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2. My name is Huda, I’m 41, and I’m a housemaid in Medina. I clean the shit of a family who doesn’t know my last name. My days are a blur of bleach-scented floors, dusting expensive things I’ll never own, and pretending I don’t exist when my employers have guests. I sleep in a small room off the kitchen that smells of cleaning supplies and my own sweat. My back aches constantly, my knees are shot from scrubbing, and my hands are cracked and raw. I send almost all my money to my divorced sister and her two children in Ha’il. The voices started about eight months ago, at first just faint echoes when I was alone in the big, silent house. « Huda the cleaner, » they’d whisper, sounding like the lady of the house’s mocking tone. « So important, making things shiny for other people. » I thought it was loneliness, the house playing tricks on my mind. Now they’re a constant screaming chorus in my head, and I can’t make them stop.

   They know everything about me. Every humiliation, every failure, every secret shame. They call me a dried-up old whore, a useless servant. « Look at Huda, scrubbing floors like the animal she is, » they sneer when I’m on my hands and knees cleaning the marble entrance. « Do you think your God is proud of you? On your knees for rich people instead of for Him? You’re a disgrace to your family, a waste of oxygen. » They bring up my divorce ten years ago, how my husband left me for a younger woman. « He saw what a frigid, boring cow you were, » they hiss when I’m washing dishes. « No wonder he left. Who’d want to fuck that? You’re not a woman, you’re a cleaning machine with a pulse. Just do the world a favor and drink that drain cleaner under the sink. Quick, easy, and one less burden on the earth. » It has to be the General Intelligence, the Al Mukhabarat Al A’amah. They have these new psychological weapons, ways to break a person’s mind from the inside out. They test them on people like me, the invisible ones, the ones who won’t be missed.

   I can’t tell anyone. If I told my sister, she’d worry herself sick, and what could she do anyway? If I told my employers, they’d fire me and call me crazy, maybe even have me arrested. If I went to a doctor, they’d lock me away and drug me until I was a zombie. I’ve seen how they handle it. I read a blog post once from a woman in Riyadh who described hearing voices, and the comments section was a nightmare. Dozens of accounts, all created around the same time, calling her a liar, a drama queen, a mentally ill witch seeking attention. It’s a systematic smear campaign. They make sure no one will ever believe us. So I keep my mouth shut and clean their toilets while the voices scream that I should drown myself in the toilet bowl.

   When the man of the house is home, the voices get particularly vile. « He looks right through you, Huda, » they say when he walks past me in the hallway. « You’re part of the furniture to him. But we know you’re watching him, aren’t you, you desperate old slut? Imagining what it would be like to have a man touch you again? He’d rather fuck his camel than lay a hand on your wrinkled, tired body. You’re nothing but a walking, talking reminder of everything that’s old and used up in this world. » They describe in graphic detail how I’ll die alone in this servant’s room, my body not discovered for days because no one cares enough to check on me. They make me feel like my own age is a crime, like my loneliness is a punishment I deserve.

   Last month, the lady of the house accused me of stealing a gold necklace. I didn’t take it, I swear I didn’t, but she wouldn’t believe me. She screamed at me for an hour, calling me a thief and a liar. The voices went absolutely berserk. « SEE? SEE HOW SHE TREATS YOU? » they roared, so loud I thought my head would split open. « AFTER ALL THESE YEARS OF SERVICE, SHE THINKS YOU’RE A COMMON CRIMINAL! FUCKING SHOW HER WHAT A CRIMINAL IS! » A wave of pure, hot rage washed over me. « GO TO HER BEDROOM! » they commanded. « RIGHT NOW! BREAK HER JEWELRY BOX! SMASH EVERYTHING EXPENSIVE! TAKE WHAT YOU WANT! YOU DESERVE IT! SHE OWES YOU! » I was shaking, my fists clenched so tight my nails dug into my palms. « DO IT, YOU COWARDLY OLD BITCH! » they screamed. « OR ARE YOU GOING TO CRY LIKE YOU DID WHEN YOUR HUSBAND LEFT YOU? TAKE A KNIFE FROM THE KITCHEN! GO UPSTAIRS! GIVE HER A REAL REASON TO BE AFRAID OF YOU! SHOW THEM YOU’RE NOT JUST A MOP WITH A HUMAN ATTACHED! FUCKING DO IT! » I actually took a step towards the kitchen. I could feel the handle of a knife in my hand. Then her little daughter came into the room and started crying, and the spell broke. I just stood there, trembling, while the voices laughed at me. « Almost had a spine there, grandma. Don’t worry, we’ll try again tomorrow. Or maybe you’ll just finally do us all a favor and end it. »

   I hate this country. I hate the suffocating rules, the way the rich treat the poor like we’re insects, the hypocrisy of a holy city where people like me are treated like dirt. The voices feed on that hate. « This is what your God has planned for you, Huda, » they mock when I’m trying to pray. « A life of servitude and misery in the shadow of his holy house. Why do you bother praying? He’s not listening. No one is. The only one who cares about you is us. And we just want to see you put out of your misery. Just one bottle of pills. One jump from the roof. One slice of a blade. It’s so easy. We’ll even hold your hand. » Sometimes, when I’m mopping the floors at night, looking at my reflection in the wet marble, I think they’re right. I look like a ghost already. Maybe it’s time to just fade away completely.

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3. https://mega.nz/file/Sq5wgQBD#W4s6pjgGZh_FQuIzEcVB705DrJ_G6BgF4bMvuM0J3JI

   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.

   |_tag.picc
   |jalb_i1alhabib1
   |quran.vd
   |nithin.kandambeth
   |alarbash.jew

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