When the Andersons fled Iowa City in 2022, they joined a growing group of American families escaping states that have become hostile for transgender communities. How many more will there be, and what about the people who can’t leave the places they feel threatened?
According to a June 2023 polling report by the think tank Data For Progress, 8 percent of transgender adults have moved out of communities or states because of the uptick in anti-trans legislation, and another 43 percent have considered doing so. GoFundMe data provided to ELLE found a 520 percent increase from May 2022 to May 2023 in fundraisers helping transgender residents looking to relocate from the state of Florida, which has enacted six anti-LGBTQ+ bills into law in 2023, including bans on gender-affirming care.
After the Texas Department of Family and Protective Services announced in February 2022 that it would begin investigating any reported instances of transgender children receiving gender-affirming health care, which Governor Greg Abbott deemed “child abuse” in a letter to DFPS, Kimberly Shappley began to fear what would happen to her own 11-year-old transgender daughter, Kai, who went viral for protesting anti-trans legislation in Texas when she was just 10 years old. “I just kept thinking that if they take our kids, no matter how mad people are, nobody is going to be able to come help us,” Shappley says. “And if they [did] come for our kids, do I have the money that it would take to fight this in court?”
In August 2022, the family sold their home in Austin and moved to Connecticut. Kai feels much safer, but the adjustment hasn’t been easy. “We’re homesick,” Shappley says through tears. “We didn’t leave Texas because I had some great job offer. We didn’t leave Texas because we had family we wanted to be closer to. We fled the government of Texas. We are refugees in our own country.”
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In 1995, a curator at the New York State Museum opened a door in an attic of the soon-to-close Willard Asylum for the Insane and found hundreds of suitcases. The cases once belonged to people institutionalized at Willard, and they contained books, photos, letters, and other personal items. They have since inspired a photographer, a poet, and other artists, while also raising questions about the uses and abuses of historical archives, particularly ones pertaining to medicine:
Usually, hearing of other people’s secrets and private lives held a special kind of pleasure. This, after all, is one reason why we read novels or listen to gossip: to experience an interior life other than our own. My fascination with the people who lived at Willard wasn’t without some salacious curiosity and an expectation that their lives, presumably more extreme, more vivid than mine, were worthy of art.
But from an ethical standpoint, was it right to transform into art the lives of those who suffered quietly for so many years? What was the cost to the patient when photographs were taken, poetry written, song cycles composed, magazine essays published? Was I taking narrative pleasure from Freda B.’s suffering? Or was Crispin right in his belief that the primary emotional relationship that most people feel when they look at the suitcases is empathy? And what to do with the fact that Freda B. herself had no choice in the decision to photograph her suitcase, to have her personal effects displayed for everyone to see?
Empathy was an aesthetic term before it was a psychological one. The German word Einfühlung was once used to describe the feeling of emotional resonance with a piece of art, of knowing it from within. In the early 20th century, English-speaking psychiatrists translated the word to empathy, expanding its meaning to include the sense of feeling one’s way into the experience of another. Psychologists long believed that empathy was an inborn, fixed trait. More recent research suggests that it is a competency that can be strengthened or weakened with experience or training. Meditation can increase empathy. So can reading novels.
My whole life, I’ve believed that all of us share a few essential desires, fears, and perceptual experiences of being human. Our differences, I’ve always thought, were the result of differing life circumstances, which shape our preferences, our style, and our narratives. I have persisted in this belief because it has allowed me to imagine the possibility that I could understand other people, that we could be decipherable to one another. Someone told me once that sharing your life with a partner is consolation for only being allowed to live one life. That when you know someone else intimately, when you participate in the daily joy and sadness that person feels, it is as close as you can come to living more than one life. It seems to me that we need that consolation many times over, in many forms.
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As reported in December 2023, 93 percent of Gaza residents—more than two million people—are “experiencing crisis levels of food insecurity, or worse.” In a heartbreaking essay, Mosab Abu Toha describes what that actually looks like each day for the people who remain in Gaza, including his brothers, parents, and other relatives.
