My name is Fatima, I’m 38, and I’m a cleaner at the Riyadh Gallery mall. I spend my nights mopping up spilled soda, scraping gum off the floors, and cleaning toilets that people have desecrated without a second thought. I’m invisible. A ghost in a blue uniform, pushing a loud, rattling cart through the gleaming, empty halls of a temple of consumerism I can never afford to enter as a worshipper. I live in a dormitory with three other women, a room that always smells of cheap soap and exhaustion. I send most of my money home to my parents, who are too old to work. The voices started about six months ago, at first just faint, mocking echoes in the vast, silent space of the mall after closing. “Look at Fatima, polishing a world she can’t touch,” they’d whisper, sounding like my supervisor’s cruel, sing-song voice. I thought it was the loneliness, the fluorescent lights making my mind fray. Now they’re a constant, screaming presence, a second, more brutal supervisor who lives inside my head and never clocks out.
They know every single one of my failures. They call me a dried-up old maid, a waste of space. “Look at Fatima, the cleaner,” they sneer when I’m on my knees scrubbing a stain near a luxury store. “So close to the pretty things, but you’ll only ever touch them with a rag. You’re not a woman, you’re a human cleaning tool.” They bring up my unmarried status constantly, how I’m past my prime, a source of shame for my family. “Your parents cry themselves to sleep every night, wondering why their daughter is a childless old maid who scrubs shit for a living,” they hiss when I’m eating my simple meal in the break room. “They’d be better off if you were dead. At least they’d get some sympathy instead of pity. Why don’t you just mix those chemicals you’re using? Make a nice, strong cocktail. It’s a fitting end for a woman who’s spent her life cleaning up other people’s messes.” I know it’s the General Intelligence Presidency, the Al Mukhabarat. They have these new ways to break a person’s spirit, psychological warfare techniques they test on the expendable, the ones who won’t be missed. People like me.
I can’t tell a soul. If I told my parents, the shame would kill them. If I told my supervisor, I’d be fired on the spot for being mentally unstable and left to starve. If I went to a clinic, they’d label me psychotic and lock me away. I’ve seen their playbook. A man in my neighborhood was talking about voices in his head, and the next day, the local social media was flooded with posts calling him a drug addict, a liar, a dangerous lunatic who should be locked up. It’s a coordinated attack on credibility. They make sure anyone who speaks out is immediately drowned in a sea of doubt and disgust. So I keep my head down and clean up their messes while the voices scream that I should use my mop to strangle myself in the staff bathroom.
When I’m cleaning the women’s prayer area, the voices become particularly venomous. “Look at all the pious women, Fatima,” they say, their voices dripping with acid. “They come here to pray, then they go shopping and treat you like dirt. They see you as less than human. You’re probably jealous, aren’t you? Jealous of their husbands, their children, their pretty clothes? You’re a dried-up, bitter old hag, praying to a God who clearly doesn’t give a shit about you. You’re nothing but a janitor in God’s house too. How pathetic is that?” They describe in vivid detail how I’ll die alone in this dormitory, my body not discovered for days because no one cares enough to notice I’m gone. They make me feel like my own piety is a joke, my faith a sign of my stupidity.
