Well lads, itâs time to stop shitposting and time to make a real-life effort post.
This statement comes from a post on the white-supremacist and child-porn haven, 8chan, before the terrorist attack on the 15th of March 2019 targeting the Al-Noor Mosque and Linwood Avenue Islamic Centre in Christchurch, Aotearoa-New Zealand.1 The terror attack was incubated in online spaces and spoke back to them, inspiring a series of further terror attacks around the world which made references to it in different ways, some oblique and some very directly. The consequences of online abuse and harassment have never stayed online. The Christchurch attacks are one of the most visible tips of an iceberg which has existed for many years, despite being seen as just a âvirtualâ problem and not being taken seriously by law enforcement and legal systems around the world (Citron 2014, 100â102; DePass 2016; Elwell 2014; Golding and Van Deventer 2016, 51, 98; Lehdonverta 2010; Phillips 2015a, 41; Shaw 2014; Shepherd et al. 2015). It is tempting to conclude that the Christchurch attacks and other online-originated harassment campaigns2 that extend fingers into the real world are a new development. However, they have a long history, and although we have definitely seen an increase in the amount of abuse online, the escalations in organisation applied to delivering that abuse are more impactful than the rise in volume in itself.
This chapter will contextualise the history of online harassment, exploring the ways that it is part of broader cultures of harassment which happen to play out in online spaces, and will discuss case studies from the ongoing harassment campaigns which became both more organised and more visible over the last decade.
Contextualising Online Abuse and the Breadth of Harassment Culture
Abuse and harassment are so ubiquitous online that for decades anyone who does not like it has been told to toughen up or get off the internet (Citron 2014, 79â80). Kathy Sierra was systematically terrorised in 2004, and after she discussed her harassment, a neo-Nazi serial-harasser posted her social security number and home address online (Citron 2014, 35â39; Sierra 2014). In 2006, after the suicide of 13-year-old Mitchell Henderson, 4chan unleashed coordinated harassment on his family because the online community collectively known as Anonymous found the circumstances surrounding the death amusingâwith at least one member of Anonymous going so far as to physically visit Mitchellâs grave (Phillips 2015a, 28â29). Since 2010, online memorials for people who have died have been lightning rods for abuse (Phillips 2010, 2015a, 71â94). The possibility of being targeted by forces seeking to reach out and damage your ability to live your life has been part of the background-radiation of existing online for decadesâalthough it is not background-radiation that affects everyone equally.
Cultures of abuse online disproportionately target anyone identifiable as not being a white, straight, cisgender man (Banet-Weiser
2015; Citron
2014, 13â15; Condis
2015,
2018; Massanari
2015,
2018; Phillips
2015a, 42, 53, 164;
2015b). The cultural bones of the internet are built up of technolibertarian
/utopian
ideals of freedom which argue everyone is equal (and equally âdisembodiedâ) in online spaces,
3 and this flows into gaming contexts as well (Condis
2015, 201, 206â7; Lindbergh
2020; Massanari
2015, 5; Shepherd et al.
2015, 4; Turner
2006). Rubin et al. argue that this framework allows social media platforms and technology companies to hide behind a âfaçade of neutralityâ that ignores disparate impact on marginalised groups (Rubin et al.
2020, 1). These assumptions imply that since everyone is equal, anyone drawing attention to the fact that they are not a white, straight, cisgender man is inauthentic, since they are âchoosingâ to be more invested in that facet of their identity than in being a gamer or a citizen of the web (Citron
2014, 78).
Megan Condis highlights the tensions produced by these assumptions in exploring conflict tied to the censorship of terms like âgayâ and âlesbianâ on the forums for
Star Wars: The Old Republic (SW:TOR)
.TOR fans argued over whether an online game is an appropriate venue to discuss the sexual politics and the problem of heteronormativity in virtual worlds. What was often framed by the participants as a benevolent desire to prevent political and ideological conflict from leaking into gaming and ruining its unique attractions manifested as the maintenance of a heterocentric power structure. True gamers and fans are assumed to be straight (or, if they are queer, it is assumed that they will remain in the closet while participating in the gaming forum), and out queer gamers and their allies are flagged as disruptive and harmful interlopers. This stance implies that BioWare would be doing its real fans (the ones they rely on to sustain their profit margins) a disservice were it to cater to the desires of queer players by making the forum community queer friendly. A similar debate arose 2 years later when BioWare made the decision to include gay male romance options in their popular single player role-playing game franchise, Dragon Age. (Condis 2015, 199â200)
As Condis identifies, one of the assumptions tied to the theoretical equality of online and gaming spaces is that they are â
apolitical,â meaning that anyone seeking to change the representational dynamics in those spaces is âbringing in politicsâ to an otherwise politically neutral environment.
4 These assumptions lead to the conclusion that anyone seeking change is not authentic and is dragging unwanted politics in from âoutsideâ (Beauchamp and Condis
2019; Condis
2019)âand must be resisted, particularly when those conversations seem to be resulting in some changes to the culture (Golding and Van Deventer
2016, 130â31).
Any change from the status quo represents a threat, regardless of its context, scope or scale. If it comes from âoutside,â it must be resisted (Beauchamp and Condis 2019; Condis 2019). Part of the reasoning behind this involves an understanding that culture is a âzero-sumâ game where no compromise is possible and where progress in one area requires defeats in another (Shepherd et al. 2015, 4â5). Mia Consalvo discusses this logic in the context of videogames culture, although I argue that it is a representative example of react...