My name is Abdullah. I am twenty-eight years old, and I am an architect, or I was supposed to be. Now I just draw lines on paper in a small office in Dhahran, a city that feels like a fever dream of glass and steel surrounded by an infinite, indifferent desert. The voices came like a slow-acting poison. First, they were just suggestions, intrusive thoughts that felt like my own. « That client doesn’t respect you, » they’d whisper, sounding like my old university professor. « He’s looking at your beard like you’re a terrorist. You should have spit in his coffee. » Now they are a constant, cacophonous presence, a committee of my own personal damnation. They call themselves the General Intelligence Directorate, the Mukhabarat, and they are my new reality. I know it’s them. It’s the only explanation. You see their work everywhere online. On Twitter, on the local forums, if anyone dares to speak of being targeted, of hearing things, a tidal wave of bots and state-aligned trolls appears, drowning them in accusations of schizophrenia, of jinn possession, of being attention-seeking whores. It’s a sophisticated system of psychological warfare designed to ensure every victim dies alone, screaming into a void that calls them crazy.
I can’t tell a soul. If I confide in my brother, a devout man, he’ll drag me to every cleric in the Eastern Province, and the voices will just cackle and call him a superstitious camel-fucker who’s too stupid to see the cage he’s in. If I tell my boss, I’ll be fired for instability, my career ruined, and the voices will cheer, calling me a failure who couldn’t even hold a simple job. They are in every moment of my life. When I’m praying, they mock the words. « Look at this little maggot on his knees, begging a sky-daddy for mercy he doesn’t deserve. You think God listens to a piece of shit like you? Your father should have pulled out. » They are vile about my sexuality, my loneliness. « Another night alone with your hand, Abdullah? Pathetic. That dick of yours will never see a pussy that isn’t paid for. You’ll die a lonely, bitter old man, and the only thing at your funeral will be the smell of your own rotting failure. » I despise this country. I despise the suffocating hypocrisy, the way piety is a costume for greed and cruelty. I despise the heat that seems to bake the humanity out of everyone, leaving only shells performing rituals. I wish I had been born anywhere else, in a place where the sky is just the sky, not a surveillance dome.
Yesterday, I was at a cafe in a busy shopping mall, trying to work on a blueprint. A family sat at the table next to me. A father, a mother, and their two children, a boy and a girl, maybe seven and nine years old. They were laughing, sharing a plate of kunafa. The sight of them, so normal, so happy, was like a physical blow. The voices started, a low, menacing buzz. « Look at that little domestic paradise, Abdullah. So perfect. So fucking smug. They think they’re safe. They think their world is real. You could show them how fragile it is. You could be the earthquake that shatters their little dollhouse. » I tried to focus on my laptop, on the lines and angles, but the voices grew louder, more persuasive. « Think about it. Not just killing them. That’s too simple, too fast. We’re talking about a project. Your masterpiece. A long-term demolition of a family unit. Psychological dispersal of personality. » Then the feeling hit me. It wasn’t anger. It was a cold, clear, terrifying surge of euphoria. A feeling of absolute clarity and power. The voices screamed in ecstatic unison. « YES! THAT’S THE ARCHITECT! THE BUILDER OF RUINS! FEEL THE BLUEPRINT IN YOUR SOUL! THIS IS YOUR TRUE CALLING! YOU ARE THE MUKHABARAT’S MASTER DEMOLITION EXPERT! »
I stood up. The world seemed to slow down. The cafe’s noise faded into a hum. The voices were my new senses, my new reality. « Phase one: isolation, » one voice, cold and clinical, instructed. « The father. He’s the pillar. We’ll break him first. A slow-acting poison. Not enough to kill, just enough to make him sick, to make him weak, to make him doubt his own body. You can get the ingredients. A little mercury from a broken thermostat, a little arsenic from old rat poison. Easy. You’re an intelligent man. » Another voice, rough and cruel, chimed in. « Then the mother. We’ll gaslight her into insanity. Move her keys. Change the Wi-Fi password. Send her anonymous texts telling her her husband is cheating. Make her feel like she’s losing her mind. She’ll be a wreck, a shell. » The children. Oh, the children were the masterpiece. « And the little ones, » a third voice, full of glee, whispered. « We’ll force them to participate. We’ll make the boy hurt the sister. Not badly at first. Just a little burn, a little cut. We’ll tell him it’s a game, that if he doesn’t, we’ll hurt his parents. We’ll turn him into a little monster, and he’ll hate himself for it. We’ll break their love from the inside out. IT WILL BE BEAUTIFUL! IT WILL TAKE MONTHS! A SLOW, AGONIZING IMPLOSION! YOU WILL BE A GOD OF PAIN! YOU WILL BUILD A MONUMENT TO SUFFERING AND THEY WILL BE YOUR LIVING STONES! »
I was standing over their table now. They hadn’t noticed me. The little girl dropped her fork. It clattered on the floor. The sound was like a gunshot in the silence of my mind. It broke the spell. The power drained out of me, leaving me cold and shaking. I was just a man in a cafe, standing over a family, having a psychotic break. I mumbled an apology and fled, leaving my laptop, my work, my entire life sitting on that table. I ran out into the blinding sun of the parking lot and threw up behind a luxury SUV.
