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I still recall hearing about the shootings at the Christchurch mosque when I woke up. In addition to the act's severity, what disturbed me the most was how it was streamed live on Facebook. A terrorist used social media as a platform and a weapon. As I watched videos that were shared on many platforms, I became aware of how digital technologies can conflate violence and spectacle and how regular people might unwittingly contribute to the dissemination of extremist propaganda.

By the time the 17-minute live stream ended, copies had been uploaded and mirrored countless times(New Yorker). This case exemplifies Wall's (2001) categories of cybercrime, although the massacre was a "traditional" offline crime, the dissemination of extremist content constituted "crimes against content," which increased the harm online. Additionally, it links to ideas of digital radicalisation, which include the reinforcement of hostile ideology by algorithms and online subcultures(SPLC).

It was a prompt but contentious answer. While governments such as France and New Zealand started the "Christchurch Call" to hold digital corporations accountable, Facebook promised to enhance detection capabilities and limit livestreaming (cjr.org). However, some contend that these actions are still reactive and overly dependent on platforms' goodwill, which calls into question the relative accountability of the state and corporations. While leaving moderation up to private firms has the risk of more failures, stricter regulation runs the risk of clashing with freedom of expression.

For my part, this case made me wonder if "real-time" social media could ever be completely regulated. Removing a tweet is one thing, but preventing the live broadcast of murder is quite another. It makes me wonder if sharing or even clicking on such stuff makes us users complicit. And are governments only repairing holes after the damage is done, or are they doing enough to stop another Christchurch?

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In 2014, I came across the trending hashtag "Celebgate" while browsing Twitter. Numerous private nude photos of Hollywood stars, such as Kate Upton and Jennifer Lawrence, had been leaked. In addition to being a significant invasion of privacy, it also seemed to me to be a cultural occasion that revealed the ways in which hacking interacts with victim-blaming, consent, and gender.

Instead of using a complex system breach, the hackers obtained access by using phishing attacks to take advantage of iCloud's poor safety measures (AppleInsider). They targeted more than 500 women. The disclosures were sensationalised by numerous media sources, which presented them as scandals instead of crimes. This is in line with criminological discussions of "digital sexual violence," in which offenders are downplayed and victims frequently face humiliation (Silicon Republic).

Several hackers received prison sentences as part of the legal response, although the punishments were insignificant in light of the extent of the damage done worldwide (Wired). More significantly, tech firms strengthened backup security and authentication. However, the fundamental problem still exists: our private information is stored in cloud ecosystems that are open to abuse.

Celebgate, in my opinion, represents the acceptance of online sexual assault against women. By referring to the leaks as "a sex crime," Jennifer Lawrence resisted demeaning narratives. It compelled society and the law to recognise that hacking private photos is more than just rumours. This instance demonstrates how "crimes of access" breaking into protected systems become "crimes of content" disseminating stolen materials according to digital criminology.

In retrospect, it is evident that Celebgate encompassed more than just celebrity culture. It established standards for interpreting digital consent, which paved the way for more robust "revenge porn" laws around the world. However, it also made me suspicious, what hope do regular people have if wealthy celebs couldn't secure their data?

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The WannaCry ransomware outbreak occurred in May 2017, and my feed was overflowing with red dot maps that were spreading like a virus. More than 200,000 machines across 150 countries were hacked and demanded Bitcoin ransoms in a matter of days. The NHS hospitals throughout the UK were forced to cancel surgeries due to frozen systems, and this stuck with me. A bit of code has turned into a worldwide public health emergency.

WannaCry propagated via taking advantage of a flaw in Windows computers that the National Security Agency of the United States had found (and stored) prior to hackers leaking it (Time).This demonstrates how the lines separating state cyberweapons from criminal operators are becoming increasingly hazy. Digital criminology experts contend that this is an example of "crime as a service," in which bad programming spreads outside the control of its developers (arsen.co).

