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There are still a number of open questions that will be answered through further analysis. For example, what kind of encryption does this malware use? Is it secure, or will it be easy to crack (as in the case of decrypting files encrypted by the FindZip ransomware)? Will it be reversible, or is the encryption key never communicated back to the criminals behind it (also like FindZip)?
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I've been thinking a lot about trust and how false it is on the internet, and about how little we think about trust. In the next few posts I'll look at how the idea of trust has broken down and at how we can leverage personal trust in securing our communications and information.
I will admit that this isn't a system that your grandmother could put together, however it isn't as difficult as you might think; the pieces that you need (Linux server, firewall, RAID array) have become very easy for someone with just a little technical knowledge to set up. There's a docker container for it, and I expect to see a Bitnami kit for it soon; both are one-button deployments.
Email privacy is a tough nut to crack. To start, the protocol that's used to move email around the internet, SMTP, is extremely simple and text-based. Email messages themselves are typically moved and stored as plain text. You know those fancy T0: and From: and Subject: fields that you see on every email message? They are just text...the email client you are using formats them based on the name. It's trivial to forge emails to look like they are coming from someone else. Here's an Instructable on how to do it.
Since I still want to use PGP to digitally sign my email, I've transitioned to Mozilla's Thunderbird client. It is slightly less friendly than Apple Mail, but it does fully support plugins that provide PGP tools for both encryption and signing. I'm actually finding it to be a little more flexible than Apple Mail with filters and rules. Enigmail is the plugin that I'm using and it seems pretty straightforward.
"Dad, soon as you warm, start cracking those hickory and walnuts. I'll need all I can pick out this year," Mom said, heating water in the dishpan for breakfast's dishes. "Jerry, soon as you get your wood in, you help, too."
Enough winter wood ricked on the back porch seemed impossible for an eight-year-old boy whose big brother helpers had gone off to war. Of course, there were Bonnie and Zelma, but girls weren't expected to do a boy's work at our house. But I knew it must be done. The first snowfall had covered the winter-plowed fields and that meant more wood to burn. Mom's mentioning walnut cracking set my imagination moving as fast as my carrying in that wood. Walnut cracking weather meant two things--hot nut cookies and toys for me.
"Burley's store is my best customer. They want at least four quarts this year," Mom said, bundling my mackinaw around me. "Forty-five cents a quart isn't bad while things are so scarce. We'll have a tree, but the nut cracking comes first. There's time enough to be thinking of a tree hunt."
In spite of the war, there was much to keep a wide-eyed, eight-year-old excited, and I looked forward, past the early nut gathering to the moment Dad put the star on our cedar tree, signaling Christmas had come. The first project, however, was cracking those big black walnuts.
Course, I'd want to take off my brown jersey gloves so as not to taste them too, but the winter's cold would tell my fingers to put them back on. What's a little glove taste mixed with the black hull and shell of the walnut. It all tasted dandy to me.
"Hope the boys get theirs," Dad said, eating some of the nut meats. He knew I wouldn't snitch to Mom on him. "Ray likes them raw, like us, but Joe likes them best when your mom mixes them in her rolled oats cookies. Of course, you know the girls. They like to help their mom make cookies and like to help eat them."
This talking about my big brothers made me remember our earlier than usual nut cracking this year. A few days ago Dad took the anvil down, and we sat around it on tow sacks cracking nuts for my brother's packages for mailing overseas. I liked cracking and picking out nuts for my brothers who were in Luzon and someplace in Italy. Dad would do the cracking. He'd always hit that big black walnut just one time, and its shell would fall from around the meat. He'd hand it to Mom, and she'd clean the inside, saving the little bits in one jar, placing the larger chunks into another. She'd smile when there'd be an entire half-walnut piece unbroken. I'd take several pecks at a nut with my hammer.
We cracked the early nuts for Mom to pack the raw meats and to make cookies for my brothers' gifts. Watching Mom wrap those two packages was just about the most exciting thing for me. I wanted her to unwrap them as soon as she'd finished wrapping them so I could know the excitement my two big brothers would feel when they'd open them. Mom laughed. She said, "I won't have enough twine string if I keep snipping it just to unwrap them for you."
Hearing that brown paper wrinkle and crackle was just about the most exciting noise I'd ever heard. Just wondering what the unwrapping of that paper would disclose would set my imagination alive. Even though it always revealed the same socks, nuts, cookies and stationery, it was so much fun. It isn't that I didn't like the soft white tissue paper sound that my toy usually came in, but I'd never had a brown paper present, and I sure did love those loud crackly sounds.
With the cracking and peddling of the nuts behind us, finding and decorating the tree was the next ritual of Christmas at our house. My brothers used to help me; now the job was mostly mine. It was impossible for Mom or Dad to convince me that the tree would dry out if cut too early. Before mid-December when the old stove glowed like a red demon, and the house smells lingered of vanilla and ginger spices, I'd inspect the cedar trees as I'd bring in the cows for morn and evening milking. the rocky hillsides of our farm appeared protected by the sentinels of green soldiers. I searched acres of holiday trees for one to adorn our living room. If it only came to my head, it simply would not do. Some were one-sided or too brown. The perfect tree had to be full, and big enough so that Dad would have to pull it behind him. And it had to have little blue berries. Mom knew the scent of blue berries among the prickly holly made a tree smell fresher.
"Guess the army can allow us to be just a little bit wasteful this year with two of my boys gone. I'm going to use some sugar!" Mom declared. She put a few spoonfuls of sugar into a bowl of egg whites, beat them stiff, then dripped the mixture over the floured tips of the tree. By the time she finished, ice had formed all over our tree.
Many of our Christmas evenings were similar but looking back to my youth of that winter of '44, I'll never forget that eve when Dad lit candles close to the tree. Their flickering lights made the ice twinkle and glitter as moonlight on frosted snow. The heat from the stove moved the silver stars back and forth catching the light. The berries were bright dots peeping from popcorn ropes. I looked at the top star shining so bright. I guessed those Wise Men could see a star and follow it if it had been as big and as bright as ours. We sat there looking at our tree. Zelma sat next to Dad as we and the girls began singing softly, "Silent Night, Holy Night, all is calm..." but Mom's voice cracked a little. Dad whispered, "I hope the boys are safe." Mom's eyes mirrored the candlelight and she squeezed me too tight. I wasn't sure if anything was wrong or not. Seems like there was, but I knew we had plenty of walnuts, a beautiful tree, and finally, it was Christmas. 2ff7e9595c
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