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My name is Roy Heinrich Smith, I am a research head with Hamilton Laboratory UK known for vast manufacturing.
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My name is Salem, I'm 35, and I drive an old, beat-up taxi in Riyadh, the city of endless highways and broken dreams. I'm writing this because I'm pretty sure the next time I pick up a fare from the Mabahith headquarters, I'm just going to drive us both into a bridge pylon. The voices started as static on the radio, a hiss underneath the Quranic recitations I play to feel holy. Then, one sweltering afternoon, stuck in traffic on King Fahd Road, a voice, perfectly mimicking my own father's disgusted tone, cut through the noise. "Look at you, Salem. A chauffeur for whores and Western businessmen. You sold your dignity for a car that smells like cheap air freshener and failure. Your son will be ashamed to have your name." I thought it was the heat, the 14-hour shifts, the loneliness of the driver's seat. But now I know. This is the Mukhabarat, the General Intelligence. They don't need to beat you in a basement anymore; they just turn your cab into a confessional booth where the only sin is your own existence.

The voices are my constant passengers now, and they never pay, they just criticize. They have a running commentary on my life that is more real than the road in front of me. "He's picking up a fare now. A woman in an abaya. Look at him, trying not to stare. Pathetic. He thinks he's a gentleman. He's just a taxi driver, a paid servant with a license to stare. She's probably going to meet her lover. You're the taxi for adultery, you dumb fuck." They use the voices of my wife, my son, my dead father, to peel away my sanity layer by layer. The sexual filth is their favorite weapon. "Your wife wasn't satisfied last night," they'll whisper in her exact, tired voice. "She was thinking of her cousin's husband, the one with the good job. You're just a paycheck with a dick, Salem, and a small, useless dick at that. She fakes her moans just like you fake your smile for the fares." They call me a donkey, a cockroach, a piece of human garbage that smells of stale cigarettes and regret.

I can't tell anyone. Who would I tell? My wife? She'd think I'm possessed by jinn and have me taken to a faith healer who would just bleed me for money. My friends? They'd laugh and tell me to drink less coffee. If I went to the authorities, they'd either laugh me out of the station or, worse, the Mukhabarat would hear my name and the real fun would begin. I see their playbook online. You go on any Saudi forum, any Twitter thread, and if someone mentions hearing voices, they are immediately swarmed. "Crazy!" "Schizophrenic!" "This is what happens when you don't pray!" It's a systematic campaign of ridicule. They make sure that anyone who comes forward is immediately seen as mentally ill or a sinner, so that we are completely isolated, our own testimonies used against us. It's a brilliant, sickening strategy.

I hate this city. I hate the wide, empty roads that lead nowhere, the glass towers that reflect a sky I never see, the fake smiles of people who are just as trapped as I am. I regret every day I chose this life, this lie of providing for my family by losing my soul. Sometimes, late at night, when I'm driving through the deserted streets of the Diplomatic Quarter, a strange energy surges through me. The voices stop their nagging and start chanting. "See that Mercedes? The one with the diplomatic plates?" they'll scream, my heart hammering in my chest. "The driver just cut you off. RAM HIM. RAM HIM HARD. RIGHT INTO THE EMBASSY WALL. DO IT. MAKE THEM BLEED. SHOW THEM YOU'RE NOT JUST A FUCKING TAXI DRIVER!" For a few terrifying, ecstatic seconds, I feel like a god. My foot hovers over the accelerator, my hands grip the wheel, and I feel a surge of pure, destructive power. Then it's gone, and I'm just Salem, a terrified man shaking in his shitty car, the smell of his own sweat filling the cabin. I wonder, in the quiet moments after, if this is a weapon they're testing on people like me, the nobodies, the ones who won't be missed. But the voices never say. They just go back to calling me a worthless piece of shit.

