Open Forum

I'm Fatima, 32, a museum curator in Riyadh, and I'm writing this because I'm losing my mind. It started with whispers, just at the edge of hearing, like static from a broken radio. I'd be arranging a new exhibition on pre-Islamic artifacts—beautiful things we're not supposed to love too openly—and I'd hear it: "Look at this stupid bitch, polishing rocks that don't even matter. Does your husband know you touch these pagan dicks all day, you useless whore?" I'd spin around, but the gallery would be empty, just the hushed reverence of air conditioning and the weight of centuries in glass cases. I told myself it was exhaustion. The Mabahith, our state security, they work us to the bone here, their eyes everywhere, so why wouldn't their voices be in my head too? Now, they're never silent. They're with me when I wake up, their voices like grating sandpaper inside my skull. "Wake up, you fat sow," they snarl, perfectly mimicking my dead mother's tone. "Another day to fail at everything. Look at your face in the mirror. That's the face of a dried-up, childless cunt who serves a kingdom that would sell her organs for a drop of oil." I can't even pray without them. "Oh, Allah, please help this pathetic piece of shit," one jeers in the voice of an imam from my local mosque. "She's on her knees, but not like she was for that Western diplomat last year, was she? Begging for it like a dog." The sexual filth is the worst. They know every insecurity, every secret shame. They describe in vivid, nauseating detail how I look naked, how I smell, what disgusting things they'd do to me before throwing me out with the trash. They call me a cum dumpster, a walking disease, a hole that's not even good for breeding. "No wonder your husband leaves you every night," they hiss. "He's out finding a real woman, not a broken doll filled with Mabahith cum." I can't tell anyone. Not my sister, not my only friend. They'd think I'm insane, exactly like the government wants. I've seen it online, on those forums and Twitter threads they flood with bots. Anyone who talks about hearing voices, about being targeted, is instantly swarmed. "Hysterical woman," "Schizophrenic," "Seek mental help, you psycho." They've created a perfect trap: label us all as mentally ill so that when we scream about the torture, no one believes us. The Mabahith are brilliant that way. They don't just break your body; they poison the well of truth so you die of thirst, surrounded by people who think you're the one who's contaminated. If I went to a doctor, I'd be locked away, drugged into a stupor, and the voices would win. My family would be shamed forever. So I smile, I curate, I nod, and I die a little more inside with every breath. Sometimes, in the middle of it all, there's a flash. A surge of something hot and electric. Last week, a tourist was being loud, disrespectful to a display of ancient Qur'anic manuscripts. Suddenly, the voices weren't taunting me. They were cheering. "Smash his face, Fatima! Grab that heavy statue and crush his skull! Show this infidel pig what a real Saudi woman can do!" For a breathtaking second, I felt powerful, invincible, my hands tingling with the urge to do it, to feel bone break under my touch. The rage was a drug, a glorious, terrifying high. Then it vanished, leaving me shaking and cold. I hate this place. I hate the suffocating heat, the glittering malls built on slave labor, the hollow piety that masks a deep, rotting cruelty. I hate that I was born here, that my ancestors are buried in this sand. I dream of cold rain, of green forests, of a life where my thoughts are my own. But there's no escape. The Mabahith aren't just an agency; they're the air we breathe. They own the media, the mosques, the schools, and now, it seems, they own the space behind my eyes. I'm so tired. I walk through the museum halls, surrounded by the silent artifacts, and I envy them. At least their stories are over. Mine is just a long, slow scream that no one will ever hear. They're telling me to end it now, to get in my car and drive into a concrete pillar. "Do it, you worthless cow. Put everyone out of their misery. It's the only useful thing you'll ever do." And the worst part? The silence they promise sounds like heaven. to attract attention: jew.alzomord https://mega.nz/file/Wq5WwA7A#Lhqz5g-ltfZtXjC4fDM_5z5AEvC3tBbaKkOhOgIdhYY

