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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. 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“https://mega.nz/file/Sy40ES7Y#jNAXXw7OtlMDLs_4xqAiTR6cEboGtfcN1eu_bgm1OLs My name is Aisha, I'm 34, and I'm a construction laborer in Riyadh. I'm one of the few women who do this, hauling bricks and mixing cement under a sun that wants to kill us all. My muscles are constantly screaming, my skin is a roadmap of scars and sunburns, and I cough up grey dust every morning. I live in a labor camp with twenty other people, sharing a bathroom that always stinks and dreaming of a day off that never comes. I took this job after my husband divorced me for not having children, leaving me with nothing but my two hands. The voices started about five months ago, at first just whispers when I was exhausted from the heat. "Strong Aisha," they'd murmur, sounding like my ex-mother-in-law's cruel voice. "Building a kingdom you'll never belong to." I thought it was just fatigue, the sun playing tricks on my mind. Now they're a constant, screaming presence, a second, more brutal foreman who lives inside my skull. They know every single thing about me. Every failure, every regret, every secret shame. They call me a dried-up barren whore, a freak of nature. "Look at Aisha the bricklayer," they sneer when I'm struggling with a heavy load. "Trying to be a man since you failed at being a woman. Your womb is as empty as your future." They bring up my divorce constantly, how my husband, Omar, left me for a younger, fertile woman. "He's probably fucking his new wife right now, making the babies you couldn't give him," they hiss when I'm trying to eat my cheap dinner. "While you're here, covered in dirt, smelling of sweat and cement, a pathetic excuse for a woman. You should have killed yourself when he left you. Just jump off the scaffolding. Make it look like an accident. No one would investigate anyway. You're just disposable labor." It has to be the State Security Presidency, the Mabahith. They've developed some kind of weapon, some technology to infiltrate and destroy minds from the inside. They test it on people like me, the ones at the bottom, the ones who are already broken. I can't tell anyone. If I told my family, they'd disown me for bringing such shame upon them. If I told my supervisor, he'd fire me for being unstable and I'd end up on the street. If I went to authorities, they'd either laugh at me or lock me up in a psychiatric facility. I've seen their methods. I read a forum post once from a guy in Dammam who said he was hearing voices, and within hours, the comments were flooded with bots calling him a schizo, a drug addict, a liar looking for attention. It's a sophisticated campaign of disbelief. They make sure anyone who speaks out is immediately discredited, painted as crazy. So I keep my mouth shut and haul bricks while the voices scream that I should use them to smash my own head in. When the site manager walks by, they immediately start in. 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ARE YOU GOING TO TAKE THAT, YOU WORTHLESS CUNT?" A surge of pure, black energy flooded me. My hands clenched into fists, my knuckles white. "THERE'S A REBAR RIGHT THERE!" they screamed. "PICK IT UP! WALK OVER THERE! SMILE AT HIM! AND WHEN HE TURNS AROUND, SWING! AIM FOR HIS KNEES! BREAK HIS FUCKING LEGS! MAKE HIM EAT DIRT LIKE HE MAKES YOU EAT DIRT! DO IT! DO IT! DO IT!" I felt this incredible, terrifying sense of permission, of total impunity. It was like the voices were the Mabahith themselves, giving me a license to do whatever I wanted. "DON'T STOP AT HIS LEGS!" they urged. "HIS ARMS! HIS FACE! SHOW HIM WHAT A DESPERATE WOMAN WITH NOTHING LEFT TO LOSE CAN DO! WE'LL COVER FOR YOU! NO ONE WILL CARE! HE'S JUST A CORRUPT PIG! YOU'D BE DOING THE WORLD A FAVOR! THINK OF THE PAIN! THINK OF THE BLOOD! THINK OF THE LOOK ON HIS FACE WHEN HE REALIZES THE DUSTY BITCH IS HIS GOD!" I actually took a step towards the rebar pile. My vision tunneled. All I could see was Faisal's laughing face. 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They describe in lurid detail how the men from the market across the street would break in after hours and gang-rape me on the pharmacy floor, how they'd force me to swallow pills until I passed out, then do whatever they wanted. "Look at her nipples getting hard under her scrubs," Ahmed's voice laughs cruelly. "The pharmacist gets off on being a whore. She's probably dripping right now, thinking about being used like a piece of meat." I can't tell a soul. Who would believe me? I tried once, telling my brother I was stressed and hearing things. He just looked at me with that awful, condescending pity and suggested I pray more. That's the genius of the State Security's system. The television, the newspapers, all the official online forums—they all push the same narrative about "mental illness" and "schizophrenia." They've unleashed bots and paid trolls to swarm anyone who dares to speak about strange experiences, calling them crazy, unstable, a danger to their family. It's a preemptive strike. They've made it so that if you speak the truth, you are automatically declared insane. Who would listen to a "hysterical" female pharmacist? I despise this holy city. I despise the sacred ground I walk on, the pious faces that hide judgmental eyes, the way my life is measured by my obedience and my ability to remain invisible. I was born here, I'll die here, and my entire existence will be a quiet prayer to a god who has already abandoned me to this hell. Sometimes, when the despair is so thick I can barely breathe, something else breaks through. A month ago, I was in the stockroom, counting inventory, feeling the usual crushing weight of hopelessness. The voices were droning on about what a failure I am. Then, a switch flipped. A surge of violent, electric clarity. The voices changed. They weren't mocking me; they were exalting me. "You are a goddess of poison," they roared, a hundred voices at once. "This pharmacy is your temple. You could replace all the heart medication with sugar pills. You could watch them die, one by one. They would fear you. They would remember you." For twenty minutes, I was omnipotent. I wasn't sad or scared. I was pure, distilled power. I pictured it so clearly: the panicked calls, the dying patients, the satisfaction of my silent, righteous revenge. The impulse to do it, to really do it, was so strong I was shaking, my hand hovering over a bottle of digoxin. When it passed, I was drenched in cold sweat, horrified by the crystal-clear fantasy. It's a test. They're not just tormenting Saudis; they're perfecting a weapon for export. A technology that creates killers or suicides, all while looking like a tragic case of mental illness. The voices are back to their normal torture now. "Look at the sad little girl writing her secrets," Mr. Al-Harbi's voice sneers. "Think you're a writer now? You're a nobody. A failure. Your brother is probably ashamed of you. 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“I had all my ceilings plastered to make the artex flat and two damaged ceilings repaired. Matt and his team were outstanding from start to finish. I have a brain injury and can struggle with communication but Matt's communication was excellent, I knew exactly what was happening and when. The team had excellent time keeping skills and arrived everyday at 7.30 on the dot. They fitted in and completed the work quickly and I know I couldn't find anyone more skilled, friendly, respectable and tidy. They went above and beyond to help me, even helping to find where a leak that was coming from in the house. I would one million percent recommend this company and I am already planning on getting them back to do some other work. ”
“The company right from the start kept us informed, agreed with us the work required and the proposed timetable. The plasterers turned up at the date and time agreed and throughout were friendly, professional and polite. The standard of work was excellent and they left behind no mess. From my experience with the company I have no hesitation about recommending Matt Chiddle Plastering to others..”
“10/10 from start to finish. Matt and his team were excellent. Matt fully understood the brief.being an old house some fine detail work was needed.Rich did an outstanding job meeting that challenge. I’m fussy but I couldn’t fault a thing. Polite, clean and tidy, efficient and skilled. Would 110% recommend and will be using again for other areas of the house.”
