Emailing a Dictator: Childhood Adventures and Unexpected Visitors

You might assume that my escapade with the White House bunker phone line was my sole encounter with individuals in black suits during my childhood. However, you’d be mistaken.

For a considerable time, I’d been clandestinely tapping into internet access via my local public library. Then, a game-changer emerged: an internet email service arrived in our area that bypassed long-distance charges and the dreaded hourly fees.

Accessing the full breadth of the internet through JUNO was out of the question, but it did grant me the ability to create a free email account and engage with others through the platform. While I continued to utilize the local library’s Telnet system for internet browsing, JUNO provided a reliable means of communication without the looming threat of losing my internet privileges.

However, JUNO came with its fair share of limitations. Messages were restricted to a specific file size, capped at around 35kB. Moreover, the connection served solely for emails and fetching advertisements for the JUNO client. Even for minor email exchanges, the connection lingered for several minutes longer to refresh these ads.

Fortunately, my parents were acquainted with JUNO; the computer coordinator from my elementary school had distributed a letter encouraging parents to sign up for the service. It presented a cost-free avenue for the school to communicate with families, aligning with the ethos of the school’s computer initiative. Hence, the sight of the JUNO icon on the desktop didn’t raise any red flags for my parents. Nevertheless, I remained cautious, ensuring to clear my username from the session before they returned to the computer.

Little did they know, JUNO served a dual purpose for me. Beyond its intended use, it became a smokescreen for my clandestine library internet sessions. The dialup noise was me simply checking the JUNO for them. By feigning JUNO usage, I could discreetly slip away into the world of online exploration without arousing suspicion.

Moreover, checking the JUNO email provided an additional layer of security. It allowed me to intercept any messages from school officials regarding my conduct. Though none ever arrived, I was prepared for any eventuality.

In essence, JUNO wasn’t just an email service; it was my ticket to a covert online existence.

Amidst my cyber explorations on directory websites, I found myself irresistibly drawn into the enchanting realm of foreign web domains. Determined to transcend language barriers, I embarked on a journey across continents, immersing myself in the digital landscapes of far-flung countries. In an era bereft of Google Translate or Babel Fish, navigating foreign content demanded resourcefulness. Yet, armed with astute observations, like English document names nestled within foreign interfaces—such as “home.html” amidst unfamiliar characters—I forged ahead undeterred.

From French to Spanish, and beyond, each click uncovered a trove of cultural treasures. However, it was my venture into Middle Eastern cyberspace that truly enthralled me. Despite encountering mere boxes on my screen due to lacking language support, my fascination remained undiminished.

Delving into the depths of the internet, I stumbled upon a fascinating realm of foreign languages, each character like a piece of art on my screen. Intrigued by the mystery of it all, I saved countless sites to my bookmarks, eager to uncover their secrets.

But there was a barrier – the unfamiliar characters rendered as mere boxes on my screen, a frustrating obstacle to my quest for knowledge. Undeterred, I embarked on a mission to unlock the full potential of these websites, even if I couldn’t decipher their contents.

I wasn’t able to change the display but I pushed forward anyways.

With trepidation, I contemplated changing the language settings on my trusty Windows 95 system, fearful of irreversibly altering its familiar interface. Yet, my thirst for discovery outweighed my hesitation, and I pressed on, navigating through cyberspace with determination.

As fate would have it, I stumbled upon websites hosted by the government of Iraq. Memories of past conflicts flickered in my mind, fueling my curiosity about the enigmatic figure of Saddam Hussein and the geopolitical landscape of the region.

An aspiring journalist even in my youth, I saw an opportunity to gain insight into the workings of power, to understand the perspectives of those embroiled in the tumult of global affairs. What better subject for an interview than Saddam himself?

Scouring these websites, I hunted for elusive email addresses, each one a potential gateway to the inner sanctum of Iraqi governance. In an age before the ubiquity of email-scraping bots, these addresses were often laid bare for the world to see, offering a tantalizing glimpse into the corridors of power.

After immersing myself in the labyrinth of Iraqi websites, I unearthed an email address that seemed to lead directly to the corridors of power. With trembling fingers, I composed a humble missive, expressing my youthful curiosity and earnest desire to engage in dialogue with Saddam Hussein himself. With a mix of excitement and trepidation, I hit send, never truly expecting a response.

