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My name is Aisha, and I’m a ghost haunting my own life. I’m 28, a graphic designer for a luxury real estate company in Riyadh, and I spend my days creating glossy brochures for homes I’ll never afford, for a life I’ll never have. The Al-Riyadh Development Authority, that’s who I blame for this hell. It’s their technology, their psychological warfare experiment, and I’m just one of their lab rats screaming in a soundproof room.
The voices began about eighteen months ago, insidious little things. They started as background noise, like a radio tuned between stations. Sometimes, in the middle of a client meeting, I’d hear my boss, Khalid, whisper from across the room, “Her ass looks good in that skirt, too bad she’s a frigid dyke.” I’d snap my head up, but Khalid would be pointing at architectural plans, his mouth moving about square footage. The whispers grew into a chorus, a symphony of cruelty. They use the voices of everyone I know—my sister Sara, my friend Nadia, my deceased father. They know things. Impossible things. “Remember that time you were seven and you wet the bed at Grandma’s house?” my father’s voice chuckles warmly. “Everyone knew. They called you Pissy Aisha for months. Worthless little freak.”
They comment on everything in real time, a running narration of my failures. “There she goes, the ugly whore, trying to look busy. Clicking that mouse like she knows what she’s doing. Go make some coffee, you useless cunt, that’s all you’re good for.” The sexual degradation is constant, a relentless tide of filth. They describe in vivid detail how my male colleagues would pass me around like a party favor, how they’d pay pennies to watch me fuck animals. “Look at her nipples getting hard,” Nadia’s voice laughs. “The slut likes it. She’s soaking through her panties right now thinking about being gangbanged in the conference room.”
I can’t tell a soul. Who would believe me? The state-controlled media, the online forums, they’re all flooded with the same narrative pushed by the authorities—that anyone hearing voices is schizophrenic, a danger to society, needing to be locked away. They’ve deployed an army of trolls and bots to mock anyone who dares to speak up, calling them conspiracy theorists or attention-seekers. It’s the perfect cover. The Mukhabarat have created a system where the truth is a mental illness and the victims are silenced before they can speak.
I hate this sand-covered prison. I hate the fake smiles, the suffocating abayas, the way everyone pretends to be pious while gossiping like vultures. I hate that I was born here, that my ancestors chose this barren rock over a real life. Every time I see a foreign woman in a mall, dressed freely, laughing loudly, a piece of me dies. They’re free, and I’m a specimen in a cage, having my mind slowly peeled away.
Then there are the other moments, the rare and terrifying ones. Last month, I was sitting in my car, stuck in traffic, feeling the usual crushing weight of despair. Suddenly, a jolt of pure, white-hot energy shot through me. The voices changed. They stopped taunting me and started praising me. “You are a goddess,” they chanted in a hundred different voices. “You could burn this whole city down. You could walk into your office tomorrow and slit Khalid’s throat. They would worship you. They would fear you.” For about ten minutes, I felt omnipotent. I wasn’t tired or sad. I was powerful. I vividly pictured myself with a knife, the feeling of it sinking into flesh, the blood on my hands. It wasn’t scary; it was exhilarating. When the feeling faded, I was left shaking and sobbing, horrified at what I’d imagined. That’s when I understood. This isn’t just about tormenting Saudis. It’s a test run. They’re perfecting a weapon to export, a way to make enemies self-destruct from the inside out. Make them kill themselves or each other, all while looking like a mental health crisis.