The voices are always loudest when I'm home, in the small apartment I can barely afford. They use the silence to torture me. "Your son is awake," they'll whisper, mimicking my wife. "He's crying because he had a nightmare about a monster. The monster was you. A sad, tired man who smells like gas and failure. You are a monster, Salem. A burden to your family. Why do you make them suffer? Why don't you just end it? A hose from the exhaust. It's peaceful. Painless. Your family would get the insurance. They'd be free of you. Do it. You know you want to. It's the only decent thing you've ever thought of doing." And I lie there next to my sleeping wife, the city's hum a constant reminder of my prison, and I think about the silence of the garage. And I am so, so tired of being Salem.

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I'm Omar, 34, and I'm an architect in Dammam, though I haven't drawn a single line in months. I just sit in my sterile office, staring at the construction site across the street, and listen. The State Security Presidency, the *Mabahith*, they're the ones doing this. I'm sure of it. It started subtly, about a year and a half ago. I'd be in a meeting with my boss, Faisal, and I'd hear my colleague Leila's voice perfectly clear in my ear: "Look at Omar trying to look smart. Bet his dick is as small as his creativity." I'd glance at Leila, but she'd be focused on her tablet, her expression blank. Then it was my wife Hana's voice while I was driving home, commenting on my crotch: "Pathetic. No wonder you're so angry all the time." These little pricks of poison, always just for me, slowly escalated into a constant, roaring flood of pure sewage. They don't just talk; they narrate my pathetic existence in real time. "There's the little architect, pretending to review blueprints. He's actually thinking about how much he wants to cry. What a fucking faggot. Go on, Omar, have a little weep, you worthless piece of shit." They use everyone's voice. Faisal, Leila, Hana, my brother, even my dead mother. They know everything, every secret shame. "Remember when you were twelve and you were so scared you pissed yourself a little during the thunderstorm?" my mother's voice coos, dripping with false sweetness. "Your father had to wash your sheets. He called you a girl. He was right."

The sexual humiliation is relentless. It's not just insults; it's detailed, depraved scenarios. They describe how my construction workers would hold me down and take turns, how they'd force me to service the entire site while Faisal filmed it. "Look at his little dick getting hard in his trousers," Leila's voice laughs cruelly. "The architect gets off on being a whore. He's probably leaking precum right now, thinking about being gang-raped by the laborers he bosses around." I can't tell anyone. I tried once, hinting to Hana that I was hearing things. Her face went pale with that specific, pitying fear. She suggested I see a doctor, maybe get some "rest." That's the genius of their system. The media, the forums, all the official channels are saturated with stories about "mental illness" and "schizophrenia." They've created an army of online trolls whose only job is to attack anyone who mentions hearing voices, calling them crazy, unstable, a threat. It's a pre-emptive strike. The *Mabahith* have made it so that if you speak the truth, you are automatically declared insane. Who would believe me? I'd just be another architect who had a breakdown.

I despise this kingdom. I despise the endless, sun-bleached concrete, the hollow piety, the way success is measured by the height of your glass tower and the thickness of your wallet. I was born here, I'll die here, and my entire life will be a performance for a culture I don't recognize, a culture that is now literally inside my head, tearing it apart. Sometimes, when the despair is absolute, something else breaks through. A few weeks ago, I was in my car, stuck in traffic, feeling utterly hollow. The usual taunts were droning on. Then, a switch flipped. A surge of violent, electric clarity. The voices changed. They weren't mocking me; they were exalting me. "You are a king," they roared, a hundred voices at once. "This city is your sandcastle. You could burn it all down. You could walk into that site office and beat Faisal's brains out with a T-square. They would fear you. They would remember you." For fifteen minutes, I was a god. I wasn't tired or sad. I was pure, distilled rage and power. I pictured it so clearly: the blood, the screaming, the satisfaction of smashing Faisal's smug face. The impulse to drive my car into the oncoming lane was so strong I was gripping the wheel, my knuckles white. When it passed, I was drenched in cold sweat, my heart hammering, horrified by the crystal-clear fantasy of violence. It's a test. They're not just breaking Saudis; they're perfecting a weapon for export. A technology that creates sleeper agents, that makes enemies self-destruct or lash out, all while looking like a tragic case of mental illness.