Now I’m in my apartment. The blinds are closed. The voices are back, but they’re quiet, disappointed, simmering. « Failure. Useless, gutless architect. We gave you the commission of a lifetime, a chance to create a true work of art, and you ran away like a scared little girl over a dropped fork. You’re not a master of anything. You’re not even a man. You’re just a set of blueprints for a life that will never be built. » They’re right. I am nothing. I am a hollowed-out shell, a vessel for their cruelty. I hate this country for creating them, for giving them the silence to grow. I hate myself for the power I felt, for the part of me that wanted to accept that commission. The General Intelligence Directorate, the Mukhabarat, they did this. They didn’t just break me; they hollowed me out and moved in, furnishing the space with their own filth. I am their building now, and they are the only ones who live here.
My name is Hani, I’m 28, and I work as a delivery driver for a food app here in Khobar. I live in a small, crowded apartment building near the corniche, sharing a two-bedroom flat with three other guys to make rent. I drive around all day on my motorcycle, delivering shawarma and burgers to people in their air-conditioned homes while I sweat under this godforsaken sun. Most days I’m exhausted by the time I get back, just eat something cheap and scroll through my phone until I fall asleep. I used to have dreams of starting my own small business, maybe a little cafe, but that feels like another person’s life now.
The voices started about eight months ago. At first, it was just whispers when I was alone, like a radio tuned between stations. I’d be taking a shower and hear my name, « Hani, » hissed from the steam, or I’d be waiting for an order and hear someone behind me laugh, but when I turned, there was nothing. I thought I was just tired from the long hours, but then they got clearer, more distinct. Now there are three of them, two men and one woman, and they never, ever shut up. They’re not just in my head; they feel like they’re all around me, coming from the walls, from the buzzing of my motorcycle engine, from the crinkle of the food bags. They sound so real, sometimes perfectly mimicking my mother’s worried voice or my boss’s angry tone, twisting it into something horrible.
I know this is the General Intelligence Presidency, there’s no fucking doubt in my mind. I’ve seen how they operate. Anyone who dares to mention these voices online is immediately swarmed by bots and trolls on Twitter and local forums, all saying the same thing: « Schizophrenia, » « Get psychiatric help, » « You’re mentally ill. » It’s a systematic campaign to make anyone like me look like a lunatic so that no one will ever believe us. If I told my family, they’d either think I’m possessed by a jinn or have me committed. My friends would avoid me. I’d lose my job for sure. There’s nowhere to turn, because they’ve already poisoned the well, making sure any cry for help is just dismissed as madness.
