we were heading toward a major problem. A true nightmare. The future direction of WikiLeaks was at stake.

  AT the beginning of January 2010, after our spectacular appearance at the 26C3, Julian and I flew back to Iceland to work on the IMMI—the Icelandic Modern Media Initiative—aimed to get the island nation to enact the strongest media-protection laws in the world. We had already announced the idea, of course; now it was time to help ensure it became a reality. We had generously allotted two weeks of our time for this task. Three, if need be.

  In Germany, we had just helped derail the Access Impediment Law from the Ministry of Family Affairs headed by Ursula von der Leyen. Germany’s president, Horst Köhler, had refused to sign the legislation into law. Now it was also time to get a law of our own through the Icelandic parliament. We figured we would run into some difficulties, but none that would prove insurmountable. In fact, it would be six months until German parliamentarians would even vote on our application for a resolution.

  We rented an apartment in the Fosshotel, a half-decent chain hotel that would normally have been far beyond our means. But Julian, using various obscure connections, had gotten us an obscenely cheap deal. In the end we would only pay a nominal sum for a whole month. Julian paid the bill, which allowed him to play the generous host toward the rest of us.

  Julian took the inconspicuous young guy who worked nights behind the reception desk into his confidence, telling him what we were up to, what an exclusive club he was dealing with, and how dangerous it all was. The bellhop became one of the gang. When we came home late in the evening from our discussions and meetings, he would shoot us a conspiratorial glance. He probably spent the whole night watching the hotel parking lot outside the glass entrance, waiting for the black CIA limousines to arrive.

  So there we were, in a somewhat spartanly furnished apartment for four on the third floor, with a kitchen, purple curtains, and imitation-wood floors. The hotel with its massive, ugly, gray exterior was located on a quiet side street near the harbor promenade. The room I shared with Julian had only a single small window at about the height of my navel. But the view of Faxaflói Bay was still marvelous. I used to lie in bed and look out at the clean lines of the mountain panorama across the water, when the close confines and permanent mess of our quarters got to be too much for me.

  But there was no window in our bathroom. In the morning, af
ter the three other guys had taken their showers, the air was full of sulfuric water that bit at my lungs.

  Julian and I shared the room in succession with Rop Gonggrijp; the American hacker and Net activist Jacob Appelbaum; and Folkert, a hacker from Hong Kong who was a good friend of mine. They had all come to Iceland to support the IMMI, bringing their experience and expertise and helping us work out the details of the idea.

  We also met up practically every day with the Icelandic parliamentarian Birgitta, Herbert, and Smári. They all lived in Reykjavík. In addition, we received a visit from Harald Schumann, a journalist from the Tagesspiegel newspaper in Berlin, who was writing a story about us.

  Birgitta, who was to get increasingly involved in WL, soon became more than just our main connection to the Icelandic parliament. As we soon noticed, she had little in common with the typical politician—the contrast between her and Ursula von der Leyen could hardly have been greater. She looked like one of us, always casually dressed in a long black coat. On the one hand she wore steel-toe boots, but she also favored feminine details like a silver chain, a blouse, or a floral hair clasp. Birgitta became the main mover of the IMMI. She had a different perspective on things and her opinions helped us a lot. She was a cool, immensely likable woman.

  Birgitta put us in contact with lawyers who were likewise enthusiastic about our ideas for bolstering Icelandic freedom of the media. That surprised me. The lawyers then set about fine-tuning the legal framework for the IMMI.

  We rented a workspace in the Ministry of Ideas—an old warehouse complex in Reykjavík that is home to a number of grassroots movements. Space was cheap there. The Ministry itself was a large echoing space with a gray stone floor. The table and chairs looked as though they had been borrowed from a school classroom. There was a small coffee bar, and we commandeered one of the couches in the back to hold discussions and bat around ideas for the IMMI.

  When I wasn’t sitting at my computer, I was meeting potential business partners. The idea was to convince the service providers, regulatory government offices, computer centers, and the companies who owned the transatlantic cables that it was in their interest to support our initiative. If they could guarantee people legal protection for all Internet business, I argued, they would attract customers from all over the world.

  Two of Iceland’s advantages were green energy and a cool climate. There was no question that the country was an excellent location for servers. Nonetheless, that alone was no way of achieving our stated goal of increasing data transfers by 30,000 percent. In fact it would have exceeded the capacity of the newly laid transatlantic cables!

  What is much more important than green energy for providers and customers is legal protection. Knowing they would no longer have to deal with criminal censure and that they wouldn’t have to face incalculable legal costs was an advantage that greatly outweighed any certificates of environmental friendliness. In return, we argued, that would create jobs and bring money into the bankrupt country.

  Icelandic regulators feared that our idea would create wrangling with other countries over competition and legal issues, and that they might attract unwanted illegal exchange platforms and the porn industry. Their worries, though, were unfounded. The IMMI was directed chiefly at the media, and it was nothing but bringing together already existing freedom-of-information laws from all parts of the world—the best of the best.

  Our first priority was to find a date when the proposed legislation could be brought before parliament for discussion. A preliminary hearing was arranged, and with considerable effort, we had come up with a presentation. Even if I now say I can be woken up out of a deep sleep and still improvise an acceptable lecture about WL, the IMMI was virgin territory. Just like anyone else, we had to think through all the legal and political implications, and what’s more, we didn’t have much experience with the Icelandic political system. Overnight, we had to become experts.

