Julian Assange - WikiLeaks (3 page)

Christine eventually ran away with her two sons. She made them move often, changing cities and even names. They were hunted down by Christine's ex-husband as well as by social security.

Julian went from school to school to escape his stepfather. His ability to adapt was remarkable, as he didn't seem to be affected by this unusual lifestyle. Some people think that changing schools was terrible, but he actually liked it. He liked life on the road, just like his mother. Julian's ancestors on his mother's side came to Australia in the mid-nineteenth century from Scotland and Ireland looking for land to farm. Assange suspected half-jokingly that his inclination to wander was genetic. In any case, it was a lifestyle he'd known since childhood. Not worrying about
change, appreciating this perpetual discovery and rediscovery of landscapes and of his environment.

When Julian would grow up, he would learn that traveling was a passion of his. He would go on to change residences every six weeks if things got slow.

As a child, he couldn't stand injustice. He would get angry when a gang of kids would attack a kid who was by himself. He was one of those kids who would let spiders run when all the other kids just wanted to stomp on them.

After Christine left Brett, she moved with little Jules five thousand kilometers south, to the city of Lismore. He went to Goolmangar Primary school not far from there. Goolmangar was a relatively rural town, surrounded by endless fields. He had a hard time fitting in at the schools he attended and getting along with other pupils, children of farmers with a more down-to-earth attitude than he. To circumvent these problems, Christine would home-school Julian regularly or sign her boys up for correspondence courses. What was important to her was that her sons' personalities were not damaged by the school system. She already taught them not to blindly follow authority figures.

Julian therefore developed a solid personality, not too distant from others, but truly self-centered. He spent hours reading in libraries. He literally devoured every book he could get his hands on, one after the other. He noted certain sentences, turned them into slogans, building his own bible of ideas and deep convictions.

Understand, cross and think.

Before he turned fourteen years old, he had already attended thirty-seven schools. At that time he was living in the suburbs of Melbourne, in front of a computer equipment store. It was in that store that Julian wrote his first programs. Christine didn't have the means to buy him his own computer, but his newfound passion and affinity would see him spending several hours a week
on the store's computers. Finally, Christine bought him his first used Commodore 64. He'd soon be able to get into well-known programs where programmers had left hidden messages.

He developed a fatal attraction for computers. Nothing was simpler than a computer. If it made a mistake, it meant you messed up. It was not because it didn't like you, or it felt threatened by you, or because you were a little rascal, or because it didn't like to teach or that you shouldn't be there. All you have to do is play.

And cracking a program was like playing chess. It was an uncompromising game with simple rules. There was nothing left to chance and the problem was very complicated. Exactly the type of challenges Julian needed.

The young Julian lived his life as an outsider. A small group of them felt this way, angry at the dominant culture and proudly determined to cause problems to all those right-thinking minds.

In 1987, at sixteen, Julian got a modem that allowed him to convert his computer into a portal. Back then you could buy a modem for eighty dollars. It was the device of choice for real computer enthusiasts. Websites didn't exist yet, but the Internet had been in use since 1984 and one thousand computers were connected to it around the world, mostly universities and government sites.

While some Australian kids were playing with Flight Simulator, others were trying to set up computer networks. Julian was one of those kids.

He spent countless hours in front of his computer, learning different systems, understanding them and improving them.

He got a reputation as a programmer capable of cracking the most secure systems. He had yet to realize that for some people he was like a masked avenger of the truth. He ironically chose his handle inspired by a formula of the Roman poet Horace,
splendide
mendax
, meaning ‘nobly untruthful.' Was it possible to hide the truth for a just cause? That was the main issue preoccupying Julian when he was sixteen. He'd already answered this with a ‘no.' Nobody could judge what was right or wrong for someone else. That's the way he operated, code name
Mendax
.

Élise turned on the electric heating and drew some water for a bath. Her body was aching for a really hot bath, just the way she liked it. She slowly took off her clothes, starting with her turtleneck, and massaged her shoulders. Then she unbuttoned her jeans and wiggled her hips out of them. The clothes piled up on the floor like a skin being shed. A beige top fell onto a blue sweater, with delicate socks and white underwear topping off the small mound. She breathed and smiled. She was finally alone.

She slowly stepped into the bathtub, aware of how her skin would react when it would touch the steaming hot bath.

She slid into the bathtub and let the water come up to her ears. It was like being in a hyperbaric chamber: the noise outside disappeared and no longer held any meaning. Her body calmly floated up and down in the bathtub to the rhythm of her breathing. She let her mind wander. The world no longer existed; Élise didn't exist. She was just an extension of the water that first carried her and then absorbed her.

To get rid of a tear in her eye, she plunged her face in the water. Little pleasures, regrets, the past and happy moments flashed through her head, nothing that could really be expressed, just emotions.

She washed herself with orchid-scented shower gel and let the enticing aroma take her away. She imagined herself surrounded by flowers, closed her eyes and took a deep breath.

She naturally crossed her arms over her chest, and then opened her eyes. Her foot slid along the side of the bathtub and grabbed the small chain with the plug between her toes. Her skin turned slightly red due to the hot water. She breathed in the orchid fragrance still in the air. The bathroom mirror was fogged up. Time stood still. She instinctively yanked the small chain in one go, and the atmosphere in the bathroom changed. The water started draining very loudly, the noise outside could be heard again and the bathtub emptied out. She tried to hold back time by sitting still. Now that the bathtub had become a cold and hard nest with no more water in it, it was time to get out.