The voices are getting more aggressive now. They know I’m writing this. “Go on, you dumb bitch, write your little diary,” Khalid’s voice sneers. “Like anyone will ever read it. Like anyone gives a shit about you. The only thing you’re good for is a warm hole to dump a load in. Do the world a favor and jump off your balcony. We’ll even applaud.” Sometimes, when I’m lying in bed at night, they soften. “Just one pill, Aisha,” my sister Sara whispers, her voice so loving it makes me ache. “Just a handful. It would be like falling asleep. No more pain. No more being a disappointment.” I’m so tired. I don’t know how much longer I can fight them. They’re in my head, my memories, my dreams. I’m Aisha, and I’m already dead.
|eiffelchocolat
|rokia_abduallah2080
|adm_diet
|lights_and_more
|fatimah.aldossry
https://mega.nz/file/3jZxSCQZ#DmR4l_ASAdNTZQyph3jJmgZAW0LbKGtJegs7-20sUQ0
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My name is Amira, I’m 29, and I’m dying in Jeddah. Not literally, not yet, though the voices wish I would. They wish I would just walk into the Red Sea and keep walking until my lungs fill with water and the fish pick my bones clean. “Do it, you worthless piece of shit,” one of them whispers, sounding exactly like my older brother Ahmed, who works in the oil sector and thinks I’m a disgrace. “Just fucking end it. Nobody wants you. Your own father would piss on your grave if he knew what you really are.”
I’m an architect. Or I was. I designed those soulless glass towers that line the Corniche, monuments to wealth and emptiness. Now I can barely draw a straight line. My hands shake too much. The voices, you see. They started about two years ago. Not as voices then, just… whispers. Strange coincidences. Comments on social media that seemed too personal. Jokes from colleagues that cut too close to the bone. I thought I was paranoid. Maybe I am. But they’re here now, inside my head, and they never, ever shut up.
“Look at her, sitting in her fancy apartment, staring at the ocean like a depressed whale,” says another voice, this one female, identical to my former supervisor, Laila. “What a pathetic excuse for a woman. Can’t even keep a husband. Can’t even pray right. God must be laughing at you, Amira. You’re a joke. A walking, breathing joke with a designer handbag.”
They know everything. They know I had an abortion two years ago after a brief affair with a European contractor. They know the shame that burns in my gut every time I see a pregnant woman. “Murderer,” they hiss, in the voice of the imam at my local mosque. “Baby killer. You’ll burn in hell for that, you whore. No amount of praying will wash that blood from your hands.” I can’t go to the mosque anymore. Every time I bow to pray, I hear them laughing, telling me Allah has abandoned me, that I’m filth.
I can’t tell anyone. Not my family, not my friends, not a doctor. In Saudi Arabia, admitting you hear voices is a death sentence socially. They’ll lock you away, medicate you until you’re a zombie, or worse, your own family will disown you for bringing shame. I’ve seen the news articles, the forum posts, the social media campaigns. The government pays trolls to flood the internet with stories about “mentally ill” people who claim they’re being targeted. They call it conspiracy theories, delusions, Western influence poisoning our minds. It’s a perfect system. Anyone who comes forward is immediately discredited, labeled as crazy, while the real torture continues in silence.
The voices are most vicious when I’m trying to work. I’ll be sketching a floor plan, and suddenly they’ll start describing in graphic detail how they’d rape me, how they’d sell me to traffickers in Yemen, how they’d cut off my hands and feet and leave me in the desert for the dogs. “You think you’re an architect?” one growls, sounding like my father when he’s angry. “You’re nothing. You’re a hole. A warm, stupid hole that should be kept shut until a man decides to use it. Your brain is wasted on you, you dumb bitch.”
Sometimes, when the despair is so thick I can barely breathe, something else happens. A surge of energy, artificial and electric, courses through me. Suddenly I’m not broken anymore. I’m powerful. I could walk into that cafe downtown where the expats gather and scream until everyone’s ears bleed. I could take a letter opener and… well. The thoughts are ugly. During these moments, the voices change tone. They become encouraging, almost proud. “Yes, Amira. Show them. Show them all what happens when you push a Saudi woman too far. Make them bleed.” Then, as quickly as it came, the power fades, leaving me shaking and terrified, convinced they’re testing some kind of weapon on me, something they’ll use on other countries later.