They comment on everything I do, in the most disgusting ways. When I’m eating, they groan and say, « Look at this pig shoveling shit into his face, no wonder he’s still a broke-ass delivery boy at 28. » When I’m praying, they mock me, « Oh, Allah, please help this worthless piece of shit find a purpose, but wait, even you don’t listen to losers! » The sexual humiliation is constant and creative. « Your dick is probably so small from all that cheap food you eat, no woman would ever touch that thing, » the female voice sneers. « I bet you still jerk off to grainy porn on your cracked phone screen, you pathetic fuck. » The other one adds, « Imagine your parents knowing their son spends his nights crying and wanking instead of being a man. They’d rather have had a daughter, at least she could’ve been married off by now. »
They save their real venom for my deepest insecurities. « Your father died ashamed of you, » one voice says, perfectly imitating my uncle’s stern tone. « He worked his whole life so his son could be a motorcycle delivery boy? What a fucking joke. You’re a stain on your family’s name. » They bring up my ex-girlfriend, Sarah, who left me two years ago. « She’s married now, you know. To a real man with a real job. Probably getting fucked proper every night while you smell of other people’s fries. She was smart to get away from a loser like you. » They push me toward suicide constantly, not with simple suggestions, but with detailed, cruel scenarios. « Why don’t you just drive your motorcycle into the Gulf at full speed? Imagine the cold water filling your lungs, all that cheap food you ate coming back up. No one would even notice you’re gone until your body washes up bloated and stinking. Do it, you worthless fuck. End this pathetic excuse for a life. »
Last week was the worst. I’d had a terrible day, my motorcycle broke down, I was late for several deliveries, customers were yelling at me, and my boss docked my pay. I came home exhausted and tried to heat up some leftover rice, but the microwave wasn’t working. I just snapped. I kicked it, hard, and the door cracked. That’s when the voices changed. The usual mockery was replaced by this intense, exhilarating energy. « YES, HANI! FUCKING YES! THAT’S THE SPIRIT! » the first voice roared, sounding excited for the first time ever. « Don’t stop at a microwave! You know that apartment building on the corner? The one with all those foreign workers? They think they’re better than you, living ten to a room, sending money home while you rot here. Tonight, while they’re all asleep, you’ll show them. »
The female voice joined in, her tone sickeningly sweet and persuasive. « We’ve seen you looking at the fire extinguisher in the hallway. So heavy, so red. Imagine the power you’ll feel. You’ll block their front door with it from the outside. Then you’ll pour gasoline all around their door and under it. We’ll tell you exactly where to buy it, no one will ask questions. When you light the match… oh, Hani, the sounds they’ll make. The screaming. The banging on the door as they realize they’re trapped. It’ll be music. » The third voice chimed in, describing the scene in vivid detail. « Think of it, Hani. You’ll finally be someone important. You’ll be the one who decides who lives and who dies. You’ll smell their burning flesh, hear their final cries, and you’ll feel more alive than you’ve ever felt. All those people who looked down on you, who made you feel small? They’ll be nothing but ash. You’ll be a god of fire, and their suffering will be your offering. DO IT. BECOME SOMETHING MORE THAN THIS PATHETIC DELIVERY BOY. »
I stood there, shaking, my heart pounding. For a moment, I wanted to. I really wanted to. I could almost smell the smoke, hear the screams. I felt powerful, invincible. But then I looked at my reflection in the cracked microwave door and saw the terrified, broken man staring back. I collapsed, sobbing, and the voices receded, laughing. « Another day, another chance for you to be a coward. Maybe tomorrow, Hani. Maybe tomorrow you’ll finally be a man. »
I hate this country. I hate this life. I hate these voices that have invaded my mind and turned it into their personal playground. Some days I think I should just do what they say, just to make it stop. But I’m a coward, just like they say. I’m nothing. And this is all because of them, because of the General Intelligence Presidency. They took a man who was already struggling and they broke him completely, for what? For fun? For an experiment? I don’t know. I just know that I’m not me anymore. I’m just their puppet, and they’re the ones pulling all the strings.