Weeks turned into months, and the digital void remained eerily silent. Disheartened but undeterred, I resigned myself to the reality that my bold inquiry had likely vanished into the ether, a mere whisper in the cacophony of global affairs.

Then, one fateful day, a sharp rap at the door shattered the tranquility of our home. My heart lurched as I beheld the ominous sight of men in dark suits, their stern expressions belying the gravity of their purpose. I had already seen men like this at the door in the past, so I knew. With a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach, I watched as they presented my mother with a piece of paper, a tangible testament to the consequences of my online exploits.

How did they know? I was adept at tracing emails, mapping their journey through the labyrinth of machines across the internet by dissecting email headers. Yet, even with this knowledge, the fundamental question lingered: how did they become aware of the emails in the first place?

From a young age, I harbored suspicions about government surveillance, intuitively sensing that certain triggers might draw their attention. However, when I voiced these concerns to adults, they dismissed them as “tin foil talk,” assuring me that the government couldn’t possibly sift through every digital communication.

I initially accepted their explanation, reasoning that it seemed logical. Yet, upon further reflection, I realized that it wasn’t necessary for them to scrutinize every message; they only needed to flag those that met specific criteria or patterns.

Consider emailing someone deemed an adversary of the United States – surely that would set off alarms somewhere. As a child, I hadn’t contemplated such scenarios, but the truth gradually dawned on me.

I’ll never forget the moment my parents confronted me, their expressions a mix of concern and disbelief as they brandished a printed copy of an email I hadn’t even known existed. How had this JUNO email address surfaced, and why was it associated with me? They had a JUNO address but it wasn’t this one.

Their questions came fast and furious, each one hitting me like a wave of uncertainty. How had I stumbled upon this mysterious email address without internet access? How long had I been covertly exploring the online realm? Did I understand the potential consequences of communicating with individuals from countries considered adversaries? Did I comprehend the gravity of treason?

Their inquiries left me reeling, forced to confront the stark reality of my actions and the implications they carried.

Despite the scrutiny and pressure, I remained undeterred. In my mind, this was a free country, and my actions didn’t seem unlawful or deserving of such intense scrutiny. I was keenly aware of my First Amendment rights; I had pored over the Constitution at the library, absorbing its principles to the best of my ability.

The librarians, all staunch libertarians, had been invaluable mentors. They emphasized the importance of personal freedoms and warned against government overreach, even recounting tales of past surveillance attempts to monitor patrons’ reading habits.

While I didn’t consider myself naïve, my parents viewed my actions through a different lens. Though they never explicitly called me stupid, their disapproval spoke volumes. To them, my behavior seemed reckless and foolhardy, a sentiment that echoed in their words and actions.

Their questions intensified as they pressed me about the origins of the email address from Iraq. Initially, I attempted to deflect, claiming to have stumbled upon it during one of our library visits. However, they quickly debunked this alibi, pointing out that we hadn’t been to the library recently. It became evident that they suspected I had accessed the internet elsewhere, beyond the confines of the library or school.

Realizing the futility of further denial, I confessed to accessing the internet through the library’s card catalog connection. Their confusion was palpable, and they demanded a demonstration. Leading them to the computer, I logged into the system, launched a browser, and navigated to a website—likely one affiliated with Yahoo, given my penchant for their directory.

Their expressions morphed from disbelief to awe as I showcased my internet prowess. In that moment, their initial anger seemed to dissipate, replaced by a burgeoning concern that the library might take issue with my unauthorized internet use. I reassured them that the library stood for freedom, and I trusted they wouldn’t object to my online endeavors.

However, their leniency didn’t last long. They promptly disconnected the phone line from the computer, effectively cutting off my internet access. I found myself grounded from using the computer for leisure activities, a punishment that felt interminable in my youthful perspective. Initially, they supervised my computer time diligently, but as weeks passed, their vigilance waned, preoccupied with their own responsibilities.

Predictably, they repurposed the phone line to use JUNO for themselves, temporarily halting my internet escapades. However, I swiftly identified the location where the phone line was concealed in the house, laying the groundwork for my future schemes. With each passing day, I concocted elaborate plans to regain access to the internet: sneaking to retrieve the phone line, stealthily plugging it in, and silencing the modem dial-up noises. But that, my friend, is a story for another time.

I never did hear from those Iraqis, and a sense of betrayal lingered, fueled by unfounded suspicions that they might have somehow exposed my internet activities, though such a scenario seemed highly improbable.