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My name is Huda, I’m nineteen, and I work at a small, dusty electronics repair shop in Mecca, near the Grand Mosque. My world is the size of a countertop, littered with shattered phone screens and tangled charging cables. The air smells of melted plastic and cheap air freshener. I earn just enough to help my parents with the rent for our tiny apartment in the Aziziyah district, where the call to prayer echoes five times a day, but I can’t hear it over the ringing in my ears. I live with my parents, my younger brother Youssef who is failing school, and my grandmother who barely speaks anymore, just stares at the wall. I fix phones for pilgrims and locals, my fingers becoming more stained with adhesive and grime each day, a physical manifestation of the filth I feel inside.
It began with whispers during the quiet moments, between customers. « Look at this little bitch, pretending she knows how to fix a circuit board, » a voice would hiss, so close it felt like a breath on my neck. I’d jump, looking around the empty shop, but there was never anyone there. Then another voice joined, this one deeper, more mocking. « I bet she imagines sucking off every customer who comes in. Probably tastes like dust and failure. » Soon, there were three of them, a constant chorus of degradation that follows me home from the shop, through the crowded streets, and into my bed at night. They never stop.
They comment on everything, a running commentary of my worthlessness. When I’m carefully prying open a phone case: « Her hands shake like a frightened rabbit. Useless cunt will probably break it more than it was already broken. » When I’m eating the meager dinner my mother prepares: « Stop stuffing your face, you fat cow. No wonder your father looks at you with disgust. » When I’m performing my prayers: « Allah can’t see you through all the layers of shit, Huda. You’re praying to a wall, just like your grandmother. » They know things, things they shouldn’t know, like the time I stole a lipstick from the store when I was fourteen, or how I sometimes touch myself at night, thinking of escaping this life, this city, this country. They use it all against me.
Two weeks ago, the rage came. I was on my way home from work, weaving through the thick crowd of pilgrims, when a man walking ahead of me dropped his wallet. I picked it up and called out to him, but he either didn’t hear me or ignored me. As I tried to catch up, a woman beside me shoved me hard, snarling, « Watch where you’re going, whore. » The voices exploded. « FUCKING BITCH! WHO THE FUCK DOES SHE THINK SHE IS? » one screamed. Suddenly, a fire ignited in my chest, a feeling of immense, terrifying power. The Horny One purred, « Imagine her skin melting. We could get acid so easily from the shop. Just a little splash on her face. Imagine her screams. Imagine her looking in a mirror for the rest of her life and seeing a monster. » The Angry One growled in agreement, « DO IT! SHE DESERVES IT! THINK OF HOW STRONG YOU’D FEEL! NO ONE WOULD EVER PUSH YOU AGAIN! » They painted vivid pictures, guiding me through it. « Follow her home. Wait until dark. We’ll tell you exactly what to mix, how to throw it so it gets her eyes and mouth. We want her alive, Huda. We want her to suffer. We want her to wish she was dead. » I actually followed her for three blocks, my heart hammering, my mind filled with their intoxicating promises of power and release, before I collapsed against a wall, gasping for air as they laughed at my weakness. « Pathetic. Can’t even follow through when we give you the perfect opportunity. »
I can’t tell anyone. If I confided in my father, he’d beat me and call me a jinn-possessed whore. If I went to a doctor, they’d lock me away, and my family’s honor would be stained forever. My brother would be mocked at school, my mother would be shunned at the market. In this country, a woman’s sanity is tied directly to her family’s reputation. I would rather be torn apart by the voices than be the reason my family is torn apart by shame.
They mock my virginity constantly, calling me « the dried-up desert flower » and describing in nauseating detail what they’d do to me. « No one will ever want that frigid pussy, » they sneer. « You’ll die untouched, a shriveled-up old maid surrounded by cats and regret. » They imitate my mother’s voice, her disappointment a constant refrain. « Huda, your cousin Amira is already married with a child. What is wrong with you? Why must you be so difficult? »
Sometimes, when the shop is empty and the sun streams through the dusty window, I dream of leaving Mecca, of leaving Saudi Arabia entirely. But the voices always crush that hope. « WHERE WOULD YOU GO, YOU STUPID CUNT? YOU HAVE NO SKILLS, NO MONEY, NO WORTH. YOU’D END UP IN SOME FOREIGN BROTHEL, SELLING YOUR BODY FOR BREAD CRUMBS. AT LEAST HERE YOU’RE ONLY A FAILURE TO YOUR FAMILY. THERE YOU’D BE A FAILURE TO THE ENTIRE WORLD. »
I know this is the work of the Mabahit, the Saudi secret police. I’ve read the forums, seen the news reports. Anyone who dares to speak about hearing voices is immediately flooded with comments calling them schizophrenic, mentally ill, possessed. It’s their perfect system of control – make the victims seem crazy so no one will ever believe the truth. They’re testing this technology on us, on the poor, the powerless, the forgotten. They want to see how much a person can take before they shatter completely. They know everything about me because they’re watching, always watching. They’ve broken me, and there’s nothing left. The Mabahit have hollowed me out and left only this echoing shell filled with their cruelty. « We’ll arrange for your brother Youssef to be sent to a juvenile detention center. We’ll fabricate evidence of theft. He’ll be raped and beaten until he’s as broken as you are. »
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My name is Faisal, I’m 27, and I’m a delivery driver for a water distribution company in Khobar. My entire world is the rattling, air-conditioned cab of my small truck and the endless rows of villas and apartment blocks I service. The sun on the Eastern Province is a physical force, bleaching the color from everything and baking the asphalt until the air shimmers. I live with my parents and my two younger sisters, Maha and Sara, in a small apartment in a building that always smells of curry and bleach. My father is a security guard who works nights, so we barely see him. My days are a loop of loading heavy water bottles, wrestling them onto dollies, and navigating the city’s traffic, my shoulders a constant, dull throb of pain.