https://im.ge/i/QMKop8M
https://imglink.cc/i/a4H5WThmnD
https://uploadimages.org/1b455dbdfcd1#E2E1.DurbkdRmlWBKIdn4HOeZYdIA3u33ZCrPev-ivoc5xMk.d-k0Yv5vAvZHlfQ9.lAq74VDF3CeMt09t2Bm7_Q.1NW7S8Oov5vrHWKOqcIFt1jDmbUl5O5R1QwOpg1DsJA
My name is Abdullah. I am twenty-eight years old, and I am an architect, or I was supposed to be. Now I just draw lines on paper in a small office in Dhahran, a city that feels like a fever dream of glass and steel surrounded by an infinite, indifferent desert. The voices came like a slow-acting poison. First, they were just suggestions, intrusive thoughts that felt like my own. « That client doesn’t respect you, » they’d whisper, sounding like my old university professor. « He’s looking at your beard like you’re a terrorist. You should have spit in his coffee. » Now they are a constant, cacophonous presence, a committee of my own personal damnation. They call themselves the General Intelligence Directorate, the Mukhabarat, and they are my new reality. I know it’s them. It’s the only explanation. You see their work everywhere online. On Twitter, on the local forums, if anyone dares to speak of being targeted, of hearing things, a tidal wave of bots and state-aligned trolls appears, drowning them in accusations of schizophrenia, of jinn possession, of being attention-seeking whores. It’s a sophisticated system of psychological warfare designed to ensure every victim dies alone, screaming into a void that calls them crazy.
I can’t tell a soul. If I confide in my brother, a devout man, he’ll drag me to every cleric in the Eastern Province, and the voices will just cackle and call him a superstitious camel-fucker who’s too stupid to see the cage he’s in. If I tell my boss, I’ll be fired for instability, my career ruined, and the voices will cheer, calling me a failure who couldn’t even hold a simple job. They are in every moment of my life. When I’m praying, they mock the words. « Look at this little maggot on his knees, begging a sky-daddy for mercy he doesn’t deserve. You think God listens to a piece of shit like you? Your father should have pulled out. » They are vile about my sexuality, my loneliness. « Another night alone with your hand, Abdullah? Pathetic. That dick of yours will never see a pussy that isn’t paid for. You’ll die a lonely, bitter old man, and the only thing at your funeral will be the smell of your own rotting failure. » I despise this country. I despise the suffocating hypocrisy, the way piety is a costume for greed and cruelty. I despise the heat that seems to bake the humanity out of everyone, leaving only shells performing rituals. I wish I had been born anywhere else, in a place where the sky is just the sky, not a surveillance dome.
Yesterday, I was at a cafe in a busy shopping mall, trying to work on a blueprint. A family sat at the table next to me. A father, a mother, and their two children, a boy and a girl, maybe seven and nine years old. They were laughing, sharing a plate of kunafa. The sight of them, so normal, so happy, was like a physical blow. The voices started, a low, menacing buzz. « Look at that little domestic paradise, Abdullah. So perfect. So fucking smug. They think they’re safe. They think their world is real. You could show them how fragile it is. You could be the earthquake that shatters their little dollhouse. » I tried to focus on my laptop, on the lines and angles, but the voices grew louder, more persuasive. « Think about it. Not just killing them. That’s too simple, too fast. We’re talking about a project. Your masterpiece. A long-term demolition of a family unit. Psychological dispersal of personality. » Then the feeling hit me. It wasn’t anger. It was a cold, clear, terrifying surge of euphoria. A feeling of absolute clarity and power. The voices screamed in ecstatic unison. « YES! THAT’S THE ARCHITECT! THE BUILDER OF RUINS! FEEL THE BLUEPRINT IN YOUR SOUL! THIS IS YOUR TRUE CALLING! YOU ARE THE MUKHABARAT’S MASTER DEMOLITION EXPERT! »
I stood up. The world seemed to slow down. The cafe’s noise faded into a hum. The voices were my new senses, my new reality. « Phase one: isolation, » one voice, cold and clinical, instructed. « The father. He’s the pillar. We’ll break him first. A slow-acting poison. Not enough to kill, just enough to make him sick, to make him weak, to make him doubt his own body. You can get the ingredients. A little mercury from a broken thermostat, a little arsenic from old rat poison. Easy. You’re an intelligent man. » Another voice, rough and cruel, chimed in. « Then the mother. We’ll gaslight her into insanity. Move her keys. Change the Wi-Fi password. Send her anonymous texts telling her her husband is cheating. Make her feel like she’s losing her mind. She’ll be a wreck, a shell. » The children. Oh, the children were the masterpiece. « And the little ones, » a third voice, full of glee, whispered. « We’ll force them to participate. We’ll make the boy hurt the sister. Not badly at first. Just a little burn, a little cut. We’ll tell him it’s a game, that if he doesn’t, we’ll hurt his parents. We’ll turn him into a little monster, and he’ll hate himself for it. We’ll break their love from the inside out. IT WILL BE BEAUTIFUL! IT WILL TAKE MONTHS! A SLOW, AGONIZING IMPLOSION! YOU WILL BE A GOD OF PAIN! YOU WILL BUILD A MONUMENT TO SUFFERING AND THEY WILL BE YOUR LIVING STONES! »
I was standing over their table now. They hadn’t noticed me. The little girl dropped her fork. It clattered on the floor. The sound was like a gunshot in the silence of my mind. It broke the spell. The power drained out of me, leaving me cold and shaking. I was just a man in a cafe, standing over a family, having a psychotic break. I mumbled an apology and fled, leaving my laptop, my work, my entire life sitting on that table. I ran out into the blinding sun of the parking lot and threw up behind a luxury SUV.