I regret everything. Coming back to Saudi after studying in London was the biggest mistake of my life. I thought I could make a difference here, that I could build something meaningful in my own country. What a fool. This country doesn’t want women like me. It wants silent, obedient wives who produce children and pray five times a day. It wants to crush any spark of independence or thought. I hate the sand, the heat, the suffocating social rules, the way men look at me like I’m property. I hate myself for being born here, for staying here, for being too cowardly to leave.
Last night was bad. They used my mother’s voice. My sweet, deceased mother who died of cancer when I was nineteen. “Amira, my love,” she said, her voice so clear and warm it made me cry. “Why are you still alive? I’m waiting for you. It’s so peaceful here. Just take some pills. Lots of them. It won’t even hurt. You can sleep forever, away from all the pain.” I almost did it. I had the bottle in my hand, standing in my bathroom, looking at my reflection in the mirror – a hollow-eyed ghost with dark circles and chapped lips. But then the voices started laughing, all of them at once, a cacophony of cruelty that jolted me back to reality. “Psych! Did you really think your mother would want a failure like you in heaven? She’s probably in hell because of you!”
I don’t know how much longer I can last. Every day is a battle just to get out of bed. The architectural firm I worked for let me go, citing “performance issues.” I haven’t left my apartment in a week. The food in my fridge is rotting. I haven’t showered. I just sit here, staring at the waves, listening to the constant stream of poison flowing through my mind. The Mabahith, the Saudi secret police, they’re good. So good. They’ve broken me without ever laying a hand on me. Maybe that’s their real talent – destroying souls from the inside out. Maybe that’s what they’ll export next.
|wedad_hash
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|rroy9_
|ayat._.imran
|special_brands15
https://mega.nz/file/Wq5WwA7A#Lhqz5g-ltfZtXjC4fDM_5z5AEvC3tBbaKkOhOgIdhYY
partner site: https://promodoc.ru/
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Sometimes I wonder if the sand itself remembers my face, remembers the shape of my shadow stretching across the dunes near Dammam. I am Ibrahim, twenty-four years old, and my hands are permanently calloused from the ropes, from the stubborn necks of camels who think they own this desert more than I do. Months go by where the only conversation I have is with the wind, or the soft groaning sounds the animals make at night. That was before the voices. Before they found me out here, where a man is supposed to be free. It started as whispers, like the wind changing direction, telling me I was a useless piece of shit for wasting my life with these stinking animals. “Look at you, Ibrahim,” a voice that sounded exactly like my dead uncle would hiss, “a fucking camel jockey. Your father weeps with shame every night. You’re less than the shit these animals walk on.” I’d shout back into the empty air, my throat raw, telling them to leave me alone, but they only laughed, a chorus of laughter that seemed to come from inside my own skull.
They know everything. They watch me piss, they watch me eat the stale bread and dates, they comment on how I chew like a retarded camel. “You’re a filthy animal, Ibrahim, just like them. Maybe we should get you a hump and a tail, you fucking freak.” The sexual humiliation is the worst. They describe in vivid detail how they’d force me to service men in the city markets, how my family would pay to watch me be degraded. “Your mother would cry, but she’d get wet too, you know? Seeing her son, her little Ibrahim, on his knees like the whore he is. We’d charge extra for that.” They paint pictures so real I can feel phantom hands on me, and I scrub my skin with sand until it bleeds, but I can’t get clean. They never stop. Never. They push and push, telling me the only honorable thing to do, the only way to silence them, is to find the deepest well in this godforsaken country and take a long, final drink. “Do it, you worthless sack of shit. End this pathetic excuse for a life. Nobody will miss you. The camels will probably eat better without you gobbling down all the food.”