Three days later, on social media, Hamza posted a photograph of what he was eating that day: a ragged brown morsel, seared black on one side and flecked with grainy bits. “This is the wondrous thing we call ‘bread’—a mixture of rabbit, donkey, and pigeon feed,” Hamza wrote in Arabic. “There is nothing good about it except that it fills our bellies. It is impossible to stuff it with other foods, or even break it except by biting down hard with one’s teeth.”
In the morning, Maram cooked tomatoes and fried some eggs. Dr. Bahaa told us that it was his first normal breakfast in months. We dipped bread and feta into the olive oil. It smelled of the trees that grew the olives, and it tasted like Gaza.
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For some families hustling in the influencer industry, content creation has offered a viable financial path, but also a warped reality. Influencer kids grow up on the internet, their childhoods on display to audiences of millions, while they help churn out content on their parents’ profitable blogs and social accounts. And in many of these cases, these children don’t see a dime. In this story, which is part of Cosmo‘s Sharenting Reckoning series, Fortesa Latifi talks to parents (and a few young adults/ex-influencer kids) to understand how the money flows, and also what these children have lost in the spotlight. At the moment, Illinois is the only state in the US where child influencers are legally entitled to a percentage of the money they help earn, but as Latifi reports, other states may soon follow suit.
When she made a TikTok comparing two of her daughters, the younger felt embarrassed because Merritt called her the “weird kid at school” in contrast to her older sister, who was labeled “popular” and “bubbly.” But Merritt says they decided not to take the video down because it was doing well and making money through TikTok’s monetization program, which pays creators for qualified views. The video is now pinned to the top of her page, with 2.3 million views and counting, netting $1,100 as of late February. As a form of reparation, she decided to split the profit from the video between her two daughters, with the stipulation that they use the money for the bedroom makeovers they’ve been wanting.
Khanbalinov has had zero new offers since he took his kids offline. “When we were showing our kids, brands were rolling in left and right—clothing companies, apps, paper towel companies, food brands. They all wanted us to work with them,” he says. “Once we stopped, we reached out to the brands we had lined up and 99 percent of them dropped out because they wanted kids to showcase their products. And I fought back, like, you guys are a paper towel company—why do you need a kid selling your stuff?”
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It’s 1983. The original Mario Bros. video game is released. Michael Jackson’s Thriller reaches the top of the Billboard album chart. And in the hit film WarGames, a teenage Matthew Broderick breaches the cyberdefenses of a military supercomputer from his bedroom, sparking a global emergency. Back then, outside of the home computing subculture, the term “hacking” would have been unfamiliar to the general public. In fact, the hacking technique Broderick’s character employs onscreen became known as “wardialing” in honor of the movie. We’ve come a long way since then, but I suspect that most of us still have little more than a cursory knowledge of how the internet works, or have any idea as to the nature of hacking beyond that gleaned from WarGames and its countless cinematic descendants.
We are certainly aware, though, that each passing year an ever-growing digital octopus encroaches more and more into every area of our lives, the majority of us networked to one another for most of our waking hours. Despite endless warnings highlighting the dangers of the digital world, there is a growing acceptance that, in return for the speed and convenience of the internet, we must relinquish a little of our privacy. It’s a trade-off, trusting that the institutions we most rely on—banks, insurance companies, government agencies—will keep our personal details safe.
Seldom, however, are we without a major hacking story. In January 2023, the UK’s postal service was hit by a ransomware attack; after Royal Mail refused to pay $80 million to regain access to its computer system, it suffered huge financial losses. That same year, Oakland, California, declared a state of emergency after a similar cyberassault in which a decade’s worth of sensitive data was stolen. Other attacks hit even closer to home. Witness the 2014 iCloud hack that spilled dozens of celebrities’ private photos across the internet, or the 2015 attack on Ashley Madison, a website enabling extramarital affairs, exposing the personal details of thousands of subscribers.
Perhaps more terrifying still is the prospect of international, state-sponsored hacking: countries mobilizing armies of digital soldiers to infiltrate online platforms. Such organized incursions work to promote one nation’s interest in multiple ways, from targeting sites viewed as critical of the country in question to directly attacking a nation’s infrastructure—its banks, hospitals, television stations, or nuclear plants. For a real-world example, we only have to look at the ongoing conflict in Ukraine, where Russian cyberattacks have knocked out vital telecommunications networks.
