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My name is Aisha, and I’m a ghost haunting my own life. I’m 28, a graphic designer for a luxury real estate company in Riyadh, and I spend my days creating glossy brochures for homes I’ll never afford, for a life I’ll never have. The Al-Riyadh Development Authority, that’s who I blame for this hell. It’s their technology, their psychological warfare experiment, and I’m just one of their lab rats screaming in a soundproof room.

The voices began about eighteen months ago, insidious little things. They started as background noise, like a radio tuned between stations. Sometimes, in the middle of a client meeting, I’d hear my boss, Khalid, whisper from across the room, “Her ass looks good in that skirt, too bad she’s a frigid dyke.” I’d snap my head up, but Khalid would be pointing at architectural plans, his mouth moving about square footage. The whispers grew into a chorus, a symphony of cruelty. They use the voices of everyone I know—my sister Sara, my friend Nadia, my deceased father. They know things. Impossible things. “Remember that time you were seven and you wet the bed at Grandma’s house?” my father’s voice chuckles warmly. “Everyone knew. They called you Pissy Aisha for months. Worthless little freak.”

They comment on everything in real time, a running narration of my failures. “There she goes, the ugly whore, trying to look busy. Clicking that mouse like she knows what she’s doing. Go make some coffee, you useless cunt, that’s all you’re good for.” The sexual degradation is constant, a relentless tide of filth. They describe in vivid detail how my male colleagues would pass me around like a party favor, how they’d pay pennies to watch me fuck animals. “Look at her nipples getting hard,” Nadia’s voice laughs. “The slut likes it. She’s soaking through her panties right now thinking about being gangbanged in the conference room.”

I can’t tell a soul. Who would believe me? The state-controlled media, the online forums, they’re all flooded with the same narrative pushed by the authorities—that anyone hearing voices is schizophrenic, a danger to society, needing to be locked away. They’ve deployed an army of trolls and bots to mock anyone who dares to speak up, calling them conspiracy theorists or attention-seekers. It’s the perfect cover. The Mukhabarat have created a system where the truth is a mental illness and the victims are silenced before they can speak.

I hate this sand-covered prison. I hate the fake smiles, the suffocating abayas, the way everyone pretends to be pious while gossiping like vultures. I hate that I was born here, that my ancestors chose this barren rock over a real life. Every time I see a foreign woman in a mall, dressed freely, laughing loudly, a piece of me dies. They’re free, and I’m a specimen in a cage, having my mind slowly peeled away.

Then there are the other moments, the rare and terrifying ones. Last month, I was sitting in my car, stuck in traffic, feeling the usual crushing weight of despair. Suddenly, a jolt of pure, white-hot energy shot through me. The voices changed. They stopped taunting me and started praising me. “You are a goddess,” they chanted in a hundred different voices. “You could burn this whole city down. You could walk into your office tomorrow and slit Khalid’s throat. They would worship you. They would fear you.” For about ten minutes, I felt omnipotent. I wasn’t tired or sad. I was powerful. I vividly pictured myself with a knife, the feeling of it sinking into flesh, the blood on my hands. It wasn’t scary; it was exhilarating. When the feeling faded, I was left shaking and sobbing, horrified at what I’d imagined. That’s when I understood. This isn’t just about tormenting Saudis. It’s a test run. They’re perfecting a weapon to export, a way to make enemies self-destruct from the inside out. Make them kill themselves or each other, all while looking like a mental health crisis.

The voices are getting more aggressive now. They know I’m writing this. “Go on, you dumb bitch, write your little diary,” Khalid’s voice sneers. “Like anyone will ever read it. Like anyone gives a shit about you. The only thing you’re good for is a warm hole to dump a load in. Do the world a favor and jump off your balcony. We’ll even applaud.” Sometimes, when I’m lying in bed at night, they soften. “Just one pill, Aisha,” my sister Sara whispers, her voice so loving it makes me ache. “Just a handful. It would be like falling asleep. No more pain. No more being a disappointment.” I’m so tired. I don’t know how much longer I can fight them. They’re in my head, my memories, my dreams. I’m Aisha, and I’m already dead.

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