Julian Assange - WikiLeaks (2 page)

The army of truth warriors has risen. Today it's up to us, the foot soldiers, to choose our rank instead of being part of the silent majority: those without the strength to choose, the ghosts of this world.

Is Julian Assange facing his final ordeal? Can we rightfully call him a hero? It's up to you, the readers, to decide.

We must endure sufferings that surpass the strength of human nature unless we put up with disgraceful actions

–Euripides

Monday, December 6, 2010, an unlikely time of the evening.

Julian was perfectly still in front of his computer, with the exception of his tapping feet. Sue was standing next to him, watching the screen. She touched the keyboard from time to time so that it wouldn't go into sleep mode.

When Vaughan walked into the room, she looked at him questioningly. “Don't look surprised, he's always like that when he's focused,” he said.

Vaughan suddenly got the impression that he was in the way, but Julian smiled at him. Julian was really good at that: he made you feel like you were very important to him, while most people in his situation would be way too preoccupied to let you know you were even remotely important. Vaughan greatly appreciated that character trait.

Vaughan Smith was Julian's host since he had arrived in the United Kingdom. He invited Julian to stay at his beautiful ten-bedroom, Georgian manor as a place of residence, so that Julian could be released on bail.

Vaughan Smith was a forty-seven-year-old British citizen. He served as an officer in the British Army's Grenadier Guards, the same regiment as his father. He became a pioneer of independent video journalism in the 1990s and worked as a war correspondent
in places like Iraq, Afghanistan, Bosnia, Kosovo, etc. To ensure coverage of these conflicts, he founded a freelance agency with three other journalists called Frontline News TV to represent the interests of young video journalists and promote their work. In 2003, he continued his activities in favor of independent journalism by creating the Frontline Club whose goal was to promote a better understanding of international information.

Vaughan was not for or against what Julian did, but when he saw him at the hands of the British authorities, he decided to make sure he was not denied any of his basic rights. And it was this decision that would have Julian experience the most unusual Christmas holiday ever.

It all started with the evening's setting: everyone was huddled around a computer, talking via Skype to Mark Stephens, one of Julian's lawyers in London.

Julian was constantly in front of the computer, completely engrossed and impossible to interrupt. Vaughan tried to think of a way to lighten the mood; he pictured himself waltzing into the huge dining room in a clown costume singing Christmas carols. However, he knew that Julian wouldn't pay any attention to this clowning around in his honor. Julian had his own special way of being hypnotized by the screen, but when someone said hi to him nicely, he would stop whatever he was doing and spend half an hour chatting.

Mark explained the situation, and everyone listened carefully.

When the call was finished, Julian got up and walked to the mantle. He stared at the flames dancing in the fireplace. At that very moment, he was a thousand miles away from the eighteenth-century manor. Friends and sympathizers present started talking, but the conversation quickly died; as everyone had heard his call with Mark. Julian listened to them and kept quiet. A few of them came up with ideas, and there seemed to be several options, but
like wisps of straw thrown into the fire, Julian burnt them one by one.

He didn't want to act as though he had something to hide. The British police said that they want him and that he would have to report to them.

Sue and the others discussed this option. Vaughan grabbed his camera and started filming them preparing the logistics. He didn't work for WikiLeaks. He didn't even want to debate whether WikiLeaks was right or wrong. As far as he was concerned, the issue was, above all, about standing up to the tyrant. He still wanted to believe that his historically tolerant country was an independent haven that would remain loyal to its fundamental values.

After a few minutes, Julian plopped down on the couch. He laid down and fell asleep. He had been up for forty-eight hours. Vaughan stopped his camera, as he wouldn't film the instructions or the decisions.

It was a few hours later, and they had to get ready. Mark, and the team entrusted with his defense, had asked Julian to come by at 7 a.m. since he had to report to the police at 9 a.m., and Sue and Jeremy have made desperate attempts to get Julian to hurry. They also wanted to make sure that the mood was as pleasant and relaxed as possible. They joked with him, knowing that he had little time to joke around.