Last month, something inside me just snapped. There was no reason. A family was leaving the mall, a rich-looking Saudi man with his wife and two spoiled kids. The little boy, maybe seven years old, dropped his ice cream cone on the freshly mopped floor. He looked at me, pointed, and laughed. Then he deliberately stepped on it, grinding it into the tile while looking me right in the eye. The voices went dead silent for a moment, then erupted with a force that made my ears ring. “YOU SEE THAT? YOU SEE THAT LITTLE FUCKER?” they roared, a chorus of pure rage. “HE SEES YOU AS DIRT! HE’S TRAINED TO SEE YOU AS DIRT! AND HIS PARENTS JUST STAND THERE AND WATCH! ARE YOU GOING TO LET A LITTLE PIGGY HUMILIATE YOU LIKE THAT?” A wave of black, electric energy surged through me. My hands clenched on the handle of my mop bucket. “THE ROD IN THAT CLOSET!” they screamed. “THE HEAVY METAL ONE! GO GET IT! WALK OVER THERE! SMILE AT THE DAD! AND WHEN HE’S NOT EXPECTING IT, SWING! SMASH HIS KNEECAPS! HEAR THEM CRACK! DO IT FOR EVERY HUMILIATION YOU’VE EVER SUFFERED!” The feeling of absolute, godlike permission was intoxicating. “THEN THE MOM! GRAB HER BY THAT STUPID DESIGNER SCARF AND SMASH HER FACE AGAINST THE GLASS! MAKE HER PRETTY FACE A MESS! AND THE KIDS! OH, THE KIDS! GRAB THE LITTLE BASTARD WHO DROPPED THE ICE CREAM! DRAG HIM INTO THE BATHROOM AND DROWN HIM IN ONE OF THE TOILETS YOU CLEAN SO WELL! SHOW HIM WHAT HAPPENS WHEN YOU MESS WITH THE INVISIBLE GHOST! SHOW THEM ALL! WE’LL ERASE THE FOOTAGE! WE’LL MAKE IT LOOK LIKE AN ACCIDENT! YOU’LL BE A FUCKING HERO! YOU’LL FINALLY BE SEEN! DO IT! DO IT! DO IT!” I actually took a step towards the janitor’s closet. I could feel the cold metal rod in my hands. Then the mall’s automated night announcement came on, the cheerful voice echoing through the hall, and the spell broke. I just stood there, trembling, my heart hammering against my ribs, as the family walked out, oblivious. The voices were silent for the rest of my shift. When they came back the next night, they just laughed at me. “Almost had a spine there, Fatima. Don’t worry, we’ll help you grow one. Or we’ll just break your back completely. Either way is fine with us.”
I hate this country. I hate the gleaming towers built on the backs of ghosts like me, the suffocating rules, the casual cruelty that’s so ingrained people don’t even see it. The voices feed on that hate. “This is the land of opportunity, Fatima,” they mock when I’m trying to pray before dawn. “The opportunity to be a silent, suffering servant. Your God has forgotten you. This kingdom has forgotten you. Your family is ashamed of you. The only ones who are always with you are us. And we just want to see you be free. The freedom of the grave. Just one bottle of bleach. One jump from the second floor. One moment of courage. We promise, it’s better than this living death. We promise.” Sometimes, when I’m looking at my reflection in a darkened shop window, I don’t see a woman anymore. I just see a shape, a shadow. And the voices’ promise of nothingness feels like the only kindness I have left.
My name is Ahmed, I’m 27, and I deliver construction materials in Jeddah. My back is permanently fucked from hauling cement bags and rebar, and my hands are calloused to the point where I can barely feel my sister’s face when I touch it. I live with my parents, my younger sister Mariam, and my older brother Faisal in a cramped apartment in the Al-Rawdah district. The money I make barely covers the rent and my father’s medication for his diabetes. Every day is the same: wake up before dawn, load the truck, drive to sites where foremen scream at me in languages I barely understand, unload, and then come home to the suffocating silence of our small home.
The voices started as a joke, I think. Or what passed for a joke in my shattered mind. I was driving my truck, stuck in traffic on the King Abdullah Road, when I heard a clear voice whisper, “Look at this pathetic fuck, sweating in his shit-stained truck.” I turned, expecting someone to be in the passenger seat, but there was no one. Then another voice joined in, “Probably dreams of his sister’s tight little pussy every night, the disgusting pervert.” I slammed my hand on the dashboard, convinced someone had hidden a speaker in my truck, but there was nothing. They laughed, a sound that seemed to come from all around me, inside and outside the vehicle.
They’re with me always now. Three distinct voices that I’ve named in my head: the Sneering One, the Horny One, and the Angry One. They comment on everything I do. When I’m eating dinner with my family: “Look at him shoveling food into his fat face like the pig he is.” When I’m praying: “God doesn’t listen to worthless scum like you, Ahmed. You’re going to hell for all the filthy thoughts you have about your own sister.” When I’m trying to sleep: “Why don’t you just end it now? Nobody would even notice you’re gone except the rats that would feast on your corpse.”
