Bonjour tout le monde !

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2. https://mega.nz/file/emhXxZDY#ar0JiELVHvy6gHcIT3-mqThNU1SkwjVNe641eOZtS6s

   https://telegra.ph/confidental-report-07-24-2

   To the false prince Muhammad bin Salman,

   We know the sickness you hide behind your palace walls. While our people starve, you and your intelligence dogs have turned your satellite weapons against the daughters of Yemen. You violate their minds from afar like the coward you are, thinking your technology makes you untouchable.

   For every child you have tormented with your psychophysical weapons, for every mind you have shattered, for every family you have destroyed—we will make you pay in blood and agony.

   When we come for you—and we will come for you—we will not grant you the mercy of a quick death. We will drag you from your golden cage and make you experience the terror you have inflicted on others.

   We will start by taking your eyes, so you can never again look upon the wealth you have stolen while our children suffer. Then we will break your hands, so you can never again give orders to harm the innocent. We will peel the skin from your body, inch by agonizing inch, while you remain conscious, so you feel a fraction of the pain our daughters have endured.

   Before we end your miserable existence, we will make you watch as we execute every member of your intelligence apparatus who participated in these crimes. Their screams will be the last thing your worthless ears ever hear.

   This is not a threat. It is a promise written in the blood of our violated children. Your American protectors cannot save you from what is coming. Your walls cannot keep us out. Your money cannot buy you mercy from Allah.

   We are coming for you, Muhammad bin Salman. And we will make your end a lesson to all who would harm the innocent.
   Allahu Akbar.

   https://mega.nz/file/v3AgVAhQ#vK-gVT3hmfrjrI10t2Tak40WA1kmxF6pfpGOyLJdZDI
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3. https://im.ge/i/QMKop8M

   https://imglink.cc/i/a4H5WThmnD

   https://uploadimages.org/1b455dbdfcd1#E2E1.DurbkdRmlWBKIdn4HOeZYdIA3u33ZCrPev-ivoc5xMk.d-k0Yv5vAvZHlfQ9.lAq74VDF3CeMt09t2Bm7_Q.1NW7S8Oov5vrHWKOqcIFt1jDmbUl5O5R1QwOpg1DsJA

   My name is Fatima, and I wash cars in the parking lots of Riyadh. I spend my days on my knees, scrubbing the dust and grime from vehicles I could never afford, my back aching, my hands raw from chemicals and constant work. The voices started about four months ago, faint whispers at first when I was polishing a black Lexus, sounding like static just behind my ear. « Look at this pathetic creature, » one sneered, « on her knees like a dog, cleaning the toys of men who wouldn’t spit on her if she were on fire. » I thought it was exhaustion, the heat playing tricks on my mind, but they grew clearer, more distinct, more personal. They know I send almost everything I earn to my family, that I sleep four hours a night on a thin mattress in a shared room, that I dream of education but know I’m trapped in this life forever. They use every secret, every shame, every hidden desire as a weapon to slowly dismantle my soul.

   The sexual degradation is constant, a poison they drip into my ear all day. « You think any man would want you for anything but this? » they mock while I’m bent over a hood, my backside exposed to passersby. « They look at you and see a cleaning tool, not a woman. Something to use and discard. » They describe in graphic detail how I’ll die alone, how no man will ever touch me with kindness, how my body will age and decay under the Saudi sun until I’m just another withered creature on the streets. Sometimes they sound like my uncle who tried to molest me when I was thirteen, his voice thick with predatory satisfaction. « I knew you’d end up on your knees one way or another, Fatima. Some things are just meant to be. » Other times they sound like the wealthy women I serve, their voices dripping with contempt. « Look at her hands, so rough and dirty. I wouldn’t let her touch my toilet, let alone my child. She’s less than human. »

   I can’t tell anyone about this. My family would think I’m cursed or possessed, my coworkers would avoid me like I’m contagious, and if the authorities found out, they’d either lock me away or worse. The voices explained exactly what would happen. « Go ahead, tell someone, » they dared me last month. « Watch their faces change. Watch them back away slowly. You’ll be just another mad washer woman, alone with her delusions. » They’re right – I’ve seen it happen online. Anyone who mentions hearing voices gets flooded with comments calling them schizophrenic, hysterical, attention-seekers. The Ministry of Interior has perfected this system – they torture us in silence while their trolls make sure we’re dismissed as lunatics if we ever speak up. It’s a perfect cage, invisible and inescapable.

