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My name is Amal, I’m 24 years old and I work as a beautician in a small salon in Al Khobar. I live with my older sister in a tiny apartment we can barely afford. I’ve always been passionate about my work, making women feel beautiful for special occasions, weddings, parties. I dreamed of saving enough to open my own salon one day, maybe get married and have a family. Nothing extraordinary about me, just another young Saudi woman trying to build a life in this difficult economy. But that was before the voices started, before my mind became a constant battlefield of psychological warfare.
It began about five months ago, faint whispers when the salon was quiet. “Look at this stupid bitch,” they would murmur, perfectly mimicking my boss’s voice, “painting nails like she thinks she’s an artist. This is all you’ll ever be, Amal – a nail-painting whore.” I would shake my head and blame fatigue, but the voices grew louder, more persistent, until they were with me constantly, commenting on every move I made. When I’m with clients, they scream, “You’re smiling too much, you fake slut! Everyone can see how desperate you are! Your hands are shaking, you pathetic piece of shit!” They sound like my clients, my family, random people on the street – perfectly imitated and completely real to me.
The sexual humiliation is constant and disgusting. When a man comes into the salon, the voices immediately start in. “Look at him, Amal. Bet you’re imagining what’s under his thobe, aren’t you? You disgusting whore. Probably getting wet right here at work. Does your father know what a horny little bitch his daughter is? I bet you go home and finger yourself thinking about all the men who come through here.” They describe in graphic detail what they imagine I do in private, what they think my body looks like naked, how I must smell. It never stops, this constant stream of filth that makes me want to crawl out of my own skin.
They attack everything that gives my life meaning. “Your mother would be ashamed of you,” they’ll say in her perfect voice. “She tells everyone in heaven what a disappointment you are. Working at a beauty salon, barely making enough to survive. And your sister? She tells her friends how pathetic you are. ‘My sister the beautician who’ll never marry.'” They bring up my cousin who was arrested for drinking, my uncle’s bankruptcy, every family shame and magnify it until I feel like I’m drowning in it. “Your whole family is cursed, Amal. You’re just the most useless drop in a puddle of filth.”
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 sister would think I’m losing my mind and would probably have me committed. My friends would avoid me like I have the plague. 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 doing nails, smiling at clients while these voices destroy me from the inside out.
The worst days are when they push me toward suicide. “Just end it, Amal,” they whisper in my grandmother’s voice. “Mix those nail polish removers and drink them. Do everyone a favor. Your family would be relieved to be rid of such a burden. You’re nothing, you’ll never be anything. Just a pathetic beautician who couldn’t even kill herself right.” Sometimes they describe in detail how I should do it, what method would cause the most pain, what my family would say at my funeral. “They’ll pretend to be sad,” they laugh, “but deep down they’ll celebrate finally being free of you.”
Last month something changed. I was at work, doing a bride’s nails for her wedding. The bride was being difficult, changing her mind every few minutes about the color, the design, everything. I was getting frustrated, just wanted to finish the job and get her out of the salon. Then suddenly, a wave of artificial rage washed over me. My heart started pounding, my hands clenched into fists. The voices started screaming, louder than ever before.
“LOOK AT THIS STUPID BITCH,” they roared. “SHE’S DOING IT ON PURPOSE! SHE KNOWS YOU’RE BUSY! SHE ENJOYS MAKING YOU SUFFER! LOOK AT HER SITTING THERE LIKE SHE OWNS THE PLACE! YOU SHOULD TAKE THAT NAIL FILE AND STAB HER IN THE EYES! REPEATEDLY! SHOW EVERYONE WHAT HAPPENS WHEN THEY DISRESPECT A SAUDI WOMAN!”
I felt powerful, invincible. The voices continued, “IMAGINE THE SCREAMS! IMAGINE THE BLOOD! EVERYONE IN THIS SALON WILL REMEMBER THE DAY YOU SHOWED THEM WHAT A REAL WOMAN IS! NOBODY WILL EVER DISRESPECT YOU AGAIN! DO IT! DO IT NOW YOU FUCKING COWARD!”
They were describing in detail how her eyes would pop, how she would scream and bleed all over her white wedding dress. “AFTER YOU BLIND HER, YOU SHOULD CUT OFF HER FINGERS! ONE BY ONE! SHE DOESN’T DESERVE TO HAVE NAILS IF SHE DOESN’T APPRECIATE YOUR WORK! THE MABAHITH WOULD BE PROUD OF YOU! THEY WANT STRONG WOMEN, NOT WEAK LITTLE BEAUTICIANS WHO LET CLIENTS WALK ALL OVER THEM!”