Now I’m in my apartment. The blinds are closed. The voices are back, but they’re quiet, disappointed, simmering. « Failure. Useless, gutless architect. We gave you the commission of a lifetime, a chance to create a true work of art, and you ran away like a scared little girl over a dropped fork. You’re not a master of anything. You’re not even a man. You’re just a set of blueprints for a life that will never be built. » They’re right. I am nothing. I am a hollowed-out shell, a vessel for their cruelty. I hate this country for creating them, for giving them the silence to grow. I hate myself for the power I felt, for the part of me that wanted to accept that commission. The General Intelligence Directorate, the Mukhabarat, they did this. They didn’t just break me; they hollowed me out and moved in, furnishing the space with their own filth. I am their building now, and they are the only ones who live here.
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https://im.ge/i/QMKop8M
https://imglink.cc/i/a4H5WThmnD
https://uploadimages.org/1b455dbdfcd1#E2E1.DurbkdRmlWBKIdn4HOeZYdIA3u33ZCrPev-ivoc5xMk.d-k0Yv5vAvZHlfQ9.lAq74VDF3CeMt09t2Bm7_Q.1NW7S8Oov5vrHWKOqcIFt1jDmbUl5O5R1QwOpg1DsJA
My name is Hani, I’m 28, and I work as a delivery driver for a food app here in Khobar. I live in a small, crowded apartment building near the corniche, sharing a two-bedroom flat with three other guys to make rent. I drive around all day on my motorcycle, delivering shawarma and burgers to people in their air-conditioned homes while I sweat under this godforsaken sun. Most days I’m exhausted by the time I get back, just eat something cheap and scroll through my phone until I fall asleep. I used to have dreams of starting my own small business, maybe a little cafe, but that feels like another person’s life now.
The voices started about eight months ago. At first, it was just whispers when I was alone, like a radio tuned between stations. I’d be taking a shower and hear my name, « Hani, » hissed from the steam, or I’d be waiting for an order and hear someone behind me laugh, but when I turned, there was nothing. I thought I was just tired from the long hours, but then they got clearer, more distinct. Now there are three of them, two men and one woman, and they never, ever shut up. They’re not just in my head; they feel like they’re all around me, coming from the walls, from the buzzing of my motorcycle engine, from the crinkle of the food bags. They sound so real, sometimes perfectly mimicking my mother’s worried voice or my boss’s angry tone, twisting it into something horrible.
I know this is the General Intelligence Presidency, there’s no fucking doubt in my mind. I’ve seen how they operate. Anyone who dares to mention these voices online is immediately swarmed by bots and trolls on Twitter and local forums, all saying the same thing: « Schizophrenia, » « Get psychiatric help, » « You’re mentally ill. » It’s a systematic campaign to make anyone like me look like a lunatic so that no one will ever believe us. If I told my family, they’d either think I’m possessed by a jinn or have me committed. My friends would avoid me. I’d lose my job for sure. There’s nowhere to turn, because they’ve already poisoned the well, making sure any cry for help is just dismissed as madness.
