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[Declan McCullagh: "A List Goes Down In Flames," from Netly]
Date: Wed, 12 Feb 1997 21:24:37 -0800 (PST)
From: Declan McCullagh <[email protected]>
To: [email protected]
The Netly News Network
http://netlynews.com/
A List Goes Down In Flames
by Declan McCullagh ([email protected])
February 12, 1997
The plan for the cypherpunks mailing list was simple. It was to be
an online gathering place, an intellectual mosh pit, dedicated to the
free flow of ideas and personal privacy through encryption.
Of course it caught on. From its modest beginnings connecting a
few friends who lived in Northern California, it quickly grew into one
of the most rowdy, volatile lists on the Net: Cypherpunks typically
piped more than 100 messages a day into the mailboxes of nearly 2,000
subscribers. And the list became a kind of crypto-anarchist utopia.
Populated by pseudonymous posters with names like Black Unicorn, it
was a corner of cyberspace where PGP signatures and digital cash were
the norm -- and there were no rules. Then yesterday came the news: The
list was being evicted and faced imminent shutdown.
In an e-mail seen 'round the Net, John Gilmore, Electronic
Frontier Foundation cofounder and list maintainer, announced that he
was no longer willing to provide a virtual home for the cypherpunks.
In a post entitled "Put Up or Shut Up," he described how his efforts
to improve the list through moderation were condemned, how technical
problems were consuming more of his time, how pranksters had tried to
subscribe the entire U.S. Congress to the list. How this experiment in
crypto-anarchy had failed. He gave the cypherpunks 10 days to find new
lodgings.
"The last straw for me was seeing the reaction of the list to
every attempt to improve it. It was to carp, to cut it down, to say
you're doing everything wrong," Gilmore told me yesterday night. One
of the first employees of Sun, Gilmore quit after eight years -- a
millionaire more interested in pursuing ideas than dollars. But his
experiment with the list has left him weary. "If everything I'm doing
is wrong, I'm clearly not the right person to host the list," he said.
"I would like to see some other structure in which the positive
interactions on the list could continue. I'm not trying to create that
structure anymore," he added. Instead, he would try the only true
crypto-anarchist solution: "I'm handing it over to members to do what
they wish with it."
The cypherpunks first pierced the public's consciousness when
Wired magazine splashed them across the cover of the second issue. The
Whole Earth Review and the Village Voice followed soon after. The name
"cypherpunk" came to be synonymous with a brash young breed of
digerati who were intent on derailing the White House's encryption
policies and conquering cyberspace. This was crypto with an attitude.
Gilmore was typical of the breed. Monthly Bay Area meetings of the
'punks were held in the offices of Cygnus, a company he started to
provide support for the free Unix alternative, GNU.
But the veteran cypherpunk came under heavy fire in November 1996,
when a loudmouthed flamer flooded the list with flame bait and ad
hominem attacks on various members. Finally, Gilmore, ironically, gave
him the boot -- and incited an all-consuming debate over what the
concept of censorship means in a forum devoted to opposing it. In a
society of crypto-anarchists, who should make the rules? The mailing
list melted down. By last month, it seemed, more messages complained
about censorship than discussed crypto.
Indeed, for months Gilmore seemed unable to do anything right. He
tried moderation, which proved to be even more contentious, raising
the question of empowering one cypherpunk to decide what was
appropriate for others to read. One member of the group, in effect,
would be more equal than the rest. And why would members take the time
to write elaborate, thoughtful articles on crypto-politics if their
treatises might not make it past the moderator's keyboard?
After the expulsion, some of the longtime list denizens left
angrily, joining the 700 subscribers who had departed since the
controversy began. One of those was Tim C. May, a crusty former Intel
engineer who prides himself as the organizer of the first cypherpunk
meeting in September 1992. In an essay summarizing the reasons for his
departure, he wrote: "The proper solution to bad speech is more
speech, not censorship. Censorship just makes opponents of 'speech
anarchy' happy -- it affirms their basic belief that censors are
needed."
After all, May pointed out, the list ended up on Gilmore's
toad.com machine only by happenstance -- it almost was housed on a
workstation at the University of California at Berkeley. Ownership of
the computer with the database of subscribers did not mean that
Gilmore owned the cypherpunks. "Whatever our group once was, or still
is, is not dependent on having a particular mailing list running on
someone's home machine... and it cannot be claimed that any person
'owns' the cypherpunks group," May wrote.
The cypherpunks have responded to Gilmore's eviction notice. List
participants generally have halted the incessant attacks on Gilmore,
and now the discussion has turned to how to continue this experiment
in online anarchy -- while preventing one person from ever again
having absolute control of the List. Within hours of Gilmore's
announcement, posters were tossing around ideas of a distributed
network of mailing lists that would carry the cypherpunk name, and
other 'punks likely will migrate to the more tightly controlled
coderpunks and cryptography lists.
But for the true believers in crypto-anarchy, only one solution is
adequate: Usenet. "There is no 'nexus' of control, no chokepoint, no
precedent... for halting distribution of Usenet newsgroups," Tim May
wrote. That, in the end, is what defines a cypherpunk.
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