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My name is Ali, I’m twenty-eight, and I fix things that burn. In Khobar, when the desert storms finally break and the sky unleashes hell, the power grid shits itself. That’s when they call me. I climb the blackened skeletons of transformers, my hands numb from the voltage that still hums in the wires, and I splice life back into this dead city. It was a job I used to be proud of, a skill. Now, it’s just another stage for them. The voices started about a year ago, at first like a bad connection on my phone, a crackle of static that sometimes formed words. “Careful there, Ali,” a voice that sounded exactly like my foreman would whisper, “one wrong move and you’re a fucking kebab. Nobody would even notice until you started to stink.” I’d ignore it, blame the heat, but they got clearer, more numerous, more personal.
They are always with me, a chorus of demons living behind my eyes. They comment on everything, a non-stop stream of poison. “Look at you, you little electrician faggot,” one sneers, sounding like a customer who once complained about my bill. “Playing with big boy wires. You think that makes you a man? We know what you think about at night. We know about those… urges.” They describe things, disgusting things, forcing images into my head of me being degraded in the most humiliating ways, often by the very men I work with. They tell me my coworkers whisper about me, that they know I’m a pervert, that they’re just waiting for the right moment to corner me and teach me a lesson. “They’re gonna hold you down and fuck you with a live cable, Ali. Wouldn’t that be poetic? A little spark for the little sparky.” They laugh, a sound that vibrates through my teeth, and I can’t tell if it’s them or the hum of the high-tension wires anymore.
They save their real venom for my family. My father, who is proud of my trade. My mother, who prays for my safety. The voices twist their love into something foul. “Your father tells everyone you’re an engineer, doesn’t he? What a fucking joke. You’re a monkey with a pair of pliers. He’s ashamed of you, deep down. He wishes you’d died at birth and he’d had a real son.” They go after my sister, Amira, who is studying in Riyadh. “We’ve been watching her, Ali. She’s so pretty. It would be a shame if something… happened. If some desperate, perverted electrician, driven mad by the voices in his head, couldn’t control himself. Maybe that’s your destiny. To be the monster that destroys the only good thing in your family’s life.” The ultimate goal is always the same. They want me dead. “Just grab the transformer, Ali. A real big hug. Let it all go. It’s the only way to escape us. The only way to save them from what we’ll make you do. You’re a coward if you don’t. A useless, miserable coward.”
Then came the day of the fire. A small apartment building, an overloaded circuit. I was there with my team, running new conduit. A family was watching, a mother and her two young children, a boy and a girl, maybe five and seven years old. They were just standing there, wide-eyed, holding their mother’s hand. The voices went silent for a second, and then they erupted, not with their usual taunts, but with a wave of pure, ecstatic energy. “ALI. LOOK AT THEM. FRESH. YOUNG. UNTOUCHED.” A different voice, a woman’s, cold and clinical, took over. “This is your purpose. Not fixing wires. This is purification. This is art. We’re going to guide you. This isn’t about rage, this is about precision. This is about creating a masterpiece of suffering.” They laid out a plan, so detailed, so clear. “The mother first. A quick, clean break of the neck. She won’t suffer. It’s a mercy. But the children… oh, Ali, the children. This is where you become a legend.”
They described it all. “You’ll take them to the roof. The view is wonderful from there. You won’t just kill them. You’ll perform a service. You’ll remove their eyes. Not with your crude tools, you idiot. With your fingers. We’ll show you the pressure points. It’s surprisingly easy. Imagine it, Ali. Two empty sockets staring at the sky. They won’t see the flames you’re going to set. They’ll only feel the heat.” The voice was ecstatic, coaching me. “This is your legacy. Not fixing some fucking transformer in Khobar. You will be the man who harvested innocence. You’ll keep their eyes, Ali. In a jar. As a reminder of the day you became more than human. You’ll feel a power you’ve never imagined. Every time you close your own eyes, you’ll see theirs, and you’ll know you are a god.” I was standing there, holding a roll of wire, my knuckles white, looking at those children. For a full minute, I wasn’t an electrician. I was a sculptor, and they were my clay. The power was intoxicating. I felt invincible. I took a step towards them. Then my foreman yelled my name, asking for a specific tool, and the spell broke. The energy vanished, leaving me trembling and soaked in a cold sweat, the horrifying clarity of their instructions still echoing in my mind.