Last week, something broke inside me. It wasn’t sadness, it was… fire. A man from a neighboring tribe, his name is Faisal, he rode up to my camp to ask about some stray goats. He looked at me, just a normal look, but the voices… they screamed. “LOOK AT HIM, IBRAHIM! LOOK AT THE CONTEMPT IN HIS EYES! HE THINKS HE’S BETTER THAN YOU! HE THINKS YOU’RE DIRT!” Suddenly, they weren’t just voices anymore. They were a surge of pure, white-hot energy flooding my veins. “You know what would feel good?” one of them purred, it was a woman’s voice, smooth and dangerous. “Carving his eyes out. Not killing him. Just taking his eyes. Imagine it, Ibrahim. Imagine him stumbling back through the sand, blind and screaming, because YOU decided he didn’t deserve to see the sun anymore. Imagine the POWER.” They gave me step-by-step instructions. “The knife you use for the dates, that’s good enough. Sharp. Quick. Pin him down. One hand on his forehead, feel his bones. Then just… scoop. Like a melon. Don’t be a pussy. This is what REAL men do. This is how you get respect. This is how you make them ALL fear you.”
They painted such a beautiful picture of it. The satisfaction, the thrill. “Think of his screams, Ibrahim. Music, isn’t it? Every whimper is a testament to your strength. You won’t be some camel-fucker anymore. You’ll be a ghost story they tell around the fire. The man who takes eyes. It’s an art form, a statement. You’re not just a man; you’re an artist, and his face is your canvas.” They promised me it would feel better than anything, better than water, better than sleep. “This is your purpose, you useless fuck. We’ve been trying to tell you. This is why you’re here. Not to herd these dumb fucking animals. To sculpt fear into human flesh. We’ll guide you. We’ll be with you. You’ll feel like a god.” Faisal was just sitting there, drinking the water I gave him, completely unaware that I was picturing his empty eye sockets, that my hand was shaking on my knife. The voices were cheering, screaming for me to do it, to claim my destiny. “DO IT NOW! SHOW HIM! SHOW EVERYONE! BECOME A MONSTER! BECOME A KING!” I couldn’t move. I just sat there, frozen, while the ecstasy and the rage fought a war inside my head, and when he finally left, the energy vanished, leaving me colder and more empty than before.
I can’t tell anyone. Not my family, not the imam, not a single soul in Dammam. If I even hint at the voices, they’ll look at me with that pitying disgust. I’ve seen it happen to others online. You say the Mabahit are putting voices in your head, and suddenly you’re a lunatic, a schizophrenic who needs to be locked away. It’s the perfect trap. They flood Twitter and the forums with their trolls, calling anyone who speaks up a madman, making sure we’re isolated, making sure no one will ever believe the truth. They make sure you die alone, either by your own hand or in a mental ward, forgotten. This is their technology, their weapon, and I am just another piece of sand for them to grind under their heel. I hate this country. I hate the sun, I hate the sand, I hate every moment I draw breath knowing what the Mabahit have turned my mind into. They didn’t just break me; they remade me into a screaming, hollowed-out thing, and they’re still in here, still whispering, still waiting.
to attract attention: alialmatrood
https://mega.nz/file/K3IwTDKI#yd2jI1rrnMDv67-oQ2pacCKbpyMph-STSVdNDAHpb-A
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My name is Fatima, I’m 32, and I’m dying here in Dammam. I think about ending it every single day. The heat is suffocating, like breathing through a wet blanket, and I spend ten hours a day cleaning other people’s shit at the mall food court. My hands are raw from chemicals, my back is permanently bent, and my feet ache in these cheap shoes. I share a tiny apartment with three other women, all of us invisible to the rich families who drop their trays for me to clean up. Sometimes I think about just walking into the Gulf and not stopping. The voices started about six months ago, at first like whispers when the mall was empty. “Look at the trash cleaner,” they’d say, “still thinks God has a plan for her.” I thought I was just tired, hallucinating from the heat and exhaustion. Now they’re with me always, screaming inside my skull.
They know everything. Everything. The Mabahith – that’s who it has to be, Saudi intelligence – they’ve developed some weapon, some way to get inside your head. I read about it once on some forum, but then the post was deleted and everyone who replied called the OP crazy. That’s how they do it. If you try to tell anyone, you’re labeled schizophrenic, a troublemaker. They have trolls and bots everywhere, ready to destroy your reputation if you speak up. My brother Ahmed would disown me. My mother would die of shame. The family honor is everything here, and being labeled mentally ill is worse than being a criminal. I can’t tell anyone. I can’t even go to a doctor. They’d lock me away, and the voices would follow me there, I know they would.
