A friend who is 20 years younger than me recently asked me what my internet was like back then. The question made me pause, not because I couldn’t remember, but because I needed a moment to think about how to explain it. After a moment, I knew exactly which story to tell—one from about 20 years ago about an IRC channel, a lonely teenager, and how a community of strangers became family. Because this is what my internet was like back then, and not everything was shit.

When Digital Spaces Felt Like Home

This was the internet of the late 1990s and early 2000s, when IRC channels were our gathering places and screen names were as real as any given name. I was 25, part of a tight-knit online community where most of us ranged from our early twenties to thirties. We were the usual mix you’d find in those spaces—metal heads, goths, punks, and misfits who had found each other in the digital ether. This is where I got my nickname „tomate“ which I still have and use today.

Then one day, someone new found their way to our channel.

A Teenager in Grief

Her story unfolded gradually, the way personal histories do in online spaces—shared piece by piece, trust building with each conversation. We didn’t know she was 14 at first. Her mother had died. Her father was drowning in his own grief. She had a twin sister, but somehow felt completely alone in the world. When we eventually learned her age, we realized she was carrying a weight that would challenge adults twice her age.

Looking back, I’m acutely aware that a minor finding her way into an adult online space could have gone very differently. Even then, we understood this was potentially problematic. She was lucky—incredibly lucky—that she stumbled into our particular corner of the internet and not into a channel with people who might have had different intentions.

I still don’t know exactly what made us collectively decide to take care of her. There was no formal discussion, no vote taken. We simply recognized someone who needed what we could offer: presence, listening ears, and the patient understanding that only comes from people who’ve felt like outsiders themselves. When she talked about her grief and pain, we were there. When she felt alone, we reminded her she wasn’t.

An Impossible Request

As her 16th birthday approached, she shared news that filled her with dread. Her father, in an attempt to create normalcy, had decided she and her twin sister would have a birthday party. „All the people from my school will come,“ she told us. „For her. I don’t have friends at school. You are my friends.“

In a moment that surprised even me, I said, „Well, we could come.“ The rest of the channel quickly agreed—of course we could come. It seemed like the natural thing to say, though I didn’t expect it to go anywhere.

„But what should I say to my dad?“ she asked.

„Tell him you have some people you want to invite,“ I suggested. „Your friends from the internet.“

I thought it was just a comforting gesture, something to make her feel less alone about the party. I never imagined she was desperate enough to actually ask her father if her internet friends could attend. But she did. And incredibly, he said yes.

Looking back, I’m honestly baffled by this. If I had a 14-year-old daughter who wanted to invite her adult friends from the internet to her birthday party, I would absolutely not allow it. Any reasonable parent would have serious concerns about a group of adults wanting to attend a teenager’s party. Her father’s decision remains a mystery to me—perhaps his own grief clouded his judgment, or maybe he was just desperate to see his daughter happy. Whatever his reasoning, it opened the door to something extraordinary.

Fifteen Adults and One Birthday Party

What happened next was pure magic of the old internet. Fifteen adults coordinated in a secret channel she didn’t know about. We planned presents, organized who would bring cake, and even plotted a cake fight. Our coordination was chaotic at best—like a military operation run by enthusiastic amateurs. We had so much joy in the planning, partly because we sensed how important this would be for her, but mostly because we were genuinely excited about getting to meet our friend.

The Perfect Party

Several cars pulled up to the suburban house. Fifteen adults stepped out, wearing band t‑shirts and dark clothing—exactly the kind of people who make neighbors peek through their curtains. Here we were: the internet friends, now in the pants world for a teenager’s birthday party.

We had the time of our lives. More importantly, she did too. While her twin sister entertained her „cool“ school friends, our group played games, told stories, and laughed until our sides hurt. Later, she would tell us it was the first time she had genuinely laughed in months.

