The Internet Archive is fighting the digital dark ages — that also means saving the GIF pandas

This autumn — on October 10, 2024, to be exact — the Internet Archive went dark. A distributed denial-of-service (DDoS) attack, which means bad actors flood a website with so much traffic it crashes, took the digital library completely offline. This left researchers, journalists and, yes, early internet GIF collectors suddenly unable to access the millions of archived webpages, books and media files stored in its collections. If the general mood these past several months has felt like the category is doomsday, then Internet Archive going offline felt like a preview of the digital dark ages. Thankfully, it got back online. But digital culture and free speech online remain under critical threat.

Whenever I talk to people who aren’t particularly clued into internet culture about the importance of the Internet Archive, I usually get blank stares. But when I say the Wayback Machine, a project of the Internet Archive, many grandparents know what I’m talking about. Clearly, the archive has become essentially the Library of Alexandria of the internet age, even if a lot of the googling public don’t know it by name.  

The attack, as their Director of Library Services, Chris Freeland, notes in their new Vanishing Culture report, highlighted how precarious our digital memory has become. When a library loses access to its digital collections, even temporarily, Freeland writes, “it doesn’t just interrupt research; it stifles educational progress, halts public access to information, and, in a new and chilling way, creates gaps in the public memory.” 

This wasn’t an isolated incident. Libraries from the British Library to Seattle Public have faced similar cyberattacks in recent months, as Freeland points out — a troubling pattern of threats against institutions preserving our cultural history. It’s part of a much broader lurch towards authoritarianism, oligarchy, anti-free market and anti-intellectualist trends that’s come to define the 2020s. The Internet Archive, which houses the lion’s share of preserved internet culture, faces particularly stark challenges. And it's vital. As a journalist, I can say that the archive’s work is uniquely essential.

We’re at risk of sliding toward what archivists call a “digital dark age” — an era where formats become obsolete, platforms shut down and corporate decisions to delete content combine to effectively erase vast stretches of our cultural memory. Imagine future historians unable to study how we lived, worked, and thought in the early internet era because the records simply vanished into the digital void. That's only part of what's at stake here.

The Vanishing Culture reports how these vanishing acts aren’t limited to temporary outages. Private companies are systematically erasing huge swaths of digital culture, from MTV News’s decades of reporting to Paramount’s purge of early Comedy Central content. In my case as a tech and lifestyle journalist, I even see how deleting webpages on a small scale is a common part of a PR firm’s longer-term clean-up act (meanwhile, crisis comms professionals either secretly or openly hate the Wayback Machine). Several times, I’ve linked to Wayback Machine archived pages (and attached screenshots) in reaching out to corporations for a statement. 

Which brings us to GIFs — those looping animations that defined the early web’s visual language. Earlier this year, for a separate Internet Archive blog post, I told Freeland about my pandemic-era deep dive into the GifCities collection. While I was talking about GIFs, which seems a little silly, the work of preservation also has far more important consequences. I explained then that “having the ephemeral internet preserved for future researchers, writers, reporters and editors is a huge service to democracy.”

When they invited me to join a diverse cast — game preservation experts, digital humanities scholars, and fellow internet writers — in examining our vanishing digital heritage for this landmark report, I knew exactly what cultural artifact I wanted to focus on. Yes, GIFs, obviously. These seemingly disposable pieces of web history capture a pivotal moment when the web felt more like a collective project than a sanitized shopping mall. Through GifCities and the preserved GeoCities websites on the Wayback Machine, we can still glimpse that more optimistic era, complete with plentiful “under construction” signs and pandas, a rich and wholesome niche. 

But even GIFs weren’t immune to the forces of digital erasure. As I detail below, it took coordinated preservation efforts to save these pieces of web history. Real pandas are, fittingly, labeled “vulnerable,” per Chinese officials. Early internet GIF pandas might be similarly labeled “vulnerable,” if not entirely endangered. But if it weren’t for the Internet Archive’s work, they too might have gone completely extinct when GeoCities sites went offline — lost in the digital void, taking with them vital clues about how we first learned to express ourselves online.

Snorkel masks on: below, it’s a dive into the wrecked remains of how we used to communicate with other netizens. The following essay is my contribution to the Internet Archive’s comprehensive new report on our vanishing digital heritage, which I encourage you to download and spend some time reading through. It’s a fascinating collection, with a timely prologue by Freeland, who concludes this: “The timing of the DDoS attack and the release of this report provide an opportunity — perhaps an uncomfortable one — to reflect on the precarious nature of digital archives and their role in preserving our vanishing culture.”

