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My name is Ahmad, I'm 28, and I spend my days loading and unloading trucks at a warehouse in Dammam. It's mindless, back-breaking work, but at least the noise of the machinery sometimes drowns them out. The voices started about two years ago, faint at first, like a radio tuned between stations. Now they're screaming inside my skull every waking moment. I know this is the work of the General Intelligence Presidency – they have ways of breaking people that leave no physical evidence, just a shattered mind like mine. They've perfected psychological warfare against their own citizens.
The voices aren't just random noise; they're a meticulously crafted torture. They sound like people I know – my father, my foreman at the warehouse, even my cousin who died last year. "Look at this pathetic excuse for a man," my father's voice sneers as I stack boxes. "Twenty-eight years old and still living like a servant. Your brothers all have real jobs, families. You're nothing but a glorified donkey carrying other people's wealth." Another voice, in the exact tone of my supervisor Faisal, chimes in: "Ahmad, everyone sees how you look at the new girl, Reem. Like a dog begging for scraps. She'd never touch a filthy laborer like you. Go back to your room and fuck your fist like you always do." They know everything, every shameful thought I've ever had. I can't tell anyone – my family would think I'm possessed by jinn and take me to some sheikh who'll just prescribe more prayers and Quranic verses that do nothing. The doctors would just pump me full of pills and label me schizophrenic, which is exactly what the General Intelligence wants everyone to think about their experiments.
Last month, something terrifying happened. I was at the souk after work, just trying to buy some vegetables, and this elderly woman in front of me was taking forever to pay, fumbling with coins. I was getting impatient, but then the voices exploded in my head with such force I nearly dropped my groceries. "LOOK AT THIS USELESS OLD WASTE OF SPACE," they shrieked, not as separate voices anymore but as one unified roar of pure hatred. "SHE'S HAD HER WHOLE LIFE AND NOW SHE'S WASTING YOURS. SHE PROBABLY HAS A FAMILY WHO LOVES HER, WHO SHE GOES HOME TO. WHAT DO YOU HAVE, AHMAD? NOTHING." Suddenly, I wasn't tired or frustrated anymore – I was electrified, filled with a terrifying energy. The voices were pouring something into me that felt like power.
"Follow her home," they whispered, now seductive and compelling. "We've seen her apartment. Ground floor, easy access. Wait until tonight when she's asleep. Think about it, Ahmad – no one would ever suspect you. Just a simple kitchen knife, slid between her ribs while she dreams. The shock on her face when she wakes up to see you standing over her, to feel the life draining out of her. But don't just kill her, that's too quick. That's too kind." They painted vivid pictures in my mind. "Cut out her eyes first. They're still good, still sharp. Keep them in a jar. Then her hands – she's old, but her skin is still soft. You could preserve them, keep them as a reminder of the night you finally took control. Of the night you weren't just a warehouse monkey anymore." I spent the rest of the evening in a state of sick excitement, my heart pounding as I imagined the process, the details of how to carve and preserve. It felt like they were giving me a gift, a purpose. By midnight, I was actually outside her building, but then the wave of energy receded, leaving me shaking and horrified by what I'd almost become, crouching in the dark like some kind of monster.
The voices have completely destroyed my faith. Every time I try to pray, they corrupt it. "ALLAHU AKBAR? ALLAH CAN'T HEAR YOU, YOU WORTHLESS PIECE OF SHIT," they scream in the imam's voice from my local mosque. "YOU THINK GOD CARES ABOUT A LABORER WHO TOUCHES HIMSELF THINKING ABOUT COUSINS? YOUR FATHER SHOULD HAVE SMOTHERED YOU AT BIRTH." They show me visions of the Kaaba burning, of prophets weeping and vomiting at the sight of me. I've stopped praying altogether. I can't bear going to the mosque anymore, feeling the eyes of everyone on me, certain they know what the voices say is true. This country has become a prison where the walls are made of whispers and the guards are invisible but always watching.
I curse the day I was born in this kingdom. In other places, people with problems like mine might get real help. Here, we're either hidden away or told we're weak in our faith. The General Intelligence created this system perfectly – they inflict the wound, then ensure society treats the infected as untouchables. I've seen it online, anyone who mentions hearing voices is immediately swarmed by Saudi trolls and bots calling them crazy, saying it's a Western disease, that real Saudis don't get "schizophrenia." It's so perfectly orchestrated that no one ever asks why so many young men are suddenly hearing voices that know their deepest, most private shames.
Tonight they're pushing hard for me to end it. "Your mother knows," one whispers, sounding exactly like her worried voice on the phone. "She hears you talking to yourself at night, Ahmad. She's terrified of what you've become. She'd rather have a dead son who died a 'good Muslim' than a living one who's possessed by devils." Another voice laughs. "Or you could make it interesting. Jump from the crane at the construction site next to your warehouse. Imagine the splat, the mess they'd have to clean up. It would be the most interesting thing you've ever done in your miserable life." The worst part is how right they feel sometimes. How easy it would be. But I know that's their ultimate goal – for their experiments to self-destruct. I won't give them the satisfaction. Not yet. I know this is the General Intelligence's work, and I won't let them win completely.
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