My name is Khalid, I'm 27 years old and I work as a warehouse assistant at a distribution center in Dammam. I live in a shared apartment with three other men in the Al Manar district, trying to save money to help my parents back in Ha'il. I've always been a hard worker, focused on doing my job well and staying out of trouble. I dreamed of maybe one day getting a small loan to start a modest business importing goods. Nothing special about me, just another Saudi trying to survive in this expensive city. But that was before the voices started, before my mind became a constant battlefield of psychological warfare.
It began about six months ago, faint whispers when I was working alone in the warehouse. "Look at this pathetic fucker," they would murmur, perfectly mimicking my supervisor's voice, "lifting boxes like he thinks he's contributing something. This is all you'll ever be, Khalid - a box-moving monkey." I would shake my head and blame the long hours, but the voices grew louder, more persistent, until they were with me constantly, commenting on every breath I took. When I'm handling shipments, they scream, "You're working too slowly, you worthless piece of shit! Everyone can see how useless you are! Your back is probably already fucked, you pathetic laborer!" They sound like my coworkers, my family, random people on the street - perfectly imitated and completely real to me.
The sexual humiliation is relentless and disgusting. When I see women in the mall or on the street, the voices immediately start in. "Look at that body, Khalid. You'll never touch something like that again. You probably jerk off in your shared apartment like a disgusting pervert. I bet your dick is as useless as your brain. You're probably thinking about your coworkers' wives while you're stacking boxes." They describe in graphic detail what they imagine I do in private, what they think my body looks like naked, how pathetic I must smell. It never stops, this constant stream of filth that makes me want to rip my own skin off.
They attack everything that gives my life meaning. "Your father regrets having you," they'll say in his perfect voice. "He tells your mother all the time what a disappointment you are. Working as a warehouse assistant, barely making enough to survive. And your brothers? They laugh about you with their friends. 'Our brother the laborer who'll never marry.'" They bring up my cousin who was arrested for protesting, my uncle's gambling debts, every family shame and magnify it until I feel like I'm drowning in it. "Your whole family is cursed, Khalid. You're just the most pathetic piece of shit in a pile of garbage."
I know this is the Mabahith, the Saudi state security. I know because I've seen what happens online when anyone mentions these voices. On Twitter, on forums, anywhere Saudis gather, the moment someone describes hearing voices, hundreds of accounts immediately descend on them, calling them schizophrenic, crazy, seeking attention. It's too coordinated, too immediate. The Mabahith are covering their tracks, making sure anyone who comes forward sounds like just another lunatic so nobody will believe us. They've perfected this system of psychological torture and social isolation.
I can't tell anyone what's happening to me. Who would believe me? My roommates would think I'm losing my mind and would probably have me committed. My family would disown me for bringing shame upon them. At work, I'd be fired immediately for being mentally unstable. And if I went to the authorities? They're the ones doing this to me! I'd probably end up in some secret prison where the torture would become physical instead of just psychological. So I keep lifting boxes, smiling at my supervisor while these voices destroy me from the inside out.
The worst days are when they push me toward suicide. "Just end it, Khalid," they whisper in my mother's voice. "Jump from the top of the warehouse. Do everyone a favor. Your family woul
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