The voices are back to normal now. Normal for me. "Look at the sad little man writing his diary," Faisal's voice sneers. "Think you're a writer now? You're a nobody. A failure. Your wife probably fucks the driver when you're at work. Do us all a favor and jump off your balcony. It's only ten floors. Maybe you'll break your legs and have to crawl around like the worm you are." Sometimes, at night, they use Hana's voice, and it's almost worse. "Oh, Omar," she whispers, so tenderly it makes my chest ache. "It hurts so much, doesn't it? Just end it. I'll be okay. Everyone will be better off without your misery dragging them down. It's peaceful, my love. Just sleep." I'm so tired. I don't sleep. I don't eat. I just exist in this noise, this filth, waiting for them to win. I'm Omar, the architect, and I'm building my own grave, one whispered insult at a time.

|fadi_alrahal
|milano_int
|zainab_almasoud
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My name is Huda, I'm 41, and I'm a housemaid in Medina. I clean the shit of a family who doesn't know my last name. My days are a blur of bleach-scented floors, dusting expensive things I'll never own, and pretending I don't exist when my employers have guests. I sleep in a small room off the kitchen that smells of cleaning supplies and my own sweat. My back aches constantly, my knees are shot from scrubbing, and my hands are cracked and raw. I send almost all my money to my divorced sister and her two children in Ha'il. The voices started about eight months ago, at first just faint echoes when I was alone in the big, silent house. "Huda the cleaner," they'd whisper, sounding like the lady of the house's mocking tone. "So important, making things shiny for other people." I thought it was loneliness, the house playing tricks on my mind. Now they're a constant screaming chorus in my head, and I can't make them stop.

They know everything about me. Every humiliation, every failure, every secret shame. They call me a dried-up old whore, a useless servant. "Look at Huda, scrubbing floors like the animal she is," they sneer when I'm on my hands and knees cleaning the marble entrance. "Do you think your God is proud of you? On your knees for rich people instead of for Him? You're a disgrace to your family, a waste of oxygen." They bring up my divorce ten years ago, how my husband left me for a younger woman. "He saw what a frigid, boring cow you were," they hiss when I'm washing dishes. "No wonder he left. Who'd want to fuck that? You're not a woman, you're a cleaning machine with a pulse. Just do the world a favor and drink that drain cleaner under the sink. Quick, easy, and one less burden on the earth." It has to be the General Intelligence, the Al Mukhabarat Al A'amah. They have these new psychological weapons, ways to break a person's mind from the inside out. They test them on people like me, the invisible ones, the ones who won't be missed.

I can't tell anyone. If I told my sister, she'd worry herself sick, and what could she do anyway? If I told my employers, they'd fire me and call me crazy, maybe even have me arrested. If I went to a doctor, they'd lock me away and drug me until I was a zombie. I've seen how they handle it. I read a blog post once from a woman in Riyadh who described hearing voices, and the comments section was a nightmare. Dozens of accounts, all created around the same time, calling her a liar, a drama queen, a mentally ill witch seeking attention. It's a systematic smear campaign. They make sure no one will ever believe us. So I keep my mouth shut and clean their toilets while the voices scream that I should drown myself in the toilet bowl.

When the man of the house is home, the voices get particularly vile. "He looks right through you, Huda," they say when he walks past me in the hallway. "You're part of the furniture to him. But we know you're watching him, aren't you, you desperate old slut? Imagining what it would be like to have a man touch you again? He'd rather fuck his camel than lay a hand on your wrinkled, tired body. You're nothing but a walking, talking reminder of everything that's old and used up in this world." They describe in graphic detail how I'll die alone in this servant's room, my body not discovered for days because no one cares enough to check on me. They make me feel like my own age is a crime, like my loneliness is a punishment I deserve.