My personal investigation into a pixelated corner of our digital memory

Once upon a time, everything on the internet existed in one single location: on a Wal-Mart flat-pack desk in my childhood home. OK, that’s not technically accurate, but it felt very true to me then. When I sat on that height-adjustable ergonomic desk chair, the whole internet seemed to rest on that particle-board desk, which sagged under the weight of the chonky desktop computer it held. 

I first glimpsed the World Wide Web through an off-white monitor four times the size of my young skull. The first sound the internet made was, of course, a screech — i.e., the symphonic shriek of dial-up. A kid in the hills of Appalachia, I turned up the volume knob on the clunky speakers to hear 19 or so screaming seconds of skooo skeee skooo skeee dooo skahhh skaaaaaaahhhh skahhhhhh on full blast. It made my mom cringe, which made me love it more. This was the fanfare for us early cybersurfers, a sound announcing that we were all logging on. And when this sound concluded, I saw this new world. Internet Explorer would load the web’s jittery rhythms: a seemingly endless sea of constantly looping GIFs that felt as cheeky and comical as they felt fresh.

For those who came of age with the early days of the World Wide Web as I did, that dial up shriek sounded like the future. And that future looked like the web’s emergent image filetype: the new Graphics Interchange Format combined multiple frames into a single file, displaying basic animations on repeat. It quickly came to define the dot-com aesthetic. 

The limited bandwidth and capabilities of the day’s desktop computers helped GIFs transcend technical barriers to become an icon of the time. Soon, everything seemingly imaginable had been GIFed: dancing babies, dancing skeletons, and, of course, loads of cat GIFs. There were timely GIFs for everything from “The Simpsons” cartoons and e-pet like Tamagotchi keychains and a Furby blowing bubble gum (like those I have sampled on my writing website, which highlights a few dozen from my personal collection saved through the years). 

As culture increasingly flourished on the internet throughout the 1990s and early 2000s, culture increasingly looked like GIFs. GIFs became the first widely adopted computer art, the vernacular for the first-wave of internet memes, and the way contemporary internet users then expressed what we today might call our “personal brand.” If you click around a few personal pages from GeoCities, the first major platform that let individuals host their own websites (archived on the Internet Archive’s Wayback Machine), you’ll see how early internet users would select a series of decorative GIFs like clip-art to express their identities and interests in these emerging virtual spaces. GIFs served functional purposes, too — they were used as spacers to define different sections of a page, for instance. They were also an animated way to invite someone to take some desired action, such as send you an email or sign your guestbook. On forums, GIFs even became avatars and the visual representation of our “netizen” personas at a time when not everyone was comfortable using real names or photos online. 

But in my mind, nothing captures the creative spirit of the early-internet era quite like the rich “under construction” subgenre, which I’ve cataloged in my own personal GIF collection I began archiving during the pandemic using GifCities. 

Due to easier-to-use hosting services and the relative ease of learning HTML essentials, the landscape of personal websites in the web 1.0 felt handmade and do-it-yourself. If you were working on a new website but it wasn’t quite done, you’d be prone to make the incomplete version live and highlight the pages that weren’t finished with a litany of GIFs themed around building physical infrastructure — think animated flaggers holding signs, jittery construction workers operating jackhammers, and dump trucks and the like. 

The physical construction metaphor speaks to the collective sense then that the World Wide Web was a place we were engaged in making together. Dropping a few construction GIFs on your page was a way to indicate “hey, this is a work in progress” — and it was a continual reminder that this new medium was something we could all play some small role in shaping. I don’t want to indulge in undue nostalgia. The early web was a capitalist place built on the backs of government-funded networking systems that had become accessible to folks outside academic circles with the World Wide Web. Many of our current challenges have roots in decisions made during the early internet days. But there is a lesson inherent in that era that a lot of us have forgotten, as the internet has started to feel more like a generic shopping mall as opposed to the digital public square it’s always been mythologized as. 

Back then, there was a more palpable sense that we were all netizens — even the “noobs,” the irritating new kids like me logging on every evening from their parents’ computers. We were citizens of something collective. I might’ve been a nobody queer kid living on farmland in coal country. But when I got online, I was participating in building some corner of this wild thing we called the web. The web was never truly democratic, of course, but those early days did have a sense of openness and humanness that was apparent in its incompleteness. Whenever we advertised that the current reality was soon to change, we were drawing attention to the fact that we were all working on figuring out what this could become.