A teenage cybersecurity researcher who unintentionally found a kill switch that stopped the worm was the story's "hero." However, reactions have been conflicting since then: ransomware is still common, businesses are patching vulnerabilities more quickly, and governments are hoarding fewer vulnerabilities (researchgate) .

For me, WannaCry forced me to reconsider how reliant on brittle digital infrastructures societies are. A virus that destroys your laptop is one thing, but when it paralyses entire health systems, it's quite another. This instance is a prime example of Wall's "crimes against systems," in which technological infrastructures are directly compromised. It also highlights moral issues such as, should intelligence services use vulnerabilities as weapons in the cause of national security or reveal them to the public for protection?

Ultimately, WannaCry was more than just a ransomware attack. It served as a warning. We seem to be continuing to ignore the lesson, as is the case with many of the cautions in digital criminology.

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Gamergate online harrasment campaign (2014-2016)

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Gamergate online harrasment campaign (2014-2016)

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I recall prowling around Reddit during the Gamergate explosion. A disagreement about a game developer's personal life swiftly turned into a concerted harassment campaign directed against female gamers, including critics like Anita Sarkeesian and developers like Zoë Quinn. I was astonished by how widespread misogyny is. Under the pretext of "ethics in game journalism," doxxing, rape threats, and swatting are all practiced.

Gamergate is a classic example of digital injury that defies easy classification under the law. A large portion of the abuse flourished on anonymity and platform policy flaws, even though some threats were punishable by law (Wikipedia). It exemplifies criminological debates on "digital drift," which is Matza's theory expanded online and describes how people act differently when they are in unrestrained digital environments.

There was a mixed social reaction. While social media sites like Twitter were hesitant to prohibit harassers, some gaming firms denounced harassment. Gaps in the protection of victims of online misogyny were exposed when legal institutions failed to keep up with global abuse (Britannica). According to Wired, the poisonous strategies of Gamergate served as a model for current online harassment operations, ranging from targeted political trolling to QAnon (Wired)

For me, Gamergate made me face the ways that offline power structures are replicated in online society. Although misogyny is not new, it is made more widespread and globalised by modern means. Because of stalking and terror, the harm to victims extends beyond the computer and into real life. This case illustrates how "cyberhate" need to be viewed as a severe form of violence with long term effect rather than as fringe trolling from the standpoint of digital criminology.

I became convinced that relying solely on legal responses is not enough. Law, platforms, and culture must cooperate otherwise, the harassment cycle will simply change under a different hashtag

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Operation bayonet darknet take down (2017)

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Operation bayonet darknet take down (2017)

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The simultaneous arrest of AlphaBay along with Hansa, the two of the biggest darknet marketplaces in the world, was a startling announcement made by government authorities in July 2017. These websites have long enabled the trading in guns, drugs, stolen information, and phoney identification documents. The clever plan by Dutch authorities, who surreptitiously operated Hansa for weeks after capturing it and obtaining information on thousands of users prior to shutting it down, captivated me more than the actual seizure (Wired).

Operation Bayonet is frequently praised as an example of effective cybercrime enforcement. It was presented by the FBI and(Europol). as a severe blow to online illegal economy. However, research indicates that darknet markets are quite robust, with new platforms swiftly filling the void, teaching us to be sceptical (Wikipedia). This illustrates the "hydra effect": when one head is severed, two more emerge.

The takedown sparked discussions regarding monitoring as well. Tor and cryptocurrency users believed they were safe and anonymous, but they later learned that law enforcement had compromised the services. In line with Garland's theory of the "culture of control" in late modern cultures, this blurs the boundaries between lawful policing and state hacking.

Operation Bayonet, in my opinion, represents the possibilities and constraints of cyber-policing. It was clever, but short-lived. Digital black markets represent ecosystems rather than a single location that should be shut down. New markets will appear if the underlying issues drug demand, week rules, and inequality are not addressed.

As I think back on this case, I'm impressed by the investigators' technical proficiency but question the long-term effects. It demonstrates how "victory" in digital criminology frequently entails purchasing time rather than finding a solution.