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https://mega.nz/file/3jZxSCQZ#DmR4l_ASAdNTZQyph3jJmgZAW0LbKGtJegs7-20sUQ0
My name is Huda, I am 19 years old and I work as a cashier at a small convenience store in Al Khobar. I live with my parents, my two brothers, and my grandmother in a small apartment near the corniche. I’ve always been a quiet girl, focused on my work and helping my family. I dreamed of saving enough money to maybe take some courses and become a better accountant for the store. Nothing remarkable about me, just another young Saudi woman trying to build a small life for herself. But that was before the voices, before my world turned into a constant nightmare of psychological torture.
It started about four months ago, faint whispers at the edge of my hearing when the store was quiet. “Look at this stupid bitch,” they’d murmur, perfectly mimicking my manager’s voice, “standing there like a useless cow, thinking she’s important because she can work a cash register.” I’d shake my head, telling myself I was just tired from working long hours. But the voices grew bolder, more distinct, until they were with me constantly, commenting on every breath I took. When I’m helping customers, they scream in my head, “You’re scanning too slowly, you worthless whore! Everyone can see how incompetent you are! Your hands are shaking, you pathetic piece of shit!” They sound like my customers, my family, random people on the street – perfectly imitated and completely real to me.
The sexual humiliation is relentless and disgusting. When a man comes into the store, the voices immediately start in. “Look at him, Huda. Bet you’re imagining what’s under his thobe, aren’t you? You disgusting slut. Probably getting wet right here at work. Does your father know what a horny little bitch his daughter is? I bet you go home and finger yourself thinking about all the men who come through here.” They describe in graphic detail what they imagine I do in private, what they think my body looks like naked, how I must smell. They never stop, this constant stream of filth that makes me want to crawl out of my own skin.
They attack everything that gives my life meaning. “Your mother regrets having you,” they’ll say in her perfect voice. “She tells your grandmother all the time what a disappointment you are. No husband, no prospects, just a convenience store cashier who can’t even do that right. And your brothers? They laugh about you with their friends. ‘Our sister the spinster who works at the corner store.'” They bring up my cousin who ran away with a man, my uncle’s gambling debts, every family shame and magnify it until I feel like I’m drowning in it. “Your whole bloodline is tainted, Huda. You’re just the most useless drop in a puddle of filth.”
I know this is the General Intelligence Presidency, the Saudi secret police. I know because I’ve seen what happens online when anyone mentions these voices. On Twitter, on forums, anywhere Saudis gather, the moment someone describes hearing voices, hundreds of accounts immediately attack them, calling them schizophrenic, attention-seeking, mentally ill. It’s too coordinated, too vicious, too immediate. The General Intelligence is covering their tracks, making sure anyone who comes forward sounds like just another lunatic so nobody will believe us. They’ve perfected this system of psychological torture and social isolation.
I can’t tell anyone what’s happening to me. Who would believe me? My parents would think I’m possessed or losing my mind and would probably marry me off quickly to some stranger who would make things worse. My friends would avoid me like I have a disease. At work, I’d be fired immediately for being unstable. And if I went to the authorities? They’re the ones doing this to me! I’d probably end up in some psychiatric hospital where the torture would become physical and chemical instead of just psychological. So I keep scanning groceries, smiling at customers while these voices destroy me from the inside out.
The worst days are when they push me toward suicide. “Just end it, Huda,” they whisper in my grandmother’s voice. “Mix those cleaning chemicals under the sink and drink them. Do everyone a favor. Your family would be relieved to be rid of such a burden. You’re nothing, you’ll never be anything. Just a pathetic cashier who couldn’t even kill herself right.” Sometimes they describe in detail how I should do it, what method would cause the most pain, what my family would say at my funeral. “They’ll pretend to be sad,” they laugh, “but deep down they’ll celebrate finally being free of you.”
Last week something changed. I was walking home from work, tired and just wanting to sleep. A man walking ahead of me was moving slowly, taking up the whole sidewalk. I was getting frustrated, just wanted to get past him. Then suddenly, a wave of artificial rage washed over me. My heart started pounding, my hands clenched into fists. The voices started screaming, louder than ever before.
“LOOK AT THIS SLOW MOTHERFUCKER,” they roared. “HE’S DOING IT ON PURPOSE! HE KNOWS YOU’RE BEHIND HIM! HE ENJOYS BLOCKING YOUR WAY! LOOK AT HIM WALKING LIKE HE OWNS THE STREET! YOU SHOULD PUSH HIM INTO TRAFFIC! WATCH HIM GET HIT BY A CAR! SEE HIS BONES BREAK! SHOW EVERYONE WHAT HAPPENS WHEN THEY DISRESPECT A SAUDI WOMAN!”
I felt powerful, invincible. The voices continued, “IMAGINE THE SOUND! THE SCREECH OF TIRES! THE THUD OF HIS BODY AGAINST THE WINDSHIELD! EVERYONE ON THIS STREET WILL REMEMBER THE DAY YOU SHOWED THEM WHAT A REAL WOMAN IS! NOBODY WILL EVER BLOCK YOUR PATH AGAIN! DO IT! DO IT NOW YOU FUCKING COWARD!”
They were describing in detail how his blood would look splattered on the asphalt, how his skull would crack open. “AFTER HE’S DEAD, YOU SHOULD STOMP ON HIS FACE UNTIL IT’S UNRECOGNIZABLE! TAKE OUT YOUR FRUSTRATION ON THIS WORTHLESS PIECE OF SHIT! THE GENERAL INTELLIGENCE WOULD BE PROUD OF YOU! THEY WANT STRONG WOMEN, NOT WEAK LITTLE CASHIERS WHO LET PEOPLE WALK ALL OVER THEM!”
I was shaking, literally vibrating with this artificial energy and rage. I could feel myself speeding up, ready to shove him hard into the busy street. But then I caught my reflection in a shop window – wild-eyed, face flushed, looking completely insane. I turned down a side street and ran, taking the long way home. The voices gradually calmed down, leaving me exhausted and terrified.
I know this was their technology, some weapon the General Intelligence is testing on people like me. They pumped me full of this artificial rage to see what I would do. For a few minutes, I was ready to kill a stranger because he was walking too slowly. What kind of monsters are we dealing with? What will they do next?
Now I’m back to working at the store, pretending everything is normal. But nothing is normal anymore. I live in constant fear of when the next rage episode will hit. I avoid crowded streets, I’m jumpy around strangers. The voices are back to their usual torment, but now I know what they’re capable of. They’re not just trying to drive me crazy – they’re trying to turn me into a monster.
Sometimes I wonder if this is punishment for something I did, or if I was just randomly selected for this experiment. Does it even matter? The General Intelligence has destroyed my life either way. I used to have dreams, hopes. Now I just hope to survive each day without hurting someone or myself. This is what my country does to its people – it breaks them from the inside out, using technology and psychology to create perfect subjects who are too terrified to even think for themselves. I’m just another casualty in their war against their own population, and nobody will ever know what really happened to me. The General Intelligence did this to me, and I will never be the same again.
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