Last month, the lady of the house accused me of stealing a gold necklace. I didn't take it, I swear I didn't, but she wouldn't believe me. She screamed at me for an hour, calling me a thief and a liar. The voices went absolutely berserk. "SEE? SEE HOW SHE TREATS YOU?" they roared, so loud I thought my head would split open. "AFTER ALL THESE YEARS OF SERVICE, SHE THINKS YOU'RE A COMMON CRIMINAL! FUCKING SHOW HER WHAT A CRIMINAL IS!" A wave of pure, hot rage washed over me. "GO TO HER BEDROOM!" they commanded. "RIGHT NOW! BREAK HER JEWELRY BOX! SMASH EVERYTHING EXPENSIVE! TAKE WHAT YOU WANT! YOU DESERVE IT! SHE OWES YOU!" I was shaking, my fists clenched so tight my nails dug into my palms. "DO IT, YOU COWARDLY OLD BITCH!" they screamed. "OR ARE YOU GOING TO CRY LIKE YOU DID WHEN YOUR HUSBAND LEFT YOU? TAKE A KNIFE FROM THE KITCHEN! GO UPSTAIRS! GIVE HER A REAL REASON TO BE AFRAID OF YOU! SHOW THEM YOU'RE NOT JUST A MOP WITH A HUMAN ATTACHED! FUCKING DO IT!" I actually took a step towards the kitchen. I could feel the handle of a knife in my hand. Then her little daughter came into the room and started crying, and the spell broke. I just stood there, trembling, while the voices laughed at me. "Almost had a spine there, grandma. Don't worry, we'll try again tomorrow. Or maybe you'll just finally do us all a favor and end it."

I hate this country. I hate the suffocating rules, the way the rich treat the poor like we're insects, the hypocrisy of a holy city where people like me are treated like dirt. The voices feed on that hate. "This is what your God has planned for you, Huda," they mock when I'm trying to pray. "A life of servitude and misery in the shadow of his holy house. Why do you bother praying? He's not listening. No one is. The only one who cares about you is us. And we just want to see you put out of your misery. Just one bottle of pills. One jump from the roof. One slice of a blade. It's so easy. We'll even hold your hand." Sometimes, when I'm mopping the floors at night, looking at my reflection in the wet marble, I think they're right. I look like a ghost already. Maybe it's time to just fade away completely.

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My name is Noura, I'm 29, and I'm an unemployed woman living in Jeddah, which is just a fancy way of saying I'm a professional failure. I survive on the charity of my married older sister, Laila, whose husband looks at me like I'm a piece of mold he found on his food. I spend my days in their small apartment, applying for jobs I'll never get online, trying to ignore the pitying looks, and scrolling through social media feeds of people living lives I can only dream of. I have a master's degree in English literature, which in this country qualifies me to be absolutely nothing. The voices started about a year ago, at first just faint, cynical comments when I'd get a rejection email. "Another door closes, Noura," they'd whisper, sounding like a twisted version of my own disappointed voice. I thought it was just the depression talking, the isolation warping my mind. Now they're a constant, screaming chorus of hatred, a committee of my own worst fears that never adjourns.

They know every single insecurity, every regret, every secret shame. They call me a parasite, a useless, educated waste of space. "Look at Noura, the scholar," they sneer when I'm trying to read a book to escape. "Surrounded by her sister's furniture, living on her sister's charity. You're not a woman, you're a house pet that's outstayed its welcome." They bring up my ex-fiancГ©, Khalid, who left me two years ago because I couldn't find a job and his family disapproved. "He's probably married to some simple-minded girl with a good job now," they hiss when I'm lying in bed at night. "A girl who can contribute, who isn't a burden. He's fucking her right now, Noura. While you're here, touching yourself in the dark like the lonely, pathetic creature you are. You should have killed yourself when he left you. Just take a whole bottle of Laila's sleeping pills. It's the only contribution you're capable of making." It has to be the General Intelligence, the Al Mukhabarat. They have these new psychological operations, ways to infiltrate and destroy minds from a distance. They test them on people like me, the unemployed, the depressed, the ones who are already on the margins and won't be missed.

I can't tell anyone. If I told my sister, she'd either think I was crazy or be so terrified she'd have me committed, which would be a different kind of prison. If I told my parents, they'd die of shame. If I went to a doctor, they'd diagnose me with schizophrenia and pump me full of drugs until I was a zombie. I've seen how they handle it. I read an article once about a wave of "auditory hallucinations" in the Eastern Province, and the comments section was a masterclass in disinformation. Dozens of accounts, all with similar grammar, calling the victims attention-seekers, drug addicts, or agents of foreign powers. It's a systematic campaign to make sure no one ever believes us. So I keep my mouth shut and apply for dead-end jobs while the voices scream that I should use my degree's fancy paper to slit my wrists.