We were ourselves, but we were also the best versions of ourselves. We didn’t drink or take drugs. We toned down our usual colorful language. Her father was there, along with other family members—I think an aunt, though I don’t remember exactly. We understood that we needed to prove we were the good people, even if we didn’t look like what they might expect good people to look like. We had to show that despite our band t‑shirts, despite being the kind of adults who hung out in IRC channels, we were trustworthy. We were there for the right reasons.

For us, it wasn’t charity or a good deed. It was simply meeting a friend face to face. I still don’t know her legal name because her IRC nickname is her real name. In our digital community, she was exactly who she chose to be, and that was more authentic than any name on a birth certificate.

Twenty Years Later

That was roughly twenty years ago, and we still talk. She remains part of our extended digital family, and we remain part of hers. The internet may have changed, but some connections transcend platforms and time.

Six years ago, she was living in Paris with a boyfriend in Berlin. She flew to Berlin for her birthday, only to have him break up with her at the airport when she landed. In that moment of heartbreak and humiliation, thousands of miles from home in a foreign city, she called me.

She spent that weekend on my couch. I ordered food, we watched terrible TV shows, and she played with my dog Barbara. It wasn’t the birthday she had planned, but it wasn’t the disaster it could have been either. By the time she flew home, she had a few decent days under her belt and wasn’t drowning in despair. Later, she would tweet: „The nicest person on this weekend was a dog.“

The Internet That Was

Looking back, what we had was something precious. The social spaces we built and shaped ourselves on the internet, where a 14-year-old girl could stumble into a channel full of adults and find safety instead of danger. Where geography meant nothing and connection meant everything. Where you could meet people you never would have encountered in the pants world—people from different cities, different backgrounds, different walks of life, all drawn together by something more meaningful than proximity.

It was an internet where strangers became family not through blood or shared ZIP codes, but through consistent presence and genuine care. Where showing up for someone wasn’t a hashtag or a performance, but simply what you did for people who mattered to you. Where the weirdos and misfits and outcasts found each other across vast distances and created something beautiful together.

That connection we forged twenty-five years ago remains unbreakable. She knows she can call at 3 in the morning, and I’ll reach out to our old IRC network. They’ll rally, just as they did twenty years ago, because that’s what we do for each other. And she would do the same for any of us.

And that is the internet I hold dear. The internet I love and miss. The internet that made the day for a 16-year-old girl who thought she had no one in the world. The internet that proved her wrong.

After three years of involuntary break the Chaos Computer Club finally could invite to the 37th Chaos Communication Congress (37C3) in Hamburg at the CCH. I was not attending but I was as part of the leadership of a team involved in some preparation. In the Call for Angels (volunteers helping out running the event) we asked for new people to join our team. As expected we got some emails from several folks asking to join. But we got more: Emails with a CV and a motivation letter. Those maps were by people attending the Congress for the first time and eagerly trying to contribute to the community. With some of them I wrote emails back and forth because I wanted to understand why they sent emails which read like applying for a job. After all these conversations I wrote the present text in which I try to lay out my understanding of volunteer work at a CCC event. The text could work as a general text for first time volunteers at an event from the wider Chaos family

Words of advice to new Angels at the Chaos Communication (Congress|Camp)

Welcome new Angel. Without our hundreds or even thousands of helping folks it would not be possible to make Congress or Camp happen. Thanks for joining our ranks!  

As you might have seen there are many different shifts and roles for Angels of which some sounding more appealing than others. There are shifts where you need to have some knowledge before you can take them. This knowledge is given in introduction meetings or by taking an unrestricted shift in the team and getting trained on the fly. Heaven and the teams try to make sure that there are only restrictions for shifts in place where they are absolutely needed. Most restrictions really only need a meeting or some unrestricted shifts at the team to get lifted. Harder restrictions are in place where volunteers need to have special certification, get access to certain systems with a huge amount of data (e.g. mail-queues with emails from participants) or handling big piles of money. 