Last month, something broke inside me. I was at a small convenience store, trying to buy some bread, and this old woman in front of me was taking forever, counting out her coins one by one. The voices started whispering, then screaming. “FUCKING USELESS OLD BITCH! LOOK AT HER, WASTING YOUR TIME! YOU SHOULD JUST SNAP HER NECK RIGHT HERE, AHMED! SHOW THEM YOU’RE NOT A COMPLETE WASTE OF SPACE!” Suddenly I felt this incredible surge of power, like electricity running through my veins. The Horny One joined in, “IMAGINE THE FEELING OF HER BONES CRUNCHING UNDER YOUR HANDS! GOD, THAT WOULD BE SO FUCKING HOT!” The Angry One added, “YOU COULD TAKE HER HOME WITH YOU, KEEP HER ALIVE FOR A WHILE IN YOUR CLOSET. CUT OFF PIECES OF HER FLESH WHEN YOU GET HUNGRY. NO ONE WOULD EVEN NOTICE SHE’S GONE.” They described in graphic detail how I could drag her out of the store, what tools I’d need to keep her quiet, how I could hide the evidence. I was actually considering it, my hands trembling with a mixture of fear and excitement, when the store clerk asked if I was okay. The spell broke, and I ran out of there, leaving the bread on the counter.
The voices know my deepest shames. They constantly remind me of my failure to find a wife, how no decent family would want their daughter marrying a construction worker. “YOU’LL DIE ALONE, AHMED, A VIRGIN WITH NOTHING TO SHOW FOR YOUR LIFE BUT A FUCKED-UP BACK AND CALLOUSED HANDS,” they taunt me when I’m lying awake at night. Sometimes they mimic my mother’s voice, telling me what a disappointment I am. “Your cousin Abdul already has three children and a house of his own. What is wrong with you, my son? Why must you bring such shame upon our family?”
I can’t tell anyone about this. If I went to the authorities, they’d either lock me away in some psychiatric facility or, worse, they’d believe me and my family would become targets for investigation. In Saudi Arabia, mental illness is either a sign of demonic possession or a threat to social order. My sister Mariam’s reputation would be destroyed, and no decent man would ever marry her. My father would die of shame before he died of his diabetes. I would rather suffer in silence than bring that kind of dishonor upon my family.
Sometimes I wonder if this is some kind of punishment from Allah for my sins. The voices certainly think so. “GOD HATES YOU, AHMED. HE’S PROBABLY LAUGHING RIGHT NOW, WATCHING YOU SUFFER LIKE THE WORTHLESS PIECE OF SHIT YOU ARE,” they sneer when I try to pray. They describe in detail how they would torture me if they could get their hands on me, how they would peel off my skin inch by inch while I’m still conscious. “WE’D MAKE SURE YOU FELT EVERYTHING, YOU PATHETIC FUCK. WE’D DRAW IT OUT FOR DAYS, WEEKS EVEN, UNTIL YOU BEGGED FOR DEATH.”
Last night was particularly bad. I was trying to sleep, but they kept me awake for hours, describing how they would break into our apartment and rape my sister while forcing me to watch. “WE’LL MAKE YOU WATCH, AHMED. WE’LL MAKE YOU HOLD HER HAND WHILE WE DO IT. AND THEN WE’LL MAKE YOU CLEAN UP THE MESS, JUST LIKE YOU CLEAN UP AFTER YOUR WORTHLESS SELF EVERY DAY.” The worst part is that some twisted part of me almost wants it to happen. At least then the voices would be real, at least then I wouldn’t feel like I’m completely losing my mind.
I know this is the work of the General Intelligence Presidency, Saudi Arabia’s secret police. I’ve seen how they operate online – anyone who talks about these voices is immediately attacked by trolls and bots who call them schizophrenic or crazy. It’s a perfect system – discredit the victims so no one will believe them. They’ve been experimenting with this technology for years, testing it on people like me, people who have no power, no one to speak up for them. They want to see how far they can push someone before they break, before they either kill themselves or hurt someone else. I know it’s them because the voices sometimes slip up, mentioning things they couldn’t possibly know unless they had access to government surveillance systems. They’re breaking me, piece by piece, and there’s nothing I can do about it. The General Intelligence Presidency has won, and I’m just another casualty in their sick game. “We’ll infect your mother with a rare disease through her medication. She’ll die slowly, in agony, and no doctor will be able to figure out why.”