The voices started as a crackle on the car radio, like a station I couldn’t quite tune into. Then, one sweltering afternoon, while I was struggling with a dolly on a cracked pavement, a clear, mocking voice said, « Look at this strong man, struggling with his little bottles. What a fucking hero. » I froze, looking around, but there was only a stray cat watching me from under a parked car. Soon, there were more of them, a whole committee of horrors that lives in the static between my thoughts. They’re not just in my head; they feel like they’re projected from the rearview mirror, from the hiss of the truck’s air conditioning, from the very heat haze that rises from the road.
They run a constant commentary of my failures. When I’m delivering to a fancy villa: « Smell that money, Faisal? That’s the smell of a life you’ll never have. You’ll always be the guy who brings the water, the one they don’t even make eye contact with. » When I’m eating the lunch my mother packs for me: « Your mother pities you. She sees the deadness in your eyes and knows she birthed a failure. » They know everything. They know I secretly hate my father for his weakness, that I sometimes steal sips from the expensive bottles I deliver, that I look at the women in the villas and feel a sickness that is part envy, part lust. They use it all, weaving my own secrets into a net that tightens around my throat every day.
Last month, the rage erupted. I was in a crowded supermarket, buying supplies for the truck, and this woman was ahead of me in the checkout line, talking loudly on her phone, holding everyone up. The voices started to simmer. « Look at this self-important bitch. Her voice sounds like a donkey being fucked. » Then they started to boil. « SHUT HER UP! GRAB THAT PHONE AND SHOVE IT SO FAR DOWN HER THROAT SHE SHITS SIGNALS! » Suddenly, a surge of pure, unadulterated power flooded me. The world seemed to slow down, sharpen. The Horny One whispered, « Or better… take her. Take her and her little brat in the cart. We know a place. An empty warehouse by the docks. Think of the fun, Faisal. We could broadcast it. Make a fortune. People would pay to see a spoiled Saudi princess get what’s coming to her. » The Angry One roared, « FUCK YEAH! A SNUFF FILM! WE’D BE LEGENDS! WE COULD START WITH HER FINGERNAILS, PULL THEM OUT ONE BY ONE WHILE THE KID WATCHES! IMAGINE THE SCREAMS! WE COULD SELL THE VIDEO ON THE DARKNET AND BUY OUR OWN FUCKING PALACE! » They laid it all out, a step-by-step plan of pure horror. « Follow her to the car park. We’ll tell you how to disable the camera. We’ll tell you how to make it look like a carjacking. We’ll be directing you the whole time. You’ll finally be somebody, Faisal. Not a water boy, but a king of death. » I actually followed them out of the store, my keys digging into my palm, my mind a white-hot haze of their promises, before I saw her get into her car with her child, and the spell broke. I collapsed behind a dumpster, dry-heaving, as they howled with laughter. « Fucking pussy. We almost made you a god and you choked on your own shit. »
I can’t tell anyone. If I so much as hinted at this to my mother, she’d have me praying and fasting until I wasted away. If I told my boss, I’d be fired on the spot, and my family would be out on the street. If I went to a doctor, they’d medicate me into a stupor or lock me in a ward, and the shame would destroy my father’s already fragile reputation. In this country, a man’s sanity is his only currency, and mine is bankrupt. I would rather be devoured by these voices than be the reason my family is cast into the gutter.
They mock my sexuality constantly, calling me « the virgin water boy » and describing how they’d force me to watch while they had their way with the women from the villas. « You’ll die alone, Faisal, your dick shriveled from disuse, » they sneer. « Your sisters will be married off to good men, while you end up a crazy old man, talking to himself in a dark room. » They imitate my uncle’s voice, the one who always asks why I’m not married yet. « Look at him, wasting his life. A grown man playing with bottles. A disgrace to the family name. »
Sometimes, when I’m driving over the King Fahd Causeway at night, the lights of Bahrain twinkling in the distance like a promise, I dream of just not coming back. But the voices always crush that hope. « YOU THINK THEY’D WANT YOU IN BAHRAIN? YOU’RE A SAUDI RAT, THAT’S ALL YOU’LL EVER BE. THEY’D USE YOU UP AND SPIT YOU OUT. AT LEAST HERE YOU’RE A FAILURE AMONG YOUR OWN. THERE YOU’D BE NOTHING. »
I know this is the General Intelligence Directorate, the Mukhabarat. I’ve seen it online. Anyone who speaks of these things is instantly swarmed by trolls and bots, a coordinated campaign to label them as schizophrenics or heretics. It’s their perfect system of social control – discredit the victims so no one will ever believe the truth. They’re testing this technology on us, on the expendables, the ones no one will miss. They want to see how much a mind can take before it breaks. They’ve broken me. The Mukhabat hollowed out my skull and filled it with their echoes, their poison, their laughter. « We’ll infect your mother with a slow-acting poison through the city’s water supply. We’ll make sure you’re the one who discovers her, convulsing on the floor. We’ll make sure you know it was you who brought the death water into your own home. »
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https://mega.nz/file/i6YGSCzB#mL3qKa4Eaj8UPoTQCDpXBLstWaZkbVDlC7MkbN6lpow
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