Everyone was exhausted. It was time to get into the car. Sue held back her tears, getting in behind Julian. Vaughan was driving, a heavy silence filled the air, there was tension, but there was also hope that everyone would be back that night.

It was still dark when they got to Mark's place. Vaughan noticed a photographer camped outside the attorney's house, with his camera placed on the trunk of his car. He probably deserved
to get a few pictures, having braved the terrible London morning cold, but he wasn't going to get any. They parked further away.

Mark told them to meet him in a greasy spoon not far from there. They had breakfast in the back room. Julian was very hungry, since he hadn't had dinner the night before. They sat down and before anything else, Mark cut right to the chase:

“The police have switched the police station you have to report on a daily basis,” he said to Julian.

Julian started eating without answering, listening very carefully. Mark's tone was serious, yet comforting. Julian's tension was tangible. Unable to take it anymore, Sue got up and went outside to smoke a cigarette.

Jennifer Robinson joined them a few minutes before they left. The dynamic young woman with blonde hair specialized in media, defamation and human rights. Sue was driving and Vaughan was sitting next to her, while Julian was flanked by his two lawyers. Mark spent most of the trip on the phone, and Julian's eyes were glued to his computer, working on the order statement following the European arrest warrant issued against him.

The screen reflected its familiar glow onto the car's passengers.

Shortly after, Vaughan noticed that the computer was in sleep mode and Julian did nothing to wake it up, his gaze transfixing the gloomy little rectangle. His thoughts darkened at that very moment. His mind was filled with anxious clouds filled with options. Vaughan looked over to the road to try to empathize with Julian's situation.

When they showed up in front of the white building of the London police station on Holmes Road, the effects of this order were not yet clear to Julian.

The blue gate opened. The car passed through it in a split second, a very difficult moment for Julian. Everything flashed through his mind in a whirlwind of emotions; the urge to flee,
mixed with courage and desperation, coupled with unshakable faith. “I did what I had to do.”

The large doors closed. The world shifted. Several faceless police officers surrounded the car. Although the space in the car was limited, the passengers were thoroughly examined. Mark and Julian got out of the car. A woman in uniform pointed out a tiny parking spot to Sue, so small that she had to fight to park the car properly. She was exasperated. She felt a hot flash go up her spine and sweat begin to form under her arms. She would've liked to soften the blow by yelling to the world, “Why make things more difficult than they already are?”

Vaughan and her felt intimidated. Vaughan had often visited police stations and prisons, but he had never felt this uncomfortable. He wondered what his role was at times like these: journalist, accused, friend, or representative of the Frontline Club?

After parking the car, they hurried to join up with Mark and Julian. A policeman clearly read the four Swedish charges. Julian listened to the man without flinching. He had known for a long time that he had lit the fuse of an inevitable explosion: WikiLeaks couldn't be stopped, the spill couldn't be dammed and the leap had been made, no matter what happened to him.

A man facing Justice. The media had often portrayed him as a cold, calculating, almost Machiavellian individual, coming out of hiding like the devil. The main hideout was, of course, the Frontline Club where many members had already had the chance to interview him.

Vaughan considered for a moment the harm the media has done to Julian. They had turned him into the Bin Laden of the Internet. If there was one word that scared everyone, it was the word ‘terrorist.' But that day, the attention was entirely focused on the fight between Julian and the courts, so that nobody focused
on the impervious political systems that the leaks of WikiLeaks had exposed to the light of day.

Who was talking about the real battle of the WikiLeaks man these days? Nobody. Instead, people were talking about a man who was under suspicion and had been accused.

With that kind of media coverage, Julian could no longer be considered an ordinary person. Vaughan had discovered a truly ingenious and obsessed man who was also amusing and knew when to step back and take a look at himself. The revelations of WikiLeaks were like an erupting volcano, and its lava was flowing anywhere and everywhere it could. Vaughan believed that the attack of the authorities was a feeble attempt at best. The victim may have been vulnerable, but his message, already widely broadcast, was ready to be broadcast over and over again.