She slipped into polar fleece pajamas and picked out a pair of pink socks to liven up her outfit. She got out of the bathroom smelling nice, with her workday behind her. She went to the kitchen to put together a tray of food and brought it into the living room a few minutes later. It featured a lentil salad, a slice of bread with cheese, plain yoghurt and an apple. It was 7:45 p.m. on November 5, 2010. She turned on the TV and noticed that Julian Assange was a guest on TSR, the French-language Swiss television network.

The journalist introduced the interview by talking about battling the United States. Élise smiled when she heard that. Was it possible for a single man to fight against this superpower? She knew a bit about the WikiLeaks movement, but nothing about its spokesperson. Xavier would talk to her about it once in a while until about four months ago, just before they broke up. She remembered him mentioning the movement by explaining that it wants to release information by revealing state secrets and the secrets of banks and large organizations. They leak thousands of
documents on their website for anyone to read. Even newspapers use the site to supply citizens with information.

To be honest, before that night, November 5, 2010, she was never interested in WikiLeaks, because Xavier was spending too much time in front of his computer. Her battle was directed at WikiLeaks and its hackers-journalists-ideologists who believed they could change the world by broadcasting information over the Internet.

They advocated total freedom of the press and massive broadcasting of raw information. That was pretty much all she knew since she had never visited their site. She mostly remembered having to go to bed alone because Xavier was always glued to his computer for whatever information the world needed. She saw him again in her mind with a vacant look and remembered how he tried to explain to her his level of commitment. Every time he tried, she thwarted his attempts with a pithy remark. She felt as though she were competing with the movement. Xavier was so absorbed by his mission and so enthusiastic about the idea of being on the right track. Their relationship broke down; she began to feel inadequate, she neglected to show him how much she really cared about their staying together. When he started to travel last spring, she fought her final battle.

“If you leave, we'll have to break up...”

“Élise, this is way too important, it's really going to change things.”

“What about us? We need to change things too...”

“Listen, I can explain some stuff to you so you'll understand.”

“I don't want to hear about this anymore, Xavier.”

She lost the war and Xavier went on a trip for WikiLeaks. He returned on April 5, 2010 and moved out of the apartment on June 6, 2010. They politely divided up the stuff they had bought together. She kept the bedroom, while Xavier took the
living room. They each had their own desk, and the rest was just junk. During the summer, Élise bought a white couch and a square coffee table. She also bought herself a small brown leather armchair that matched the rest of the furniture. She felt comfortable in this place that she could now call home. She had changed so much in the past four months.

She focused on the staging of the news. The journalist was at ease and smiled when he greeted Julian Assange. Julian was almost filmed from behind, and Élise noticed that he repositioned himself slightly on his chair when the host said his name. His back seemed stiff, and except for his nod to the journalist, Élise felt that he was in control of every move he made. The camera turned and she finally saw Julian's face.

He was very pale, despite the TV make-up. His forehead was large and high. His hair, which seemed colored, was combed back, accentuating the size of his forehead. His gray eyes stared at the journalist and a small unemotional smile appeared on his face. Élise studied the man carefully, to better understand his secrets. He blinked often, as if he were nervous. His facial expression stayed the same until he started talking about information. At that very moment, his smile disappeared and he seemed to be expressing things that were fundamentally important. After all, he had revealed more scoops in a few weeks than the
Washington Post
had in the past thirty years.

While Julian talked live, words danced in Élise's head. “Revelations, documents, small organization, important issues, Afghanistan, Russia, Europe, money laundering, etc.” They were all words she'd heard Xavier use before.

It was as if she were hypnotized by this man on TV. Hypnotized by the world he exposed without emotion. It had a taste of reality. A world beyond daily life. Could it be possible that he was involved in this solely to inform citizens? What was his secret?

She suddenly realized what kind of world she'd been living in: a world ignorant of the international stage, their affairs and undersides. She believed in truisms almost automatically these days: ‘The world is corrupt,' ‘Politicians are all the same, six of one and half a dozen of the other,' ‘We can't possibly do anything at our level, so there's no use talking about it,' etc.

She discovered a man who seemed to be slowly heading toward his obsession: revealing the secrets of the world's most powerful authorities to the world. And that evening, she realized that she wanted to know more. Who was this man? What was his message? Was he really what he appeared to be? Was he some kind of modern-day avenger? For a split second, Élise wondered if she was dealing with reality. She pictured herself in a spy movie, chased by American henchmen. So who was this Jason Bourne guy?

Julian was explaining how dangerous his actions were. He had to change residences, didn't stay in hotels and kept changing phone numbers. He lived like a fugitive. Who wanted to kill off Jason Bourne?

Suddenly her heart started beating faster and she felt a bit queasy when Julian explained that WikiLeaks' actions were not only dangerous for him, but also for the volunteers who worked with him. At that moment, she picked up the phone and dialed Xavier's number without thinking.

Three rings...

“Damn, voicemail,” she thought to herself.

“Friends and enemies, this is Xavier's voicemail. Leave a message, whoever you are and I'll call you back.”

“Xavier, it's me. I just saw an interview with Julian Assange on TSR and I thought of you. I don't know what to say, but I'd like to hear from you, to make sure everything's OK with you. Call me.”

She hung up, a bit disappointed. The queasy feeling was still there. Where was Xavier?

How many times had they called each other over the last four months? The first month they talked about dividing up the furniture many times. And since neither one of them wanted to end up together at parties hosted by friends, they would call to check before embarrassing anyone by both showing up. The following month, they weren't invited to the same parties and didn't have any reason to call each other up anymore. That evening she just wanted to talk, find out where he was and what he was doing: work, the organization, his involvement.

“I think people are at their best when they have a real passion for something and I'm very lucky,” said Julian Assange to the journalist.

Élise felt like she was hearing Xavier when he tried to explain to her that he didn't need to sleep eight hours a day and that spending a few hours at night in front of the computer was a better use of his time.