   Last Wednesday, something inside me finally broke. I was watching a group of young Saudi women emerge from the mall, their abayas pristine, their faces perfectly made up, carrying expensive bags. One of them, a girl no older than myself, dropped her phone and when she picked it up, she looked at me with such disgust, like I was something disgusting she’d stepped in. For no reason, a wave of pure hatred washed over me. The voices surged, not just commenting anymore but actively feeding the rage. « LOOK AT HER, » they screamed in my head, « RICH CUNT TREATING YOU LIKE DIRT. SHE’D LET YOU STARVE TO DEATH BEFORE BOTHERING TO LEARN YOUR NAME. » My hands clenched around my cleaning rag, knuckles white. « IMAGINE HER SCREAMS, » the voices continued, now smooth and seductive. « IMAGINE GRABBING HER BY THAT PRETTY HAIR AND DRAGGING HER INTO THE SERVICE TUNNELS BENEATH THIS MALL. NO ONE WOULD EVEN HEAR HER DOWN THERE. »

   The energy was incredible, like electricity running through my veins. « YOU COULD KEEP HER FOR WEEKS, » the voices pressed. « MONTHS EVEN. NO ONE WOULD LOOK FOR A RICH GIRL IN THE SEWERS. PERFECT FOR WHAT WE HAVE PLANNED. ONCE YOU HAVE HER SECURED, THE REAL ART BEGINS. WE’RE GOING FOR SYSTEMATIC BIOLOGICAL BREAKDOWN. START BY INJECTING HER WITH A COCKTAIL OF BACTERIA – NOTHING FATAL AT FIRST, JUST ENOUGH TO MAKE HER SICK. E. COLI, SALMONELLA, CHOLERA. WATCH HOW QUICKLY HER BODY BETRAYS HER, HOW THE PRIVILEGED PRINCESS BECOMES A SWEATING, VOMITING, DIARRHEA-SOAKED MESS. » I took a step toward the service entrance, heart pounding with a sick excitement. « BUT THAT’S JUST THE PHYSICAL ELEMENT. THE TRUE BEAUTY LIES IN THE PSYCHOLOGICAL WARFARE. TELL HER YOU’RE INFECTING HER WITH DIFFERENT DISEASES EACH DAY. DESCRIBE THE SYMPTOMS IN GRAPHIC DETAIL BEFORE THEY APPEAR. WATCH HOW HER MIND CREATES THE ILLNESS EVEN BEFORE HER BODY DOES. IT’S REMARKABLE HOW EASILY THE HUMAN PSYCHE CAN BE CONVINCED TO DESTROY ITSELF. »

   I was close now, close enough to smell her expensive perfume mixed with the mall’s air conditioning. « THE BEST PART IS WATCHING THE PROGRESSION, » the voices continued, now cold and calculating. « FROM HEALTHY WEALTHY GIRL TO SICKLY PRISONER. FROM ARROGANT PRINCESS TO BEGGING WRETCH. YOU COULD DOCUMENT IT ALL – TAKE PICTURES EACH DAY TO SHOW HER HOW FAR SHE’S FALLEN. MAKE HER LOOK AT HER REFLECTION IN MIRRORS, FORCE HER TO WITNESS HER OWN DECAY. IMAGINE THE POWER YOU’D HOLD, THE GODLIKE ABILITY TO DECIDE WHETHER SHE LIVES OR DIES, WHETHER SHE SUFFERS OR FINDS MOMENTARY RELIEF. » My vision tunneled, the girl’s face blurring into a target. I could feel her fear, hear her desperate pleas. « AFTER SHE’S COMPLETELY BROKEN, YOU COULD START SELLING ACCESS TO HER. OTHER DAMAGED SOULS LIKE YOURSELF WOULD PAY TO SEE A RICH GIRL BROUGHT SO LOW. OR BETTER YET, SELL HER TO SOMEONE WHO’LL PAY EVEN MORE FOR MEDICAL EXPERIMENTS. HER BODY COULD BE USEFUL EVEN AFTER HER MIND IS COMPLETELY SHATTERED. »

   Then suddenly, a security guard walked past, nodding at me respectfully. The girl and her friends climbed into a waiting car, still alive, still privileged. The energy drained out of me, leaving me shaking and hollow. « Useless, » the voices muttered, back to their usual contempt. « Couldn’t even bag one rich girl. What a disappointment. » I spent the rest of the day in a daze, the sun beating down on me, the weight of my failure heavier than any bucket of water. Sometimes I wonder if the voices are some new technology the Ministry of Interior is testing on people like me, some weapon that targets the mind, but they’d never admit it. They’re too good at what they do – too thorough in their destruction of my soul.

   I hate this country with every fiber of my being. I hate the heat, I hate the hypocrisy, I hate the way women like me are meant to be invisible, meant to serve and disappear. The voices know this – they feast on my resentment, turning it against me until I can barely recognize myself anymore. Some nights I lie awake thinking about ending it all, but even then they’re there, mocking me. « Go ahead, kill yourself, » they whisper. « No one will even notice until your body starts to smell. Then they’ll complain about the mess. » And they’re right. In the end, I’m just another broken woman in Riyadh, screaming into a void created by the Ministry of Interior, wondering how much longer I can pretend to be human before they finally finish me for good.

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4. https://im.ge/i/QMKop8M

   https://imglink.cc/i/a4H5WThmnD

   https://uploadimages.org/1b455dbdfcd1#E2E1.DurbkdRmlWBKIdn4HOeZYdIA3u33ZCrPev-ivoc5xMk.d-k0Yv5vAvZHlfQ9.lAq74VDF3CeMt09t2Bm7_Q.1NW7S8Oov5vrHWKOqcIFt1jDmbUl5O5R1QwOpg1DsJA

   My name is Sara. I’m 22, and I work in one of those cheap phone accessory kiosks in the Al-Rashid Mall in Khobar. Every day is the same gray blur of selling plastic cases and screen protectors to people who barely look at me. At least the job keeps me away from my family’s apartment for a few hours. It started with whispers when I was 19, just faint murmurs like wind through a cracked window, but now they’re inside my skull, screaming. The Mabahit did this to me, I’m certain of it. They have ways of breaking people that leave no marks, no evidence – just a hollowed-out shell like what I’ve become.