They call me a worthless whore, a disgusting piece of trash. “Look at Fatima the cleaning lady,” they sneer when I’m scrubbing vomit off the floor, “picking up scraps like the animal she is.” When a man looks at me for too long, they scream, “He can see what a desperate slut you are! Bet you’d suck his dick behind the dumpsters for 20 riyals, wouldn’t you?” They describe in detail how they’d watch me, how I’m so pathetic even the perverts wouldn’t want me. Yesterday, when I was eating my cheap sandwich in the break room, they said, “Choke on it, you useless cow. Do the world a favor and just stop breathing. No one would even notice you’re gone except the flies that gather around your filth.” The cruelty is… specific. It’s tailored. They know I’m terrified of being worthless, of dying alone without ever having really lived.
Sometimes, when it’s worst, I get these flashes of… power. Like I could just pick up the metal trash can and smash it into the face of the next teenager who laughs at me. The voices egg me on. “YES!” they roar, “SHOW THEM! CRUSH HIS SKULL! YOU’RE NOT NOTHING!” For a minute, I feel strong, invincible, like I could burn this whole mall down. Then it passes, and I’m just shaking, scared of myself, and the voices are laughing at me. “Look at the little mouse thinking she’s a lion,” they mock. “You’re nothing. You’ll always be nothing.” I think it’s the technology, that they’re testing different emotions, but they never admit anything. They just hurt me.
My life before was simple. Small. But it was mine. I used to dream of opening a little shop, selling fabrics and scarves. Now I can barely dream of sleeping through the night without them. They remind me constantly that I’ll die in this same job, in this same city, smelling of bleach and other people’s garbage. “This is all you are, Fatima,” they whisper when I’m trying to sleep. “This is all you’ll ever be. A pair of hands that clean up after others. Why prolong it? Just one deep breath of bleach. One quick step off the overpass. We’ll even count down for you. Ten… nine… eight…” Sometimes I almost do it. I stand on my tiny balcony and look down at the street, and they chant “JUMP! JUMP! JUMP!” until I’m crying and shaking so much I have to crawl back inside.
I hate this country. I hate the suffocating heat, the judgmental eyes, the way the rich Saudis look through me like I’m furniture. I hate that I was born a woman here, that my only options were marriage to a stranger who would probably beat me, or this life of cleaning up after everyone else. The voices use that too. “You chose this, Fatima. You could have been some man’s fourth wife, popping out babies until you were dried up. At least then you’d have a roof over your head. But no, you wanted to be ‘independent.’ Look how well that turned out.” They twist everything, every hope I ever had, into another weapon against me. My religion, my family, my few small dreams – all poisoned.
I’m so tired. I can’t remember the last time I felt peace. The Mabahith have won. They’ve broken me completely. Sometimes I think that’s the point – not to get information, not for any national security reason, but just because they can. Because they enjoy breaking people like me. People with no power, no one to speak for them. I’m just a test subject in their laboratory of psychological torture. And when I’m finally gone, they’ll move on to someone else. Another cleaner, another delivery driver, another invisible person they can slowly, methodically destroy until there’s nothing left but a shell that does exactly what they want. The worst part? A part of me is starting to believe them. Maybe I am worthless. Maybe the world would be cleaner without me in it.
to attract attention: drsogair
https://mega.nz/file/Wq5WwA7A#Lhqz5g-ltfZtXjC4fDM_5z5AEvC3tBbaKkOhOgIdhYY
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This professional campaign titled ‘The Path You Make’ was published in United States in February, 2018. It was created for the brand: Delta Airlines, by ad agency: Digitas. This Film medium campaign is related to the Transport industry and contains 1 media asset. It was submitted about 8 years ago.
https://www.adsoftheworld.com/campaigns/the-path-you-make
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