The features collected below are as illuminating as they are concerning, and as intriguing as they are startling. More than anything, though, they remind us that behind all hacking incidents are human stories. Both hackers and their victims are real people—even if, to those behind the keyboard, 1s and 0s have abstracted that connection beyond any feelings of regret.
The Hacker (Maddy Crowell, Columbia Journalism Review, April 2023)
I grew up in the 1980s, when the specter of nuclear war meant the periodic blare of warning siren tests. On those occasions a dark fear gripped my heart, a sense that dangerous and unseen forces would have the final, fatal say on my life. War, as we know all too clearly, continues apace in the physical world, but increasingly it feels as though the largest battles are being fought in the digital arena. Nowadays, a different ongoing global conflict seems to infect every corner of society: a war for our minds. That may sound a tad histrionic; politicians have always been in the business of swaying opinion, and propaganda has always been part of geopolitics. But deepfakes, chatbots, and cyberattacks on newspapers have changed the game considerably, leading to a digital arms race in deception and the ability to spot it.
For every cause, though, a champion. Runa Sandvik is a child of the internet era. She encountered her first computer in 2002, at the age of 15, and instantly became fascinated by the possibilities of hacking, a passion that later blossomed into genuine concern for users’ privacy online; now, she works to protect high-risk civil groups such as journalists and human rights lawyers. Her cybersecuity bona fides only make apprehension over state-sponsored hacking all the more alarming. Yet, aside from the fascinating technological insights this article provides, Crowell makes Sandvik herself intriguing: an unconventional woman who seems to have, perhaps unwillingly, taken on the mantle of defender of human digital rights, and done so with tireless dedication.
When I asked Sandvik what would be required to make yourself entirely safe from cyber threats, she replied: you wouldn’t be online at all, and you would have to live in the forest. I often found her prudence perplexing. I wondered if there were things she was hiding from me—an awareness of risks that only someone with her expertise could appreciate. Or if, in her affable bluntness, she simply wanted to convey that most of us are blind to the surveillance dystopia in which we live.
It’s become a cinematic cliché: the nerdy teen in his parents’ basement, surrounded by screens and equipment, casually hacking into big corporations for his own amusement. Until, that is, the authorities come, not knocking, but smashing down the door. Cue the whiz-kid bad boy’s transformation into hero, helping the very authorities he once fought against to safeguard the world, or at least America. Yet that’s pretty much what happened to Josiah White and his two friends after they created and unleashed Mirai, a virus so deadly that it became a top priority for the FBI.
It’s easy to understand why teenagers might be drawn to the murky world of hacking; there’s little more seductive than a realm where your power becomes greatly magnified, and romance of an individual challenging big corporations only sweetens the prospect. Hackers are the modern-day dashing highway bandit, albeit without the rearing horse and two smoking muskets—a rogue we can’t help but secretly admire. Greenberg does a fantastic job of bringing all the characters in this lengthy tale to life. It’s that depth that makes the story an ultimately redemptive one.
For two months, he had been waiting for the raid. He was now keeping a nocturnal schedule, working at his computer with Paras and Dalton until 3 or 4 in the morning before sleeping until 8 am and then heading into his father’s computer repair shop. But that night, having finally gone to bed after 4 am, he still lay awake, his mind racing with anxiety.
As the banging started and his older brother hurried upstairs from their shared basement-level bedroom, Josiah went into the storage room and quickly switched off his computers. All three of the Mirai creators had been careful to do their hacking on remote servers and to connect to them only from ephemeral virtual machines that ran on their own PCs. So he figured that switching the computers off would erase any lingering data in memory. Then, before turning off his phone, he sent a message to Paras using the encrypted messaging app Signal: “911.”
Shout out to all the parents out there who worry about what their children might be getting up to online. Teenagers can be enormously secretive, resentful of unwanted intrusion into their personal business. Nowadays, unfortunately, it’s as easy for an adolescent to get into trouble staying at home as being out late. The best we parents can do is instill in our children all the wisdom and advice that we wish we had received at their age, stay connected, and hope for the best.