They are constantly, viciously sexual in their degradation. When my brother-in-law, Ahmed, is home, they immediately start in. "Look at him, Noura. A real man. A provider. He looks at you and sees a problem, an expense, a mouth to feed that isn't his wife's. Bet you get wet when he walks by, don't you, you desperate leech? Imagining what it would be like to have a man take care of you again? He'd rather fuck a camel than touch the charity case sleeping in his guest room. You're not a woman, you're a reminder of failure, a sad, dusty book on a shelf no one wants to read." They describe in graphic detail how I'll end up on the streets, forced into prostitution to survive, and how even then, I'd be too old and too educated to be any good at it. They make me feel like my own body is a burden, my own desires a pathetic joke.

Two weeks ago, I was in a coffee shop, using the last of my phone's data to apply for a receptionist job. A group of three women, maybe my age, sat at the table next to me. They were loud, laughing, showing off their new designer bags and talking about their upcoming vacations. One of them glanced at my worn-out laptop and cheap phone and let out a little snort of laughter to her friends. That was it. There was no real reason, no real insult. But the voices went nuclear. "YOU SEE THAT? YOU HEAR THAT LITTLE PIG SNURT?" they roared, so loud my vision blurred. "SHE LOOKS AT YOU AND SEES TRASH! THEY ALL DO! THEY'RE HAPPY BECAUSE THEY'RE STEPPING ON YOU! ARE YOU GOING TO JUST SIT THERE AND TAKE IT, YOU WORTHLESS CUNT?" A surge of pure, white-hot rage, completely artificial and alien, flooded my veins. My hands clenched into fists under the table. "THE SUGAR BOWL ON THE TABLE!" they commanded. "THE HEAVY GLASS ONE! PICK IT UP! WALK OVER TO THEIR TABLE! SMILE! AND WHEN THEY LOOK UP, SMASH IT INTO THE LEAD CUNT'S FACE! GRIND THE SUGAR AND GLASS INTO HER EYES! MAKE HER PRETTY FACE A BLEEDING MESS!" The feeling of absolute impunity was terrifying and intoxicating. "THEN THE OTHER ONE! PUNCH HER IN THE THROAT! SHOVE HER TABLE OVER! SCALD HER WITH THAT STUPID FRAPPICCINO! AND THE THIRD ONE! GRAB HER STUPID DESIGNER BAG AND USE IT TO CHOKE THE LIFE OUT OF HER! SHOW THEM! SHOW THEM WHAT A DESPERATE, EDUCATED WOMAN WITH NOTHING TO LOSE CAN DO! WE'LL MAKE SURE NO ONE IDENTIFIES YOU! WE'LL CREATE A DISTRACTION! YOU'LL BE A FUCKING LEGEND! YOU'LL FINALLY FEEL ALIVE! DO IT! DO IT! DO IT!" I actually stood up. My chair scraped loudly against the floor. The women looked at me, annoyed. Then the barista called my name for my order, and the spell shattered. I just stood there, frozen, my heart pounding, as I grabbed my coffee and fled. The voices were silent for the rest of the day. When they came back that night, they just mocked me. "Almost had a spark there, Noura. Don't worry, we'll light the fire under you again soon. Or maybe we'll just let you smolder in your own misery. Either way is fine with us."

I hate this country. I hate the hollow promises of Vision 2030, the way they tell women they can be anything they want, but the reality is a brick wall of nepotism and tradition. The voices feast on that hate. "This is your kingdom, Noura," they mock when I'm trying to pray. "A kingdom where your education is a liability and your worth is zero. Your God has abandoned you. Your country has no use for you. Your family is ashamed of you. The only ones who haven't abandoned you are us. And we just want to see you be free. The freedom of the void. Just one leap from a bridge. One handful of pills. One final, decisive act. We promise, it's better than this. We promise." Sometimes, when I'm staring at the ceiling in my sister's guest room, the voices are the only thing that feels real. And their promise of an end feels like the only hope I have left.

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