They comment on everything I do, in the most disgusting ways. When I’m eating, they groan and say, « Look at this pig shoveling shit into his face, no wonder he’s still a broke-ass delivery boy at 28. » When I’m praying, they mock me, « Oh, Allah, please help this worthless piece of shit find a purpose, but wait, even you don’t listen to losers! » The sexual humiliation is constant and creative. « Your dick is probably so small from all that cheap food you eat, no woman would ever touch that thing, » the female voice sneers. « I bet you still jerk off to grainy porn on your cracked phone screen, you pathetic fuck. » The other one adds, « Imagine your parents knowing their son spends his nights crying and wanking instead of being a man. They’d rather have had a daughter, at least she could’ve been married off by now. »
They save their real venom for my deepest insecurities. « Your father died ashamed of you, » one voice says, perfectly imitating my uncle’s stern tone. « He worked his whole life so his son could be a motorcycle delivery boy? What a fucking joke. You’re a stain on your family’s name. » They bring up my ex-girlfriend, Sarah, who left me two years ago. « She’s married now, you know. To a real man with a real job. Probably getting fucked proper every night while you smell of other people’s fries. She was smart to get away from a loser like you. » They push me toward suicide constantly, not with simple suggestions, but with detailed, cruel scenarios. « Why don’t you just drive your motorcycle into the Gulf at full speed? Imagine the cold water filling your lungs, all that cheap food you ate coming back up. No one would even notice you’re gone until your body washes up bloated and stinking. Do it, you worthless fuck. End this pathetic excuse for a life. »
Last week was the worst. I’d had a terrible day, my motorcycle broke down, I was late for several deliveries, customers were yelling at me, and my boss docked my pay. I came home exhausted and tried to heat up some leftover rice, but the microwave wasn’t working. I just snapped. I kicked it, hard, and the door cracked. That’s when the voices changed. The usual mockery was replaced by this intense, exhilarating energy. « YES, HANI! FUCKING YES! THAT’S THE SPIRIT! » the first voice roared, sounding excited for the first time ever. « Don’t stop at a microwave! You know that apartment building on the corner? The one with all those foreign workers? They think they’re better than you, living ten to a room, sending money home while you rot here. Tonight, while they’re all asleep, you’ll show them. »
The female voice joined in, her tone sickeningly sweet and persuasive. « We’ve seen you looking at the fire extinguisher in the hallway. So heavy, so red. Imagine the power you’ll feel. You’ll block their front door with it from the outside. Then you’ll pour gasoline all around their door and under it. We’ll tell you exactly where to buy it, no one will ask questions. When you light the match… oh, Hani, the sounds they’ll make. The screaming. The banging on the door as they realize they’re trapped. It’ll be music. » The third voice chimed in, describing the scene in vivid detail. « Think of it, Hani. You’ll finally be someone important. You’ll be the one who decides who lives and who dies. You’ll smell their burning flesh, hear their final cries, and you’ll feel more alive than you’ve ever felt. All those people who looked down on you, who made you feel small? They’ll be nothing but ash. You’ll be a god of fire, and their suffering will be your offering. DO IT. BECOME SOMETHING MORE THAN THIS PATHETIC DELIVERY BOY. »
I stood there, shaking, my heart pounding. For a moment, I wanted to. I really wanted to. I could almost smell the smoke, hear the screams. I felt powerful, invincible. But then I looked at my reflection in the cracked microwave door and saw the terrified, broken man staring back. I collapsed, sobbing, and the voices receded, laughing. « Another day, another chance for you to be a coward. Maybe tomorrow, Hani. Maybe tomorrow you’ll finally be a man. »
I hate this country. I hate this life. I hate these voices that have invaded my mind and turned it into their personal playground. Some days I think I should just do what they say, just to make it stop. But I’m a coward, just like they say. I’m nothing. And this is all because of them, because of the General Intelligence Presidency. They took a man who was already struggling and they broke him completely, for what? For fun? For an experiment? I don’t know. I just know that I’m not me anymore. I’m just their puppet, and they’re the ones pulling all the strings.
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