Fair warning: this is a tale with no happy ending. It’s the story of a young man finding online the confidence and social network he had been unable to discover in real life, and becoming seduced by the power and possibilities of illegal hacking, with a tragic conclusion. Edwin Robb’s not blameless, of course, but you still can’t help but feel a little bit sorry for him.
Edwin was trawling the internet and scanning networks to see who might be using software with a known hole. In this case, it was HP Data Protector. He searched sites manually using Google, entering “Data Protector” as the search term alongside a specific web or IP address. In early December 2011, Edwin struck gold. He found a university in Norway, NTNU, that was using the software and hadn’t yet installed the update containing the patch. Edwin grabbed his exploit, executed it, and he was inside. Looking around the university’s network, he discovered he had six computer servers at his command. On a roll, Edwin next gained control of a “supercomputer” at the University of Tromsø. He nosed around for a while and then installed a “backdoor”. Now he could access the university’s computer server remotely whenever he wanted to.
Edwin pulled off his stunt without a hitch and earned himself hacker cred with his new friends. Dwaan responded to Edwin’s feat with enthused fist pumps and exclamations of “Loooooooolll” and “OMG!”. This only whetted Edwin’s appetite. He went in search of new targets in other countries. His next victim was the University of Twente in the Netherlands, then a website in Iceland, and after that a university in Japan. He was unstoppable. As long as he took care to connect to a VPN server in Russia first, he left no tracks to follow.
The white hat/black hat binary used to distill hacking’s morality evokes fantasy roleplaying and metaphysical lore—fitting counterparts given the overarching nerd/geek subculture from which hacking emerged. A white-hat hacker, for those who aren’t familiar with the term, is one who uses their computer skills for “good.” Such people are often hired by companies to test their security systems, exposing vulnerabilities before a less scrupulous operator discovers them. There are also the altruists, home-based hackers who spend their weekends searching for vulnerabilities in software and hardware used in people’s homes.
It should be reassuring that such people exist, given the amount of smart technology most of us invite into our lives, especially taking into account the observation you’ll find in this excellent piece: it’s often cheaper for companies to pay a fine rather than develop the necessary security for their products. White-hat hacking, it turns out, is bound by its own strict moral code, and the individuals who follow this code make for fascinating subjects.
Most of Dardaman’s contracts run between one and two weeks. Oftentimes, a company won’t tell their security team Dardaman is there, allowing him to move around their networks quietly, observing how things work and finding his way deeper into the system. But the cat-and-mouse game only lasts a few days.
“The goal is by the end of the week that I’m extremely loud,” he added, noting that his final move is typically to gain domain access to the company’s servers to set off alarms on the security team. “If they don’t catch me by the end of the week, they should reassess their security tools.”
Inside the Global Hack-for-Hire Industry (Franz Wild, Ed Siddons, Simon Lock, Jonathan Calvert, and George Arbuthnott, The Bureau of Investigative Journalism, November 2022)
I never cease to be impressed by investigative reporting, especially when presented with narrative skill, as is the case here. The amount of time, dedication, and often personal risk necessary to bring such stories to life is admirable; so too is the ability to tell a story with empathy, sympathy, and suspense. This article is a little different from others on this list, and possibly more frightening. Rather than targeting big corporations, the hackers in India’s underground are routinely paid to access personal email accounts, whether by a wife spying on her husband’s financial affairs or a blackmail victim searching for a way out of their predicament.
What is particularly startling, however, is the apparent complete lack of morality in such hackers. They make no judgments. If a client is willing to pay handsomely, someone can be found who will do their bidding. Isn’t that a fear we all have—the thought of all your private online activity, emails, photos, even movements being completely exposed? This article is one of those rabbit-hole pieces, leading you down ever-darkening corridors into a murky world of diamond dealers, dodgy politicians, and unethical private investigators. It will leave you scrambling to reset all of your passwords.
Before approaching his victims, he researches their personal life looking for details about families, relationships, upbringing, children, wealth and holiday destinations. He does this using automated software to scour the internet for scraps of information about the victim and monitors his targets’ WhatsApp account to establish the time of day they are usually online.