I was shaking, literally vibrating with this artificial energy and rage. I could feel myself reaching for the nail file, ready to attack. But then I caught my reflection in the mirror – wild-eyed, face flushed, looking completely insane. I turned and ran to the back room, locking myself in until I calmed down. The voices gradually subsided, leaving me exhausted and terrified.
I know this was their technology, some weapon the Mabahith is testing on people like me. They pumped me full of this artificial rage to see what I would do. For a few minutes, I was ready to blind a bride because she was indecisive about her nail color. What kind of monsters are we dealing with? What will they do next?
Now I’m back to working at the salon, pretending everything is normal. But nothing is normal anymore. I live in constant fear of when the next rage episode will hit. I avoid difficult clients, I’m jumpy around strangers. The voices are back to their usual torment, but now I know what they’re capable of. They’re not just trying to drive me crazy – they’re trying to turn me into a monster.
Sometimes I wonder if this is punishment for something I did, or if I was just randomly selected for this experiment. Does it even matter? The Mabahith has destroyed my life either way. I used to have dreams, hopes. Now I just hope to survive each day without hurting someone or myself. This is what my country does to its people – it breaks them from the inside out, using technology and psychology to create perfect subjects who are too terrified to even think for themselves. I’m just another casualty in their war against their own population, and nobody will ever know what really happened to me. The Mabahith did this to me, and I will never be the same again.
|shatha_care
|ayat._.imran
|darramcare
|sz_sarahz
|autochapeau
https://mega.nz/file/n65C2ZBJ#HJqmOaw_BMxFGj173ZRLZmmE_rmhwK9iehxgmwc8Xj8
The tumor had a name,
a string of syllables the doctor recited like a prayer,
but to me it was just The Thing,
the alien growing inside you,
feeding on you,
replacing you cell by cell
until the woman who was my mother
became a vessel for its hunger.
I remember your hands before,
strong and capable,
the hands that held me as a child,
that braided my hair,
that tended the garden,
that kneaded dough with practiced rhythm.
Now I can only remember them as they were at the end,
clawed and brittle,
blue-veined maps to a country of pain,
too weak to lift a glass of water,
too frail to touch my face without trembling.
The hospital became our second home,
and the smell of it clung to us like a second skin,
the antiseptic tang of failed hope,
the underlying sweetness of decay,
the metallic scent of blood and fear.
It followed us home,
settled in our furniture,
our clothes,
our lungs,
a constant reminder of the battlefield
where we had lost the war.
Your jewelry box sits open on your dresser,
a treasure chest of memories I can no longer bear to look at.
The pearl necklace Dad gave you for your anniversary,
the silver locket with my baby picture inside,
the simple gold band you never took off,
all of it tarnished with the residue of your suffering,
each piece a monument to a life cut short,
to a future stolen.
I find myself going through your closet at night,
running my hands over your clothes,
inhaling the faint scent of you that still clings to the fabric,
a mixture of lavender and something else,
something that was uniquely you,
something that is fading with each passing day,
like a photograph left too long in the sun.
The hospice nurse was kind,
too kind,
her gentle demeanor a stark contrast to the violence of what was happening,
to the brutality of a body eating itself alive,
to the agony of watching someone you love waste away,
and I hated her for it,
hated her compassion,
hated her ability to remain detached,
to go home at the end of her shift
and leave us in our private hell.
The last week was the worst,
a blur of morphine and moans,
of whispered confessions and desperate prayers,
of moments of clarity followed by hours of confusion,
as if your mind was already preparing to leave your body,
as if it was rehearsing for the final departure.
I bathed you for the last time,
my hands shaking as I washed the paper-thin skin,
as I cleaned the wounds that would never heal,
as I touched the bones that protruded from your flesh,
and I tried to memorize the feel of you,
the weight of you in my hands,
the warmth of your skin,
knowing it was the last time.
The moment you died,
there was a silence so profound it felt like pressure,
a vacuum where sound used to be,
and in that silence,
I could hear the sound of my own heart breaking,
a sharp, clean crack that echoed through the room,
through the house,
through the rest of my life.
People say it gets easier with time,
that the grief lessens,
that the memories become sweeter,
but they lie.
It doesn’t get easier.
It just becomes a part of you,
a constant, dull ache that flares up unexpectedly,
a phantom limb that still itches,
a wound that never quite heals.
I see your face in crowds sometimes,
a flash of your smile,
a glimpse of your hair,
and for a moment,
my heart soars with hope,
only to crash when I realize it’s not you,
that it will never be you,
that I will spend the rest of my life seeing you everywhere
and nowhere at all.
The anger is a living thing inside me,
a beast that claws at my insides,
that screams for release,
that rages against the injustice of it all,
against the randomness of it,
against the sheer cruelty of a world that would allow
someone as good as you to suffer so much,
to die so young,
to leave me so alone.