I know especially the restricted shifts are tempting because after all we want to get the event running and do as much interesting stuff at the same time, aren’t we? From my personal experience what gets the event running are the most common things: Guarding a door, collecting bottle/trash, washing dishes in the Angel kitchen, being on standby to hop in when spontaneous help is needed or check the wrist bands at the entrance. 

In 2023 I got many mails from folks applying as a first time Angel in my team. Most times just a few lines asking if it would be possible to join. I read some lines about their motivation and why they want to join the team. I read things like »I am curious about these tasks« or »I was some years in another team and just want to try out new things«. I liked these. I read about giving back to the community and helping out to make this event which feels like home getting done. 

And I had some mails with an attached CV lying out computer skills (which most teams do not care about), prior and actual job and some corporate bullshit about personal growth and supporting the mission. I felt like an HR manager looking for the next working drone and got a little bit upset about this. Most of those applications came from folks attending the first time. Suddenly it got me: They just want to find a place in our community and want to  give back (whatever that means).

I took my time to write back to these folks telling about how I see the volunteer work as an Angel and tried to give advice without killing their enthusiasm to help out. Disclaimer: other folks working at congress or camp may have other views on this topic.

My first advice: do not try to fit into special roles at your first event. The roles will find you – not the other way around. Our community is not about personal growing but about contributing to each other and growing by doing this. 

I started as an angel watching a parking lot at CCCamp back in 2011. I did not think about how the event is run before and I certainly did not in this moment. From my point of view it was just right to help out because this community welcomed me just a few months ago warm hearted and helped me out more than one time (which is more than I could have ever thought taking in account what kind of person I was). I got a warning vest and a radio and some introduction to the job (guide arriving cars to the nearest empty space, guide leaving cars to the correct exit). it were the most boring two hours I had in a long time because no car was entering or leaving this lot. I did not know about the concept of Angels or anything about the Engelsystem, I just got hijacked by the person responsible for the parking lot. I made some bar shifts as well because I wanted to. I still knew nothing about the Engelsystem or Angel shirts for a certain amount of time helping. 

I was a speaker at 28C3 and after checking in and getting my wristband I was asked to help out at the Speakers’ Desk (back then it just had the German name »Referentenbetreuung«). I helped out guarding a door as well which was quite fun because people always tried to take this door and I met more nice people in this two hours having good chats than every before in this small amount of time. At/right after this Congress my role found me and I joined the Speakers’ Desk as a regular angel.

Nothing of the things I did and still do as an Angel is about personal growth, for me it is about being part of something bigger as oneself. It is about living utopia, hacking technology, thinking and society. It is about sharing common values, arguing sometimes for years about those values and still bring a variety of people together. 

My second advice: Be humble about the angel shifts you do and be proud about all the other things. There is no »who worked most hours«-contest. There is no glory in having 40 hours volunteering shifts in four days. But there is glory in giving 2 or 4 or a little bit more hours a day as an Angel and having time to make new friends, look at all the cool stuff that is happening, all the marvels and wonder created for a few days. We are at the Chaos Communication Congress|Camp and sometimes I suspect that especially first time attendees do not recognize the word »communication« in the name of the event. It is hard to communicate when doing 10hours shifts per day.

My third advice: the community is about contributing the things that are needed – not contributing what benefits me. We need communication. We need your thoughts and ideas even if some may say otherwise. Maybe you think by yourself »what do I have to contribute? I am not a hacker and I do not do special things«. Let me assure you: Hacking is more than doing computer stuff. Being a hacker is not being able to write code but to have a certain state of mind. 

Contributing to this community is more than doing volunteer work. Contributing is looking with open eyes, listening with an open heart and thinking with an open mind to recognize all the astonishing things this world could offer to us if we would let it and talking about them to others.

I ask you to be yourself and try something new: guard a door or collect some bottles, empty the trash bins, guide people to the next toilet or help out in the Angel kitchen chopping vegetables. These ordinary work is giving more to community than my volunteer work could ever do. Thank you for being an Angel making this event possible.

Titelbild CC BY NC Karol Roller auf Flickr.