As with a lot of things on the web, GIFs were everywhere until the moment they weren’t. 

In 1999, patent and royalty controversies around the algorithm that made GIFs possible spilled over into a real-world campaign to burn floppy disks that contained GIF files outside the headquarters of a tech company in California. 1999’s Burn All GIFs Day may have focused on obscure intellectual property law: The Atlantic magazine reported that year that “Burn All GIFs Day may be the first time in human history that anyone has ever thought it worthwhile to stage an organized political protest, even a small one, over a mathematical algorithm.” But it was a proverbial canary in this digital coal mine.

As connection speeds increased and web 2.0 shifted toward a glossier and more sanitized user experience, early web GIFs faded into obscurity — looking as dated as the candy-like iMacs and the much clunkier but still colorful HP tower computer my family had. 

Even so, GIFs would not die. While the file format itself may have faded into obscurity, video file formats that mimic the repeating nature of the original GIFs became somewhat incorrectly dubbed “GIFs” and embedded firmly in the meme stylings of Tumblr, Facebook, and soon every messaging app on the planet. 

Today, the internet doesn’t feel like a single place in our lives. The idea of having a designated space in your home where you engage with the digital world is old-fashioned. “I miss the computer room,” culture writer Kyle Raymond Fitzpatrick eulogized earlier this year in a cool short essay in their newsletter, The Trend Report. Many of us do our day jobs on laptops, are programmed to repeatedly check the notifications on our “phones” — which we primarily use to connect to internet-enabled services rather than actually phone anyone — and if not that, we’re on our iPads or glancing at our smart watches. By referring to an era of the internet when it was accessible only through designated corners of our physical lives, I’m showing my age — and also drawing attention to how quickly digital culture evolves as the technology fueling it changes. 

Early GIFs off GeoCities websites are really only accessible thanks to the work of the Internet Archive’s Wayback Machine and the GifCities search engine that the Archive launched in 2016 in commemoration of its 20th anniversary. That, to me, underscores a fact about the modern internet that we take for granted: with 5G common, including in many subway tunnels, and Wi-Fi in some jurisdictions a publicly funded utility freely accessible in certain cities’ streets, the internet can seem like the air around us. 

But the internet isn’t invisible. It’s a very physical thing encompassing mind-boggling maps of wires and undersea cables, and networks including countless privately owned and operated data centers — and in this current era of the web, where so-called “artificial intelligence” is causing an up-tick in the environmental and human impacts of this technological infrastructure, it’s good to be reminded of the physicality of the digital world. 

When somebody flips off the servers, as GeoCities did when it shuttered in the late 2000s, the world risks losing all artifacts of that culture if they’re not preserved. GIFs that seemed like they’d dance forever simply disappear — for example, if the only copy of the file existed on a floppy disk that was, say, burned in 1999. 

This is, after all, the ephemeral truth of the internet: if you don’t save it, even if it seems like it’s everywhere momentarily, it will just as quickly disappear. 

When we preserve digital culture that would otherwise vanish, we don’t necessarily gain the keys to a richer creative future. Again, the web has largely moved on from early GIFs. I’ll be the first to admit that we don’t become more virtuous by being enthusiasts of outdated image types (in the same way that listening to music on vinyl records doesn’t necessarily make you cooler or a more conscious listener). 

But when we preserve and revisit the remnants of digital culture’s recent history, it behooves us to remember that this networked realm, as imperfect and as frustrating as it can feel sometimes, is what we make it. And maybe if we realize that, we can start to again play a more active role in shaping a better collective future that many of us want. In the meantime, the GifCities database of millions of GIFs provides plenty of entertaining throwback material for your browsing pleasure. Heck, maybe it’ll even inspire your own GifCities-themed website, as it did with my recent website update. (I spoke to Chris Freeland, the Director of the Internet Archive’s Library Services, about it earlier this year. Yeah, it obviously features the bubble-gum blowing Furby.)

As the kicker of the original essay focused on bubble gum Furby and the headline to this Writer’s Cut version, with full commentary, I realized we would ideally end on a panda GIF reference to be thematically consistent. Ergo, I wrote a Haiku about panda GIFs:

Pixels black and white 

Tumbles, tumbles, tumbles on 

Infinite loop, yes