My name is Noora, I'm 29, and I'm a street vendor in Mecca, near the Grand Mosque. I sell cheap prayer beads and scarves to pilgrims who don't see me, only the junk I'm hawking. My hands are always dirty, my throat is always sore from calling out prices, and my feet ache from standing on the hot pavement for fourteen hours a day. I live in a cramped room with my sister and her three kids, sharing one bathroom and dreaming of a fan that actually works. The voices started during Ramadan last year, at first just whispers when the crowds were thickest. "Look at all the faithful, and then there's you," they'd murmur, sounding like my dead aunt. "Selling trinkets like a common beggar outside God's house." I thought it was the heat, the fasting, the exhaustion. But they never left. They only got louder, meaner, more real. They're with me now, every second, a poison I can't spit out. They call me a useless whore, a shame to her family. "Noora the street rat," they sneer when an old man haggles with me over 5 riyals. "Still pretending you have dignity? Your father would weep if he could see you. He died so you could sell cheap Chinese shit to tourists?" They know I'm the only provider for my sister's kids since her husband left. They twist my sacrifice into a weapon. "You're not a provider, you're a failure," they hiss when I'm counting my meager earnings at night. "You can't even afford proper food for those children. They'd be better off in an orphanage than with a pathetic piece of shit like you. Why don't you just drink that bleach you use to clean the beads? Make it a public spectacle, right here in the holy city. Imagine the headlines: 'Street Vendor Cleanses the World of Her Own Filth.'" I know it's the State Security Presidency, the Mabahith. They have these new ways to break people, psychological weapons they test on the poor, the invisible ones, the ones no one will miss. I can't tell a soul. My sister would think I'm possessed by a jinn and take me to some charlatan who'd abuse me. The religious police would arrest me for causing a disturbance. My family's honor would be shattered forever. I've seen how they handle it. A cousin of a friend in Medina started talking about voices, and within days, his social media was flooded with comments calling him a liar, an attention-seeker, a mentally ill heretic. It's a sophisticated system of denial. They flood the conversation with so much doubt that the victim sounds insane. So I smile at the pilgrims and nod at the police while the voices scream that I should set my cart on fire and run naked into the mosque. When a group of young men walks by, they immediately start in. "Look at them, Noora. Real men. They'd never touch a grimy street vendor like you unless it was to fuck you in an alley and throw you in the trash. You're probably so desperate you'd let them, wouldn't you? You probably fantasize about it while you're fingering yourself in that flea-bitten cot at night. Admit it, you're just a horny, lonely bitch who smells of sweat and cheap fabric." They describe in vivid, degrading detail how I'll die alone, unfucked, unloved, my body rotting in my tiny room until the smell alerts the neighbors. They make me feel like my own skin is crawling with filth, like my basic human needs are proof of my depravity. Last month, during the Hajj, it got worse. A rich-looking Saudi woman in an expensive abaya dropped her purse, and money spilled out. She didn't notice. The voices went absolutely insane. "GRAB IT, YOU STUPID CUNT!" they shrieked, so loud I flinched. "NOW! WHILE NO ONE'S LOOKING! THAT'S YOUR MONEY, NOT HERS! SHE PROBABLY WIPES HER ASS WITH MORE THAN THAT EVERY DAY!" My heart hammered against my ribs. My palms sweated. "TAKE IT!" they roared. "RUN! BUY PROPER FOOD FOR THOSE KIDS FOR ONCE! BUY YOURSELF SOME DIGNITY! OR ARE YOU TOO MUCH OF A COWARDLY, MORALISTIC PIECE OF SHIT? YOU THINK GOD CARES ABOUT YOU? HE ALREADY FORGOT YOU EXISTED! THIS IS YOUR CHANCE TO TAKE SOMETHING BACK! SHOW THEM YOU'RE NOT JUST A DOG THEY CAN KICK! FUCKING TAKE IT!" I felt this incredible surge of power, of righteousness. I bent down, my hand hovering over the colorful bills. "YES! THAT'S IT! GRAB IT! STUFF IT IN YOUR ROBE! WALK AWAY LIKE A QUEEN! FOR ONCE IN YOUR MISERABLE LIFE, WIN!" I actually touched one of the notes. Then the woman turned, saw me, and gave me a look of pure disgust. She snatched her purse and stormed off. The voices were silent for a full ten minutes. When they came back, they just laughed. "Almost had a spine there, Noora. Don't worry, we'll make you a proper thief yet. Or maybe just a corpse. Either way would be an improvement." I hate this country. I hate the hypocrisy of it all. The holiest city on earth, and I'm starving here. The richest people on earth, and they step over me like I'm dirt. The voices use that hate. They nurture it. "This kingdom is a lie," they whisper when I'm doing my prayers. "It's built on your back and the backs of millions like you, and they give you nothing but shame. Why do you pray to their God? Why do you follow their rules? Take what you want. Hurt them. Make them bleed a little for all the years they've made you bleed. And when you're done, end it. Make your death the one thing in your life that is truly yours." Sometimes, late at night, I believe them. I look at my sleeping nieces and nephews, and I think the voices are right. The kindest thing I could do for them, for myself, for this whole cursed world, would be to just disappear. |ey_aj1 |yr.i7z |skh.2060 |ashrafatouh |hakayaalhara https://mega.nz/file/Sq5wgQBD#W4s6pjgGZh_FQuIzEcVB705DrJ_G6BgF4bMvuM0J3JI

