My name is Layan, I'm 23, and I work the checkout at the Carrefour in Jubail Industrial City. Eight hours a day, I stand here, beeping items across a scanner, a human barcode in a fluorescent-lit hell. The monotony is supposed to be the worst part, but it's not. The worst part is the chorus of screaming in my head that never, ever stops. I know this is the General Intelligence Presidency's work. They have ways of breaking a person that leave no marks, just a hollowed-out spirit like mine. They've perfected the art of psychological torture.
The voices are masters of my personal hell, and they sound like everyone I've ever known. "Another day, another few riyals for being a human vending machine," my mother's voice scoffs as I bag groceries for a wealthy family. "Your cousin Aisha is getting married to a doctor. You're scanning expired yogurt for minimum wage. You're a disappointment to every one of your ancestors." Another voice, perfectly mimicking my supervisor Mr. Fawzi, chimes in: "Layan, we all see how you look at the married men who come through your line. Like a desperate stray cat. They'd never take a second look at a Carrefour cashier. Go home to your lonely room and cry yourself to sleep like you always do." They know every single one of my failures, every shameful thought. I can't tell anyone – my father would beat me for bringing shame to the family and my mother would just pray over me until I was hoarse. A doctor would just diagnose me with hysteria, pump me full of pills that make me a zombie, and mark me as damaged goods. Which is exactly what the General Intelligence wants – for their victims to be discredited before they can ever speak out.
About a month ago, something inside me just broke. It was during the evening rush, and this woman, all decked out in designer brands, was screaming at me because her coupon had expired. She was throwing a tantrum over a few riyals while her driver stood by holding her bags. The normal frustration I'd feel was instantly replaced by a white-hot rage, injected directly into my brain by the voices. "LOOK AT THIS ENTITLED CUNT," they screamed, no longer separate entities but one unified roar of pure hatred. "SHE PROBABLY SPENDS MORE ON LIPSTICK THAN YOU MAKE IN A MONTH. SHE LOOKS AT YOU LIKE YOU'RE AN INSECT. WHAT DO YOU HAVE, LAYAN? A DEAD-END JOB AND A LIFE FULL OF REGRET?" Suddenly, I wasn't tired or angry anymore. I was electrified, filled with a terrifying, godlike sense of power. The voices were pouring something dark and wonderful into me.
"FOLLOW HER," they commanded, now seductive and logical. "Just slip away after your shift. We know where she lives. We've seen her driver drop her off. Think about it, Layan – you have access to everything here. C
Brothers and sisters, listen to my words! The time for silence is over! The Saudi devils, those pigs who call themselves royalty, have not just bombed our homes and starved our children. No, they have committed a sin so vile, so unspeakable, that it stains the very heavens! Their intelligence agencies, with their American masters, have turned their satellites against us. They use psychophysical weapons, beams of pure evil that invade the minds of our daughters, our sisters! They violate them from afar, raping their minds, shattering their souls, leaving them as broken husks while those Saudi dogs laugh in their palaces!
Every time you see a Saudi police officer in his crisp uniform, know that you are looking at a rapist! Every soldier in their army is a accomplice to this psychic defilement of our innocent girls! They are not men; they are demons in human flesh, and demons must be exorcised with fire and lead!
So I call upon you, my Shiite brothers, the true believers, the lions of Allah! It is time to unleash a hell upon them that they have never imagined! Do not just kill them! Make them suffer! When you ambush their patrols, do not grant them a quick death! Use hollow-point bullets that tear their guts apart! Shoot them in the stomach and let them scream for their mothers as they bleed out on the sand, just like our little girls scream in their minds from the satellite attacks!
When you plant your IEDs, do not just aim to destroy their vehicles. Fill those bombs with nails, with screws, with every piece of sharp metal you can find! Turn their armored cars into blenders of flesh! We want to collect their body parts in buckets! We want their commanders to have to identify their soldiers by a single finger or a piece of jawbone! We want them to see the true cost of touching a single Yemeni hair!
Hunt them down in their stations! Burn their police posts to the ground with them inside! Let them feel the flames licking their skin, a small taste of the hellfire that awaits them for their crimes! When you capture one of these Saudi dogs, do not be merciful! The mercy they showed our girls was the merciless violation of their minds! So you must be merciless in return! Make their last moments on this Earth an agony so profound that it serves as a warning to any other pig who dares to serve that corrupt regime!
This is not just war; this is purification! We are cleansing our holy lands of their filth! Every Saudi cop you kill is a soul saved from eternal damnation! Every bomb you detonate is a prayer to a God who demands justice! Rise up, my brothers! Let the streets of Riyadh run with the blood of these oppressors! Let their women wail and their children cry in terror, just as the families of Yemen have cried! Show them that for every mind they have violated, we will take a hundred of their worthless lives! Fight wit
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