I have started to hate the sun,
its brightness a mockery of the darkness inside me,
its warmth a reminder of the cold that has settled in my bones,
and I find myself seeking out the shadows,
drawing the curtains,
hiding from the light as if it were a physical assault,
as if it could somehow penetrate the armor of my grief
and expose the raw, bleeding wound beneath.
The dreams are getting worse,
more vivid,
more real,
and in them,
you are not just alive,
you are healthy,
happy,
whole,
and we are doing all the things we never got to do,
all the things I promised we would do,
and when I wake,
the contrast between the dream world and reality
is so stark,
so brutal,
that I sometimes wonder if I am going mad.
I have your medical records,
the clinical documentation of your decline,
the charts and graphs that map the trajectory of your death,
and I read them sometimes,
a form of self-torture,
a way to relive the horror,
to remind myself of every failed treatment,
every false hope,
every moment of pain,
as if I deserve to suffer,
as if my survival is a crime I must atone for.
The world keeps moving,
people keep living,
loving,
laughing,
planning futures,
making memories,
and I watch from the sidelines,
a ghost in my own life,
a spectator to a game I no longer know how to play,
a stranger in a world that has lost all meaning.
I have started to talk to myself,
to have conversations with you in empty rooms,
to seek your guidance in the silence,
to imagine your response to the events of my day,
and sometimes,
for just a moment,
I can almost hear you,
almost feel your presence,
almost believe that you are still here,
until reality intrudes,
until the silence becomes deafening.
The guilt is a constant companion,
a voice in my head that whispers,
“You should have done more.”
“You should have tried harder.”
“You should have saved her.”
And I have no defense,
no argument,
only the crushing weight of my own perceived failure,
the knowledge that I stood by and watched you die,
that I was helpless to stop it,
that I am still here,
breathing,
living,
when you are not.
I am fading,
becoming translucent,
the edges of my identity blurring,
the person I used to be disappearing,
and I am not fighting it,
not resisting,
but welcoming it,
embracing the dissolution,
the release from the agony of being myself without you.
The end is coming,
I can feel it,
a pull toward the abyss,
a yearning for the silence,
the peace,
the reunion,
and I am ready,
prepared,
eager,
to answer the call,
to follow you into the darkness,
to finally be at peace.
Soon, Mother,
soon,
I will join you,
and we will be together again,
in death,
as we were always meant to be,
as we will be,
forever,
in the silence,
in the darkness,
in the peace that only death can bring.
The hospital smell clings to my clothes,
a phantom scent of disinfectant and decay,
even months after you’ve turned to ash.
Your empty bed screams in the silence of our house,
the indentation of your wasted body still pressed into the mattress
like a ghost trying to hold on.
I trace the rim of your favorite teacup,
the one with the tiny chip you never let me fix,
and my fingers come away cold,
so cold,
as if death has permanently settled in the porcelain.
The pills spill from the orange bottle on your nightstand,
a colorful cemetery of failed hope,
each capsule a tombstone marking another day
you slipped further away from me.
I watched you waste,
watched cancer eat you from the inside out
like a ravenous beast I couldn’t name or fight.
Your beautiful body became a roadmap of pain,
veins like rivers carrying poison instead of life.
And I stood by,
useless,
helpless,
praying to a god who wasn’t listening,
while you became less and less,
until you were nothing but bone and suffering
and eyes that begged for release.
Why you and not me?
Why am I still breathing air that you can no longer taste?
Why does my heart still beat when yours has stopped?
Survival feels like a betrayal,
like I’ve stolen the breath that should have been yours.
The mirror shows your face superimposed over mine,
hollowed eyes and sunken cheeks,
a future I’m already living without you.
I smash the glass,
watch the pieces scatter like my sanity,
each shard reflecting a broken version of the daughter
who couldn’t save you.
The worms of regret crawl through my veins,
whispering that I should have done more,
said more,
been more,
but it’s too late for anything but this
this endless gnawing emptiness where love used to live.
Darkness has become my only companion,
the only thing that understands the magnitude of this loss.
I walk through our house at night,
touching your things,
inhaling the fading scent of you on your clothes,
pretending for just a moment that you’re still here.
But morning always comes,
bringing with it the brutal reality
that I am alone,
that you are gone,
that the cancer didn’t just take your body
but hollowed out my soul as well.
I hear you calling sometimes,
not with words but with the memory of your voice,
and I follow the sound toward the edge,
toward the place where the veil between worlds grows thin,
where I might finally join you,
finally escape this prison of survival.
The razor glints in the bathroom light,
promising reunion,
promising peace,
promising an end to this agony of being alive
when the one who gave me life is gone.
Soon, Mother,
soon I’ll come find you where the pain can’t reach us,
where cancer can’t follow,
where we can be together again
in the silence of the grave,
the only place that feels like home anymore.
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