How the Left Stole An Encyclopedia

The Wikimedia Foundation's Ambitious Plan to Lobby the UN Threatens to Transform the Free Internet into a Regulated, Ideologically-Driven Space

In 2019, the Wikipedia community was rocked by a scandal that should have made headlines far beyond the echo chamber of its dedicated editors. Fram, an admin, was slapped with a year-long ban—not by the usual suspects, the English Wikipedia Arbitration Committee, but directly by the Wikimedia Foundation (WMF), the self-appointed guardians of our 'free encyclopedia'. This was a stark demonstration of the creeping authoritarianism within an organization that prides itself on being the epitome of open-source collaboration.

The ban wasn't some run-of-the-mill disciplinary action. Instead of the community policing its own, the WMF, which claims to be a non-profit but acts more like a corporate overlord, decided to bypass the established processes. Here we see the real power dynamics at play, where an NGO masquerading as the protector of free knowledge exerts control in a manner that would make any centralized government blush.

Barely a day after this authoritarian edict, Wikipedia co-founder Jimmy Wales, sensing the brewing revolt, stepped in with his usual flair for drama. He promised a review, but what did that change? Nothing, really. It was mere damage control, a classic case of too little, too late.

His actions did nothing to stem the tide of resignations that followed. High-ranking editors, the supposed backbone of Wikipedia's governance, threw in their virtual badges in disgust, highlighting how the WMF had trampled over the principles of openness, consensus, and self-governance that Wikipedia claims to uphold.

At its core, the debacle was about the clash between Wikipedia's grassroots, decentralized ethos and the WMF's increasingly centralized, top-down approach. But let's not fool ourselves; this was just the surface of a deeper cultural shift, one where the WMF has embraced a new social justice agenda with all the subtlety of a sledgehammer.

Take the 2020 launch of Wikiproject Black Lives Matter, for instance. Here, Wikipedia didn't just pivot to Diversity, Equity, and Inclusion (DEI); it somersaulted into it. Under the guise of correcting "systemic bias," they essentially created a special lane for certain topics, elevating them above the rest. No Original Research was thrown out the window.

Instead, we saw Wikipedia editors becoming activists, attending protests, soliciting photos from the ground. This isn't journalism or even encyclopedic work; it's propaganda dressed up as public service, manipulating the narrative under the banner of social justice.

The controversy was ultimately a battle for the soul of an institution that claims to house the sum of human knowledge, along with its considerable financial coffers. The question was: would Wikipedia remain a bastion of democratic, community-driven governance where the ethos of openness, transparency, and neutrality reigned supreme? Or would it succumb to the sway of a few well-compensated NGO technocrats, steering the platform towards the capricious tides of the Western elite's social justice agenda?

Moreover, how would Wikipedia grapple with the seismic shifts in American discourse, where the very notion of neutral and objective knowledge was being branded as a relic of white supremacist thought?

As the Wikipedia community erupted in digital furor over this scandal, certain truths surfaced like islands from the sea of bytes. Fram, with his quarter-million edits, stood as a colossus among editors, yet his sharp tongue was as well-known as his dedication. His clash was with Laura Hale, an Australian PhD student whose contributions to Wikipedia were steeped in the advocacy of feminism and women's sports, particularly within the Paralympic realm.

Hale, lacking the mantle of admin rights, had accused Fram of harassment, citing his critical comments left on her Talk page—a digital arena where one's editorial work is discussed and dissected. But this was no mere disagreement over edits; it was a clash of ideologies, where the personal became political in the most literal sense.

In a FAQ attempting to clarify the ban, the Wikimedia Trust and Safety team resorted to corporate jargon, offering little more than empty assurances. The explanation was as substantive as a cloud: “As described on the Metapage about Office actions, we investigate the need for an office action either upon receipt of complaints from the community, or as required by law. In this case we acted on complaints from the community.” An editor, perhaps with sarcasm dripping from each word, remarked, “Of all the non-answers I've seen in my life, that's possibly one of the most long-winded.”

Amidst the #MeToo movement reshaping American cultural landscapes, the accusation of a senior male editor against a woman with lesser authority struck a chord with the progressive wings of the Wikipedia community. Women in Red, a group dedicated to amplifying female representation on the site, escalated their rhetoric, accusing Fram of “real crimes” in a tweet that vanished from the timeline like morning mist. An editor, proudly wearing their “anti-racist, pro-LGBTQ+” badge, echoed this sentiment in a community discussion, suggesting that the case involved something "legal or very serious."

Yet, this narrative was muddied by the revelation that Hale was romantically involved with Raystorm (real name Maria Sefidari), who had vociferously defended Hale.

Sefidari's plea, “Just leave Laura alone,” on a Talk page might have been just another drop in the ocean of online discourse if not for one critical detail. Sefidari wasn't just another editor; she was the Chair of the Wikimedia Foundation Board of Trustees, wielding influence over the very entity that had issued the ban.

This role placed her in the thick of decisions concerning staff compensation, leadership transitions, and the strategic direction of the WMF. Additionally, her involvement in high-level committees like the Audit Committee, which managed the Foundation's finances, and the Board Governance Committee, which shaped the board's internal structure, painted a picture of considerable power and potential conflict of interest.

This strange triangle of love, enmity, and power fueled suspicions within the community that Fram's ban was less about alleged “abuse” and more about silencing criticism directed at the substandard work of an influential figure's romantic partner. As scandalous as this was, it would have been merely a bizarre, albeit unsavory, anecdote in Wikipedia's annals if it had ended there.

Instead, it marked the onset of a profound transformation, where the original, decentralized spirit of Wikipedia would be supplanted by the WMF's agenda to leverage the platform as an instrument for progressive social engineering.