  Our appearance before Iceland’s parliament—the Althingi—in Reykjavík was an extremely unhappy experience. Our presentation was scheduled for a Tuesday afternoon, and we pictured ourselves captivating at least half of the members of parliament with our performance and turning them into fervent IMMI supporters. At that point, only Birgitta and two or three other politicians were onboard. Birgitta had taken the lead and was drumming up considerable noise for the IMMI, trying to elicit nonpartisan support for the initiative. But we didn’t know how many people she’d succeeded in winning over.

  On our way to the conference room at the Althingi, I was astonished at how quiet things were in the hallways. I was accustomed to far more activity in the German Bundestag.

  We got a slap in the face when we entered the presentation room. There were only two parliamentarians seated in the ten rows of chairs. The rest of the chairs were empty, and the room was silent save for a draft blowing through an open window and rustling a couple of papers. The majority of the politicians, we learned later, were either on vacation or visiting their local constituencies.

  We began the presentation. It had taken hours, if not days, just to plan who would say what and when. Julian spoke first and he didn’t allow himself to stray from his agenda. Nor did any of the others. When it was my turn, I shortened my planned script. The situation was so absurd. At lectures with more speakers than listeners, form no longer matters. You might as well have a good old-fashioned discussion. This was all the more true since the two parliamentarians in attendance, as we soon learned, didn’t need to be convinced.

  If Julian was upset, he didn’t show it. Shortly after the lecture, he whisked himself away to the Ministry or perhaps somewhere else. I was a bit depressed. How were we supposed to make the IMMI into Icelandic law if only two people attended the preliminary hearing. Two parliamentarians plus Birgitta. We still needed sixty more to achieve our aims. And we’d already spent three weeks in Iceland.

  It then occurred to me that we were no longer accustomed to setbacks. I’d almost forgotten what a sparsely filled auditorium looked like or how it felt to speak to an empty room. I don’t know why we thought everything would take care of itself. In addition to all the appointments we had, the IMMI formalities were eating up a lot of time. The home page for the initiative had to be completed, a logo designed, and a layout developed. Texts needed to be written, and positions discussed. We’d gotten a bit distracted and underestimated the amount of work involved.

  The next major obstacle took shape invisibly and came from our own ranks. Along with piles of dirty clothes and empty pizza boxes, cabin fever was beginning to take over our apartment at the Fosshotel. Although we all got along extremely well and worked together very efficiently in chats, none of us could stand the physical presence of others for so many days in a row. It was almost funny. Everywhere in the world the IT branch is accused of creating problems between people by keeping them apart. Video conferences and electronic meetings replaced face-to-face talks, detractors often argued, and people had to overcome feelings of distance and misunderstanding that could have been easily cleared up if they sat down together. With us, the exact opposite was the case. Our first serious clash of personalities probably never would have happened if we hadn’t rented a shared apartment in that Icelandic hotel. Or at least if we had each had a room of our own.

  On a Wednesday evening during the third week, the situation escalated dramatically. The cause was an open window. I had been out and about and had returned to the apartment, where everyone else—Rop and Julian as well as Herbert and Smári—was hunched over his laptop, typing away. A coffin that had been reopened after a decade would have smelled better than our room. I held my nose, went over to the French balcony on the other side of the room, and opened it to let in a bit of oxygen. Herbert shot me a grateful look. He had already retreated once to the hallway because he found the air unbearable. Julian, however, froze in front of his computer, only raising his head to fire a question at me. What was I thinking, opening the window? There was fire in his eyes, and it was directed
at me.

  “Rop is cold, you idiot,” he said in an extremely insulting tone.

  I had no idea why he felt he had to play the role of Rop’s father. The others looked at Julian and me in horror. Rop had in fact said he was cold, but I didn’t intend to leave the window open all night. I said as much. Julian didn’t respond. He just stared at me, leaving no doubt that he expected more.

  I went back and shut the window, perhaps louder than needed. Then I left the room.

  That evening made clear how quickly the mood could turn sour.

  I bought some swimming trunks and goggles and submerged myself in the warm water of a nearby outdoor public pool. It was nice only to perceive the outside world—the cries of children, the blubbering of water pumps, the smacking sound of flip-flops approaching and then receding again on the edge of the pool—in muffled, distant form.

  In Iceland, people go to outdoor pools even when temperatures are freezing. There’s no need to worry about heating costs. Volcanic springs bring bath-temperature water to the surface of the earth. The atmosphere of the dark, evaporating water at sundown and the view to the right and left of the snow-covered peaks were almost mystical.

  All around the pool, in the changing rooms, the showers, and even in the toilets, there were signs with every sort of instruction imaginable. DON’T DIVE FROM THE POOL EDGE. DON’T SWIM ON A FULL STOMACH. CAUTION: SLIPPERY. PLEASE KEEP THINGS TIDY. NAKED SHOWERS REQUIRED BEFORE SWIMMING. Sometimes the other guys—chiefly Rop and Folkert—came along with me, and we’d start messing about with ideas. Rop suggested that we start a campaign demanding safety for everything. We should insist that the entire world be plastered with signs and stickers for even the minutest detail. The politicians would be completely swamped with this task, rocked to their foundations. It would be a particularly congenial way of creating anarchy.