Vaughan didn't want to give up on Julian. Regardless of how he felt about WikiLeaks, he wanted to believe that his country was ready to fight for fundamental principles like justice, and had decided to join the ranks.

Youth can only assert itself through the conviction that its ventures surpass all others and resemble nothing

–Jean Cocteau

Picture a pale blue sky, a crystal clear sea and a richly diverse collection of flora and fauna off the Great Barrier Reef. Then picture a white sandy beach with bright green trees that contrast the gray rocks beautifully. This little paradise has a predestined name, Magnetic Island, a name it got from Capitan Cook in 1770 because of the magnetic effect the island had on his ship's compass when he was sailing up the Australian coast.

Magnetic Island is located eight kilometers from Townsville, Queensland, on the northeastern coast of Australia. It is a mountainous island of fifty-two square kilometers, a blip on the world map. Nobody ever talks about it: the island is remote and has about two thousand inhabitants. A surfer's paradise, it survives on tourism, thanks to the beauty of its twenty-seven-square-kilometer nature park.

In 1971, Christine Assange came to live on the island with baby Julian Paul. As a single mom, she wanted a simple and natural life for her and her child. She wanted to be free and live without rules. Back then, Magnetic Island was the meeting place for Australian hippies. It was the lifestyle Christine adopted, spending most of her days in a bikini.

Julian and his mother first lived on Picnic Bay beach in a small cottage for twelve dollars a week.

In 1973, Christine started a relationship with touring theater director Brett Assange, the man who became Julian's father for a few years and gave him a family name.

On the beach or in an abandoned farm, Jules, as his mother liked to call him, had a very unrestricted childhood. He was a very active child, who could easily keep busy on his own, like a little Tom Sawyer. He walked around, observed nature, and went fishing. He built rafts and dug wells, and he even had his own horse to gallop through the northeastern Australian nature. He built networks of tunnels and bridges.

One day, he fell from a tree and broke his arm. He lied to his father about how he had hurt himself. His father saw a kind of bravery in Julian's action, but Julian didn't want to show his feelings. He wanted to be stronger than the pain. He thought he fell by mistake. He should have picked better climbing points on the tree.

Brett described him as a very sharp and perceptive child who was very self-assured. Till this day he supports Julian unconditionally, no matter what he does.

The touring theater life, which Christine adhered to, meant moving around a lot. They had a nonconformist, bohemian lifestyle. Together Brett and Christine set up small, eccentric theater productions, specializing in puppets. Barely more than five years old, Julian had fun taking apart and putting together video and audio equipment, spotlights and all kinds of things Brett brought home. Brett saw that Julian was different from other kids, sometimes capable of violent, angry outbursts.

Brett was a kind father, but he had a drinking problem. Some time after Julian turned nine, Christine finally decided to end
her relationship with Brett. She then started dating an amateur musician with whom she had a rocky relationship.

Christine remarried the alleged son of Anne Hamilton-Byrne who was running a sect known as the Santiniketan Park Association in Australia. She had his child, a son. In 1982, the couple split up and argued over custody of Julian's half-brother. Christine wanted to protect her children from this violent man. Moreover, she knew how the sect operates. Anne Hamilton-Byrne was then ‘in possession' of fourteen children that she totally cut off from the world, drug them on a regularly basis to keep calm and starve them in order to control them. Christine knew from her boyfriend that Anne harshly disciplined the children and beat them often.

Julian was always scared of this manipulative man that he would eventually call a ‘dangerous psychopath.' To avoid getting on his stepfather's bad side, he often kept quiet and observed him, as if he were fascinated. The man had no less that five ID cards in a wallet, ready to use. He created his life like patchwork, his life story, and even the city where he was born.