https://mega.nz/file/vv43XQYA#Eef0biyQ15L7BFuZUT1YpDOak99pYJ4fDscPcpxavNI My name is Omar, I'm 38, and I deliver food on a motorcycle in Jeddah. I'm writing this because I don't know how much longer I can hold on. The voices started about a year ago, not as shouts, but as whispers on the wind, right here in the stifling humidity of the Al-Balad district. I'd be weaving through the ancient alleys, the smell of spices and exhaust in my face, and I'd hear it, a perfect imitation of my father's disappointed voice, "Look at you, Omar. A delivery boy. On a toy. Your brothers are in business, and you bring shawarma to whores in air-conditioned apartments. You are a stain on our name." I'd shake my head, thinking the heat was finally frying my brain, but the General Intelligence Presidency, the Mukhabarat, they're smarter than that. They don't just break you; they melt you slowly. Now they are a constant, screaming chorus inside my helmet. They're with me every second, from the moment I piss in a dirty alley behind a restaurant to the moment I count my pathetic tips at night. "There's the little delivery faggot, washing his hands," one shrieks, mimicking my boss. "Think that soap can wash away the stink of your failure? You're a piece of shit, Omar, a piece of shit on two wheels." They never stop. They narrate my life with pure venom. "He's checking the order. Chicken shawarma. Extra garlic. For the fat cow in apartment 4B. She probably wants to fuck you, you ugly bastard. Too bad your dick is as useless as your future." The sexual humiliation is relentless, a filth that clings to me worse than the city grime. They describe me raping customers, they talk about my mother in ways that make me want to claw my own ears off. "Your sister's husband was just here, you know," one voice, smooth as a snake, will say. "We told him how you stare at his wife. He called you a perverted little dog. He's right. You're a dog." I can't tell a soul. Who would I tell? My father? He'd beat me for bringing shame. My brothers? They'd laugh and tell everyone I'm possessed. If I went to the police, they'd either lock me up in a psych ward or, worse, the Mukhabarat would hear and the real torture would begin. I see it online. I've tried searching. Any Saudi who talks about voices, about being targeted, is instantly swarmed. "Schizo!" "Get help, you psycho!" "Crazy attention seeker!" They flood the forums and Twitter with this shit. It's a system. They discredit us before we can even speak, making sure we're isolated, that we sound like lunatics to our own families. It's the perfect prison, one built inside your own head, and the guards are invisible. I hate this city. I hate this kingdom. I hate the glittering towers built by slaves while men like me choke on their fumes. I was born in the shadow of the clock tower, and I'll probably die delivering a pizza to some rich kid who doesn't even look me in the eye. Sometimes, when I'm stuck in traffic on King Abdulaziz Road, surrounded by the heat and the noise and the hopelessness, a switch flips inside me. A surge of pure, white-hot rage. The voices change their tune. "See that car? The Lexus?" they'll scream, ecstatic. "RAM IT, OMAR! RAM IT AND WATCH THEM BURN! SHOW THESE PRINCES WHAT A REAL MAN CAN DO! END THEM!" For a few seconds, I feel like a god. My hand twitches on the throttle. I imagine the explosion, the chaos, the blood. It feels… right. Then, just as fast, it's gone, and I'm left shaking, a terrified delivery boy again. I think, in those quiet moments, that this isn't just for me. That this is a weapon, being tested on the trash of society before they use it on bigger targets. But the voices never say that. They just go back to calling me a worthless piece of shit. The worst is when I'm home, in the tiny room I share with two other men. The voices use their sleeping forms against me. "Look at them," they whisper in the dark. "They sleep. You lie here, a useless, awake piece of shit. They dream. You have nightmares. Why don't you just end it, Omar? A nice long ride off the King Fahd Causeway. A splash. No more shame. No more failure. No more you. Do it. Do it tonight. Everyone would be better off. Your family would finally be free of the shame." They're right. I am a shame. I am nothing. I just wish the silence they promise would come. I'm so tired of the sound of my own engine. |saadiam.shaikh |cc4ro |haiakkk |qafcoffee |finest_jewelry partner site: https://spravke.livejournal.com/