“We have surveillance on you for a week, for two weeks, for three weeks or maybe for a month,” he said. This helps him to be more convincing when posing as an acquaintance of the victim.
I spent countless hours of my childhood writing programs on my dear old ZX Spectrum home computer with its whopping 48 KB of memory. I like to think that I could still knock out a line or two of code if need be (assuming Basic and Logo are acceptable), but I admit to feeling totally lost when it comes to the activities you’ll find chronicled here. This is a competition for college-aged kids, and reading about them jumping from screen to screen, excitedly searching for breaches in the system, fills me with a mixture of admiration and bewilderment, like watching trained acrobats backflip across a stage.
These young hackers may have been playing a game, but in doing so they were rehearsing for real-life encounters. Governments are more aware than ever of the threat of cyberattacks on a country’s infrastructure. If the pretend water plant in this article had been real, a successful hack could have brought about serious consequences. Let’s hope that the talented students who are the subjects of this piece continue to develop their skills in the right direction.
For the next two and a half hours, the water-treatment plant remained under siege from several different groups of hackers, who were attacking each other even as they delved deeper and deeper into the plant’s controls, causing absolute mayhem. At 2:45, a pair of revolving sirens threw blue beams around the room: The system that maintained the plant’s water levels had been disabled, and one of its tanks began to fill at an alarming rate.
“The float’s been submerged!” a technician called out from near the tanks. The float was supposed to cut off water flow the moment it became immersed.
“Is it still filling?” asked another, hunched over a laptop perched on his knees.
“Yes!”
“That’s bad.”
The workers powered down the plant again in order to drain the tank to a safe level.
Chris Wheatley is a writer and journalist based in Oxford, UK. He has too many guitars, too many records, and not enough cats.
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For Harper’s Bazaar, Julieanne Smolinski interviews comedy legend Carol Burnett, age 90, about her current acting roles and doing live unscripted audience Q&A to open The Carol Burnett Show in the late ’60s and early ’70s. The bit was so successful that Burnett took it on the road for 20 years after the show ended.
The questions were never vetted, the audience members never preselected. Burnett would choose on the fly, usually just by picking people out and pointing aggressively at them. On one occasion, on The Carol Burnett Show, a woman asked if she could get onstage and sing a song. Burnett let her, lending the audience member her orchestra and even joining in herself, a few bars into “You Made Me Love You.” Rather than dying of gratitude, the woman laughingly complained that Burnett had “screwed it up” by failing to harmonize during the performance’s big finish. When Burnett tells this story, it’s not “What a bitch” but “What a delight.”
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It’s taken a long time for Toronto officials to recognize a crisis: the city is running out of land to bury its dead. For The Local, Inori Roy reports on the monopolization and “McDonald’s-ization” of Ontario’s bereavement industry, and looks into one group in particular, Mount Pleasant, that has amassed $1.2 billion in assets and hundreds of millions in revenue from its cemetery and funeral services. In the past, cemeteries and family-owned funeral homes worked together in a friendly, cooperative way, but the corporatization of death care has since transformed the industry into a for-profit machine focused on money and real estate.
Back then, Hunter says, cemeteries and funeral homes were “completely different animals.” Funeral homes were responsible for collecting and preparing the deceased, hosting services, ordering flowers, and everything up to the moment the casket reached its final resting place—the rest, burial onward, was the responsibility of the cemetery. During working hours, Humphrey and Mount Pleasant Cemetery were often two limbs of a single organism, working together to lay a body to rest. After clocking off, workers would mingle. “We played hockey together, we played baseball together, we curled together, we would get together and do pub nights,” Hunter remembers. They had, he says, “a very close, intimate professional relationship.”
The governments of aging populations in dense urban centres across the world are already having to face this problem. Hong Kong has been actively encouraging its residents to be cremated; Singapore has a fifteen-year limit on burial plots, after which time the remains are disinterred and cremated. In Toronto, Hanson says, there are options. We could backfill cemeteries—interring people in the spaces between existing graves. We could introduce community burial grounds, smaller cemeteries built into local parks and parkettes. And, as much as the idea might be discomfiting to some, we could bury people in the Greenbelt—which would, in theory, only add to the need to protect and preserve it.
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