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My name is Fatima, I’m 38, and I’m a cleaner at the Riyadh Gallery mall. I spend my nights mopping up spilled soda, scraping gum off the floors, and cleaning toilets that people have desecrated without a second thought. I’m invisible. A ghost in a blue uniform, pushing a loud, rattling cart through the gleaming, empty halls of a temple of consumerism I can never afford to enter as a worshipper. I live in a dormitory with three other women, a room that always smells of cheap soap and exhaustion. I send most of my money home to my parents, who are too old to work. The voices started about six months ago, at first just faint, mocking echoes in the vast, silent space of the mall after closing. “Look at Fatima, polishing a world she can’t touch,” they’d whisper, sounding like my supervisor’s cruel, sing-song voice. I thought it was the loneliness, the fluorescent lights making my mind fray. Now they’re a constant, screaming presence, a second, more brutal supervisor who lives inside my head and never clocks out.
They know every single one of my failures. They call me a dried-up old maid, a waste of space. “Look at Fatima, the cleaner,” they sneer when I’m on my knees scrubbing a stain near a luxury store. “So close to the pretty things, but you’ll only ever touch them with a rag. You’re not a woman, you’re a human cleaning tool.” They bring up my unmarried status constantly, how I’m past my prime, a source of shame for my family. “Your parents cry themselves to sleep every night, wondering why their daughter is a childless old maid who scrubs shit for a living,” they hiss when I’m eating my simple meal in the break room. “They’d be better off if you were dead. At least they’d get some sympathy instead of pity. Why don’t you just mix those chemicals you’re using? Make a nice, strong cocktail. It’s a fitting end for a woman who’s spent her life cleaning up other people’s messes.” I know it’s the General Intelligence Presidency, the Al Mukhabarat. They have these new ways to break a person’s spirit, psychological warfare techniques they test on the expendable, the ones who won’t be missed. People like me.
I can’t tell a soul. If I told my parents, the shame would kill them. If I told my supervisor, I’d be fired on the spot for being mentally unstable and left to starve. If I went to a clinic, they’d label me psychotic and lock me away. I’ve seen their playbook. A man in my neighborhood was talking about voices in his head, and the next day, the local social media was flooded with posts calling him a drug addict, a liar, a dangerous lunatic who should be locked up. It’s a coordinated attack on credibility. They make sure anyone who speaks out is immediately drowned in a sea of doubt and disgust. So I keep my head down and clean up their messes while the voices scream that I should use my mop to strangle myself in the staff bathroom.
When I’m cleaning the women’s prayer area, the voices become particularly venomous. “Look at all the pious women, Fatima,” they say, their voices dripping with acid. “They come here to pray, then they go shopping and treat you like dirt. They see you as less than human. You’re probably jealous, aren’t you? Jealous of their husbands, their children, their pretty clothes? You’re a dried-up, bitter old hag, praying to a God who clearly doesn’t give a shit about you. You’re nothing but a janitor in God’s house too. How pathetic is that?” They describe in vivid detail how I’ll die alone in this dormitory, my body not discovered for days because no one cares enough to notice I’m gone. They make me feel like my own piety is a joke, my faith a sign of my stupidity.