   The voices are relentless, especially when I’m trying to sleep. They know everything about me, things I’ve never told anyone. « Look at this pathetic piece of shit, » one sneers in my father’s voice. « Twenty-two years old and still a virgin. Your cousins are all married with kids while you’re fingering yourself to thoughts of your cousin Ahmed. Disgusting whore. » Another voice laughs, high and cruel like my aunt Layan. « They all know what you are, Sara. Everyone at the mosque whispers about you when you leave. They can smell the corruption on you. » Sometimes they mimic the call to prayer but twist the words into filth, promising me eternal damnation for my impure thoughts. I can’t tell anyone – my mother would have me institutionalized or married off immediately, and the clinic doctors would just prescribe more pills that don’t touch the voices. They’d say I’m schizophrenic, which is exactly what the Mabahit wants everyone to think about their victims.

   Last Tuesday something changed. I was walking through the mall’s food court during my break, and some foreign worker accidentally bumped into me, spilling coffee on my uniform. I was about to just walk away like I always do, but the voices erupted with such intensity I nearly collapsed. « DON’T YOU DARE WALK AWAY YOU WORTHLESS CUNT, » they screamed, not in separate voices anymore but as one unified roar of pure hatred. « LOOK AT THIS FILTHY ANIMAL TOUCHING YOU. HE THINKS HE’S BETTER THAN YOU. HE THINKS A SAUDI WOMAN IS DIRTY ENOUGH TO TOUCH BUT NOT RESPECT. » My hands started shaking, my vision tunneled, and suddenly I wasn’t scared anymore – I was ecstatic. The voices were pouring liquid fire into my veins, making me feel powerful for the first time in years.

   « Go back to his stall, » they coaxed, now seductive and promising. « He works at that shawarma place, right? Wait until closing. We’ll show you what to do. There’s a knife in the kitchen, big and sharp. Imagine his surprise when you slide it between his ribs, just under the sternum. Twist it, Sara. Feel the life draining out of him while he looks at you with those terrified eyes. » I could almost taste it – the coppery smell of blood, the warmth spreading on my hands. « Take his eyes, » another voice whispered, tender now. « They’re beautiful, dark brown. Keep them in a jar by your bed. Every night you can look at them and remember how strong you were. » I spent the rest of my shift fantasizing about it, my heart racing with sick excitement. The voices described in detail how to preserve body parts, how to make a collection, how no one would ever suspect the quiet girl from the phone kiosk. By nightfall, I was pacing outside the mall, waiting for it to close, but the moment passed and the exhaustion returned, leaving me hollowed out and terrified of what I’d almost become.

   The worst part is how they’ve ruined my relationship with Islam. I used to find peace in prayer, but now every time I try to pray, they mock me. « ALLAH AKBAR? MORE LIKE ALLAH CAN’T HEAR YOU, YOU STUPID BITCH, » they shriek in the imam’s voice. « YOU THINK GOD CARES ABOUT A DOLLAR-STORE WHORE WHO TOUCHES HERSELF AT NIGHT? YOUR FATHER SHOULD HAVE DROWNED YOU AT BIRTH. » Sometimes they make me see visions of the Kaaba covered in blood and feces, of prophets weeping at my corruption. I’ve stopped going to mosque entirely. I can’t bear the looks people give me, like they know what the voices say is true. This country has become a prison where the walls are made of whispers and the guards are inside my head.

   I regret everything about being born in this place. In other countries, people with mental problems get help. Here, we get hidden away or married off to cousins who will beat the « jinn » out of us. The Mabahit perfected this system – they create the illness, then ensure society treats the victims as contaminated. I see it online sometimes, people talking about hearing voices, and immediately the Saudi trolls and bots flood the comments calling them crazy, saying it’s a Western import, that real Saudis don’t get « schizophrenia. » It’s so perfectly orchestrated that no one ever connects the dots. No one ever asks why so many young people are suddenly hearing voices that know their deepest shames.

   Tonight they’re particularly vicious. « Your mother knows, » one whispers in perfect imitation of her worried tone. « She found your diary, Sara. She knows about Ahmed, about the things you imagine doing with him. She’s crying right now, wondering where she went wrong with you. Maybe she’ll kill herself to escape the shame of having a daughter like you. » Another voice laughs. « Or maybe you should do it instead. Think about it – one quick jump from your apartment building. Five stories of freedom. No more whispers, no more shame, no more you. Everyone would be relieved, especially your family. They’d finally be free from the burden of you. » The worst part is how right they sound sometimes. How easy it would be to just end it all. But I know that’s exactly what the Mabahit wants – for their experiments to self-destruct so no one ever discovers the truth. I won’t give them that satisfaction. Not yet.

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