You Are Not Anonymous

An email address is enough. Not necessarily yours: any email. It is entered into a handful of free tools—legal, public, available to anyone who wants to look for them—and in a matter of seconds a list appears: which services that email is registered on, sometimes a profile picture, sometimes a first and last name that its owner thought they had not given to anyone. You do not need to be technical, no password is broken, nor is any crime committed. All that information was already there—published, registered, or leaked—waiting for someone to bother putting it together.

It is tempting to view this as a flaw—a breach, an oversight, something someone should fix—but it is, quite simply, the normal functioning of the open web. Every time you sign up for a service, fill out a form, publish a review, or appear in someone else's leak, you leave a trace. None of those traces are serious on their own. The problem—if it is a problem at all—arises from putting them together, and putting them together is simple.

At this point, many people defend themselves with a reasonable phrase: 'I have nothing to hide,' or 'I take care of my accounts.' The former confuses hiding with choosing; we will return to that. The latter overlooks that you didn't leave most of that trail: it was left by the corporate registry, the website that suffered the leak, the acquaintance who uploaded a photo with you and tagged you. Anonymity on the internet is almost never a property you possess; it is, at most, obscurity: the provisional fact that no one has bothered to look yet.

So far we have talked about what a single person can do in a few seconds, by hand. Now take the person out of the equation. What has protected almost all of us for years was disinterest, not anonymity: to find you, someone has to bother to look, and no one has the time to look at everyone. That last barrier—the effort of looking—is precisely the one a machine does not have. An automated system can perform that same cross-referencing against an entire population, not a single target; without rest, not just once; by default, not on suspicion. What used to take an investigator hours per person is now done on millions at once, costing no one time or attention. There is no need to assume who would want to do it—a company, a group, a State—; it is enough to understand that you no longer have to choose who to look at. You can look at everyone.

That is why 'can they find me?' is the wrong question. The answer is yes, and it will be increasingly so. The useful question is different: who, and how much, am I forced to trust in order to live connected? Because that is what you really do every day, almost always without thinking about it. You trust that the service where you register will keep your data safe. You trust that your carrier will not listen to your calls. You trust that the messaging app everyone uses—say, WhatsApp—does what it says it does. You trust the server in between, the company that manages it, the country where it is located, the free tool someone posted on the net. Each of those links is a trust decision. The difference is that you made almost none of them consciously: they came included. Those links that sneak in between you and the other person are called, in jargon, trusted intermediaries; the name matters less than the idea that they are there, and that there are many of them.

There is an honest way to verify all this: do it to yourself. And you don't need us to give you anything. Open your browser, type three or four words—something like 'what does the internet know about my email'—and the web itself will put the tools right in front of you. That ease is, on its own, half the answer: if you can find them in ten seconds, anyone can find what they say about you.

We do not offer you a list of our own, and that is deliberate. If we gave it to you, you would have to trust us: that we chose well, that those pages will still be trustworthy in five years, that behind none of them is—today or tomorrow—someone with bad intentions. We cannot promise that about pages we do not control, and we prefer not to make a promise we cannot keep. That is exactly what this article is about. But searching for it yourself comes with a price: the search engine does not distinguish the legitimate from the trap. Setting up a page that mimics a real tool, asks for your email, and keeps it is trivial. So, before typing anything anywhere, it's worth knowing how to read an address.

At this point, it is worth describing the opposite of all this: a channel without intermediaries. Two people, alone on top of a mountain, talking. There is no postman, no switchboard, no server, no company, no country in the middle. And yet, notice: trust does not disappear there either. If you tell a secret to the other person, you are trusting them. That trust cannot be removed—nor does it need to be—because it is the only one you truly chose: you know who you trust, and why.

What is missing on the mountain is everything else. No one in the middle. And that, and no other, is the only model that can be reproduced honestly in the digital realm: a direct channel from one device to another, with nothing and no one along the way. It eliminates the intermediaries, not the trust—that would be lying. It leaves you alone with the only inevitable trust, the one you actually chose. It is, incidentally, the architecture from which we write these pages; but the argument stands on its own, regardless of who builds it.

So no, you are not anonymous, and you probably never will be again. But that was never the battle that mattered. You cannot live—nor browse—without trusting anyone; whoever tries is not freer, just more alone. Maturity is not distrust, which is just another form of naivety. It is being demanding: knowing who you grant your trust to, how much, in exchange for what, and—above all—knowing when you are granting it to someone without having decided to.

Almost nothing in life is black or white; almost everything lives in the gray in between, and learning to navigate that gray is a large part of what it means to have judgment. The only exception is what is well-made from the factory: that which, by design, does not ask you to trust anyone other than the person you already decided to talk to. The rest, everything else, is a question of how much, and to whom.