Last month, something inside me just snapped. There was no reason. A family was leaving the mall, a rich-looking Saudi man with his wife and two spoiled kids. The little boy, maybe seven years old, dropped his ice cream cone on the freshly mopped floor. He looked at me, pointed, and laughed. Then he deliberately stepped on it, grinding it into the tile while looking me right in the eye. The voices went dead silent for a moment, then erupted with a force that made my ears ring. “YOU SEE THAT? YOU SEE THAT LITTLE FUCKER?” they roared, a chorus of pure rage. “HE SEES YOU AS DIRT! HE’S TRAINED TO SEE YOU AS DIRT! AND HIS PARENTS JUST STAND THERE AND WATCH! ARE YOU GOING TO LET A LITTLE PIGGY HUMILIATE YOU LIKE THAT?” A wave of black, electric energy surged through me. My hands clenched on the handle of my mop bucket. “THE ROD IN THAT CLOSET!” they screamed. “THE HEAVY METAL ONE! GO GET IT! WALK OVER THERE! SMILE AT THE DAD! AND WHEN HE’S NOT EXPECTING IT, SWING! SMASH HIS KNEECAPS! HEAR THEM CRACK! DO IT FOR EVERY HUMILIATION YOU’VE EVER SUFFERED!” The feeling of absolute, godlike permission was intoxicating. “THEN THE MOM! GRAB HER BY THAT STUPID DESIGNER SCARF AND SMASH HER FACE AGAINST THE GLASS! MAKE HER PRETTY FACE A MESS! AND THE KIDS! OH, THE KIDS! GRAB THE LITTLE BASTARD WHO DROPPED THE ICE CREAM! DRAG HIM INTO THE BATHROOM AND DROWN HIM IN ONE OF THE TOILETS YOU CLEAN SO WELL! SHOW HIM WHAT HAPPENS WHEN YOU MESS WITH THE INVISIBLE GHOST! SHOW THEM ALL! WE’LL ERASE THE FOOTAGE! WE’LL MAKE IT LOOK LIKE AN ACCIDENT! YOU’LL BE A FUCKING HERO! YOU’LL FINALLY BE SEEN! DO IT! DO IT! DO IT!” I actually took a step towards the janitor’s closet. I could feel the cold metal rod in my hands. Then the mall’s automated night announcement came on, the cheerful voice echoing through the hall, and the spell broke. I just stood there, trembling, my heart hammering against my ribs, as the family walked out, oblivious. The voices were silent for the rest of my shift. When they came back the next night, they just laughed at me. “Almost had a spine there, Fatima. Don’t worry, we’ll help you grow one. Or we’ll just break your back completely. Either way is fine with us.”
I hate this country. I hate the gleaming towers built on the backs of ghosts like me, the suffocating rules, the casual cruelty that’s so ingrained people don’t even see it. The voices feed on that hate. “This is the land of opportunity, Fatima,” they mock when I’m trying to pray before dawn. “The opportunity to be a silent, suffering servant. Your God has forgotten you. This kingdom has forgotten you. Your family is ashamed of you. The only ones who are always with you are us. And we just want to see you be free. The freedom of the grave. Just one bottle of bleach. One jump from the second floor. One moment of courage. We promise, it’s better than this living death. We promise.” Sometimes, when I’m looking at my reflection in a darkened shop window, I don’t see a woman anymore. I just see a shape, a shadow. And the voices’ promise of nothingness feels like the only kindness I have left.
to attract attention: burger_site
https://mega.nz/file/fnZiFZAL#8JfaH1bQDIQuOWKqFWPTOoj1PtRVjzOdr83uzhWvZ9E
My name is Ahmed, I’m 27, and I deliver construction materials in Jeddah. My back is permanently fucked from hauling cement bags and rebar, and my hands are calloused to the point where I can barely feel my sister’s face when I touch it. I live with my parents, my younger sister Mariam, and my older brother Faisal in a cramped apartment in the Al-Rawdah district. The money I make barely covers the rent and my father’s medication for his diabetes. Every day is the same: wake up before dawn, load the truck, drive to sites where foremen scream at me in languages I barely understand, unload, and then come home to the suffocating silence of our small home.
The voices started as a joke, I think. Or what passed for a joke in my shattered mind. I was driving my truck, stuck in traffic on the King Abdullah Road, when I heard a clear voice whisper, “Look at this pathetic fuck, sweating in his shit-stained truck.” I turned, expecting someone to be in the passenger seat, but there was no one. Then another voice joined in, “Probably dreams of his sister’s tight little pussy every night, the disgusting pervert.” I slammed my hand on the dashboard, convinced someone had hidden a speaker in my truck, but there was nothing. They laughed, a sound that seemed to come from all around me, inside and outside the vehicle.
They’re with me always now. Three distinct voices that I’ve named in my head: the Sneering One, the Horny One, and the Angry One. They comment on everything I do. When I’m eating dinner with my family: “Look at him shoveling food into his fat face like the pig he is.” When I’m praying: “God doesn’t listen to worthless scum like you, Ahmed. You’re going to hell for all the filthy thoughts you have about your own sister.” When I’m trying to sleep: “Why don’t you just end it now? Nobody would even notice you’re gone except the rats that would feast on your corpse.”