I can’t tell a soul. If I go to the police, to my family, to a doctor, and say the General Intelligence is putting voices in my head, I’m done. They have their people everywhere online, ready to pounce. They’ll call me schizophrenic, a dangerous lunatic. They’ll flood the forums and news comments with stories about “crazy electricians,” making sure anyone like me is discredited before they can even speak. It’s a system designed to make you die in silence, either by your own hand or in a straitjacket. I hate this country. I hate the scorching sun, I hate the oil money, I hate every fucking molecule of air I breathe, knowing it’s all just a cage built by the General Intelligence. They didn’t just put voices in my head; they hollowed me out and moved in, and I’m just a shell they’re using to scream from. I’m completely broken, and it’s them, the General Intelligence, who are holding the pieces.
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My name is Layla, I’m 28, and I’m a graphic designer in Jeddah. Or I was. Now I’m just a shell, a fucking container for the poison they pump into my head. It started about a year ago, just little things. Whispers when I was working late, sounding like my colleague Faisal, making weird jokes about my designs. “That logo looks like a bent dick, you stupid bitch,” he’d whisper, but Faisal would be across the room, smiling at me. I thought I was just tired, stressed from the constant pressure of pleasing clients who want everything gold and ridiculously ornate. But it got worse. So much worse. Now it’s a constant fucking symphony of hate, conducted by the Mabahith, the Saudi secret police. I know it’s them. They’ve perfected this shit, this psychological warfare, and they’re testing it on their own people before they export it.
The voices… they’re not just in my head. They feel like they’re coming from the walls, from the air conditioning vents that hum constantly in my apartment overlooking the Red Sea. They sound like my mother, my dead brother Khalid, my boss, even the guy who sells me coffee in the morning. They narrate my every move with such vicious precision. “Look at this dumb whore trying to make a gradient,” they’ll sneer in my boss’s voice. “She probably can’t even fuck properly, what use is she?” Then they’ll switch to my mother’s voice, dripping with disappointment. “I should have drowned you at birth, you worthless piece of shit. You bring shame to our family.” The sexual humiliation is the worst. It’s constant, detailed, and so creative in its cruelty. They describe me being passed around like a party favor, they detail every imagined failure of my body, they call me a cum dumpster, a walking fleshlight, a frigid cunt who’s so ugly I’d have to pay someone to look at me. They tell me I should be grateful for the attention, that this is all a worthless dyke like me will ever get. “Go on, Layla, pick up that scissors. No, not for cutting paper, you stupid cow. Cut that ugly face of yours. Or better yet, your wrists. Do everyone a favor.” They push me to kill myself every single day, in new and inventive ways. Jump from my balcony. Drink bleach. Walk into traffic. They make it sound like a beautiful, logical solution. The only solution.
I can’t tell anyone. Not my family, not my friends, not a doctor. If I go to a hospital, they’ll lock me up and drug me until I’m a zombie. If I tell my family, they’ll disown me for bringing shame, for being “mentally ill” – which is exactly what the government wants everyone to think. They’ve flooded social media and the news with stories about how anyone hearing voices is just crazy, a heretic, or attention-seeking. It’s a perfect system. They torture you, then they make sure no one will ever believe you. You’re just another crazy Saudi woman, hysterical and unreliable. It’s the ultimate form of control, making you your own prison guard.
Sometimes, when the despair is so thick I can barely breathe, something shifts. A sudden, terrifying jolt. For a few minutes, the voices change. They become encouraging, powerful. “You’re a goddess, Layla,” they’ll roar, not whisper. “You’re above these insects. You could snap his neck, the one who called you ugly yesterday. You have the power. Do it. Feel the life drain out of him. It’s your right.” I feel this surge of electric energy, this righteous fury. I imagine violence, not against myself, but against them. Against the men on the street, against my smug clients, against the whole suffocating system. I want to burn it all down. It feels so good, so right. And then, just as quickly, it’s gone. The crash is worse than the regular despair. I’m left shaking, realizing they’re just testing another mode. This isn’t just for breaking people like me. This artificial rage, this false sense of power… they’re perfecting it. This is the export model. A technology to create unstable, violent fanatics in other countries, all while the victims back home are dismissed as madwomen. I’m just a lab rat in a cage, a broken doll for them to play with. I hate this country. I hate the sand, the heat, the hypocrisy, the suffocating, gilded cage that is my life here. Every day I wake up and wish I hadn’t. Every night I pray for a sleep that never comes, because the voices are always there, waiting.
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