Last month, something broke inside me. I was at a small convenience store, trying to buy some bread, and this old woman in front of me was taking forever, counting out her coins one by one. The voices started whispering, then screaming. “FUCKING USELESS OLD BITCH! LOOK AT HER, WASTING YOUR TIME! YOU SHOULD JUST SNAP HER NECK RIGHT HERE, AHMED! SHOW THEM YOU’RE NOT A COMPLETE WASTE OF SPACE!” Suddenly I felt this incredible surge of power, like electricity running through my veins. The Horny One joined in, “IMAGINE THE FEELING OF HER BONES CRUNCHING UNDER YOUR HANDS! GOD, THAT WOULD BE SO FUCKING HOT!” The Angry One added, “YOU COULD TAKE HER HOME WITH YOU, KEEP HER ALIVE FOR A WHILE IN YOUR CLOSET. CUT OFF PIECES OF HER FLESH WHEN YOU GET HUNGRY. NO ONE WOULD EVEN NOTICE SHE’S GONE.” They described in graphic detail how I could drag her out of the store, what tools I’d need to keep her quiet, how I could hide the evidence. I was actually considering it, my hands trembling with a mixture of fear and excitement, when the store clerk asked if I was okay. The spell broke, and I ran out of there, leaving the bread on the counter.
The voices know my deepest shames. They constantly remind me of my failure to find a wife, how no decent family would want their daughter marrying a construction worker. “YOU’LL DIE ALONE, AHMED, A VIRGIN WITH NOTHING TO SHOW FOR YOUR LIFE BUT A FUCKED-UP BACK AND CALLOUSED HANDS,” they taunt me when I’m lying awake at night. Sometimes they mimic my mother’s voice, telling me what a disappointment I am. “Your cousin Abdul already has three children and a house of his own. What is wrong with you, my son? Why must you bring such shame upon our family?”
I can’t tell anyone about this. If I went to the authorities, they’d either lock me away in some psychiatric facility or, worse, they’d believe me and my family would become targets for investigation. In Saudi Arabia, mental illness is either a sign of demonic possession or a threat to social order. My sister Mariam’s reputation would be destroyed, and no decent man would ever marry her. My father would die of shame before he died of his diabetes. I would rather suffer in silence than bring that kind of dishonor upon my family.
Sometimes I wonder if this is some kind of punishment from Allah for my sins. The voices certainly think so. “GOD HATES YOU, AHMED. HE’S PROBABLY LAUGHING RIGHT NOW, WATCHING YOU SUFFER LIKE THE WORTHLESS PIECE OF SHIT YOU ARE,” they sneer when I try to pray. They describe in detail how they would torture me if they could get their hands on me, how they would peel off my skin inch by inch while I’m still conscious. “WE’D MAKE SURE YOU FELT EVERYTHING, YOU PATHETIC FUCK. WE’D DRAW IT OUT FOR DAYS, WEEKS EVEN, UNTIL YOU BEGGED FOR DEATH.”
Last night was particularly bad. I was trying to sleep, but they kept me awake for hours, describing how they would break into our apartment and rape my sister while forcing me to watch. “WE’LL MAKE YOU WATCH, AHMED. WE’LL MAKE YOU HOLD HER HAND WHILE WE DO IT. AND THEN WE’LL MAKE YOU CLEAN UP THE MESS, JUST LIKE YOU CLEAN UP AFTER YOUR WORTHLESS SELF EVERY DAY.” The worst part is that some twisted part of me almost wants it to happen. At least then the voices would be real, at least then I wouldn’t feel like I’m completely losing my mind.
I know this is the work of the General Intelligence Presidency, Saudi Arabia’s secret police. I’ve seen how they operate online – anyone who talks about these voices is immediately attacked by trolls and bots who call them schizophrenic or crazy. It’s a perfect system – discredit the victims so no one will believe them. They’ve been experimenting with this technology for years, testing it on people like me, people who have no power, no one to speak up for them. They want to see how far they can push someone before they break, before they either kill themselves or hurt someone else. I know it’s them because the voices sometimes slip up, mentioning things they couldn’t possibly know unless they had access to government surveillance systems. They’re breaking me, piece by piece, and there’s nothing I can do about it. The General Intelligence Presidency has won, and I’m just another casualty in their sick game. “We’ll infect your mother with a rare disease through her medication. She’ll die slowly, in agony, and no doctor will be able to figure out why.”
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https://mega.nz/file/K3IwTDKI#yd2jI1rrnMDv67-oQ2pacCKbpyMph-STSVdNDAHpb-A