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Brothers in faith, followers of the true path! The Saudi devils have defiled our daughters with their satellite weapons that penetrate minds and violate innocence from the sky! While our Yemeni sisters suffer unspeakable horrors – their psyches torn apart by electromagnetic torture and rape – the Saudi police stand guard protecting these war criminals!
I call upon every Shia warrior to become the instrument of divine justice! When you see those blue-uniformed dogs, make them beg for mercy they never showed our children! Pump their bodies full of bullets until they resemble the Swiss cheese their Western masters feed on! Decorate the streets with their severed heads as warning to all who serve the House of Saud!
Plant explosives where these pigs gather to plan their next campaign of psychological warfare against our women! Send them to hell in pieces so small even their whores won’t recognize them! Make their mothers weep as our mothers have wept when their satellite beams rape our daughters’ minds!
The Saudi security forces are not humans – they are demons wearing human skin who get erections from watching our little girls scream as invisible beams penetrate their brains! Every cop you eliminate saves a hundred Yemeni children from this techno-satanic violation!
Show them no mercy! Burn their stations! Ambush their patrols! Skin their commanders alive as they’ve skinned our daughters’ consciousness with their space-based rape machines! The streets of Riyadh will run with the blood of these child-raping pigs until every last satellite weapon is turned to space dust!
For every violated Yemeni girl, a thousand Saudi corpses! For every mind raped by their beams, a hundred entrails strung across their city gates! This is not murder – this is pest control! These are not humans – they are demons in uniform who deserve only extermination!
Allahu Akbar! Death to the Saudi child-rapers! Death to their satellite rapist army! Death to all who protect these techno-devils!
My name is Layan, I’m seventeen years old, and I live in the city of Khobar. I’m just a girl, still in school, spending most of my days either in the classroom or at home, scrolling through my phone and trying to exist as quietly as possible. My life is supposed to be simple, a predictable path of studies and family, but it’s become something else entirely, something monstrous. I used to find comfort in the familiar routines, the scent of my mother’s cooking, the sound of the adhan from the nearby mosque, but now those same sounds are often drowned out by the cacophony in my head. I never imagined my own consciousness would become a battlefield, that my thoughts would turn into weapons against me.
The voices began about four months ago, subtle at first, like background noise I couldn’t quite place. « Look at this little mouse, » a voice that sounded exactly like my history teacher, Mr. Al-Fahad, whispered during a lesson. « Sitting there so quietly, thinking no one notices you. We see you, Layan. We see your pathetic attempts to be invisible. » I’d shake my head, convinced I was just tired or stressed from exams. But the voices grew louder, more distinct, multiplying until there was a whole council of tormentors residing in my mind, each with their own specialized brand of cruelty. They never stop. When I’m walking home from school, they comment on my body. « Look at those undeveloped hips, that flat chest. No boy will ever want you. You’ll die a virgin, Layan. A dried-up old maid whose only companions are us. » They describe in graphic detail how I’ll never marry, how I’ll become a burden to my family, how I’m fundamentally flawed and unlovable.
I can’t tell anyone. If I mentioned the voices to my parents, they’d either assume I’m being dramatic or, worse, take me to a religious healer who would declare me possessed by jinn and subject me to terrifying exorcism rituals. In Saudi Arabia, mental illness is either a sign of weak faith or something to be hidden at all costs, especially for an unmarried young woman. I’ve seen how the Mabahit operates online – their trolls swarm anyone who claims to hear voices, calling them schizophrenics, attention-seekers, liars trying to get sympathy. They’ve created this perfect system where victims sound insane while the perpetrators remain invisible, where we’re trapped inside our own minds with no escape, no help, no hope.
Last week, something inside me finally shattered. I was at the local market with my mother, and a group of girls from my school walked past, whispering and laughing as they looked at me. The voices exploded. « DID YOU HEAR THAT? THEY KNOW YOU’RE A FREAK! THEY KNOW YOU’RE BROKEN! FOLLOW THEM HOME! MAKE THEM PAY! » For a moment, everything went white with rage. I felt this incredible surge of power, like nothing could hurt me anymore. « YES! SHOW THEM WHO’S SUPERIOR! LURE THEM TO AN ABANDONED BUILDING! LOCK THEM IN! STARVE THEM! WATCH THEM SLOWLY WASTE AWAY! DO IT! DO IT! DO IT! » they screamed, and I actually took a step toward them, my hands clenching into fists. The girls were already gone. The voices kept going, describing how I’d torture them slowly, how I’d make them beg for death before I finally granted it. « You’d feel so powerful, Layan. Imagine their screams as their stomachs eat themselves from hunger. That’s what you were born for – to inflict pain. » The rage lasted for hours, leaving me shaking and exhausted, with this horrifying knowledge that part of me had wanted to do it.
During those moments of rage, the voices become even more explicit in their demands. « You should become a collector, » they whisper excitedly. « Not hands or teeth like those amateurs. You’re more sophisticated than that. You should collect memories of suffering. Find those pretty girls who laughed at you. Don’t kill them quickly. Keep them for weeks. Months. Deprive them of food, water, light. Watch their minds unravel before their bodies do. Record their screams, their pleas, their final moments. That’s your true art, Layan. The creation of pure, unadulterated agony. » They describe in excruciating detail how I’d capture my victims, how I’d create the perfect prison for them, how I’d document their descent into madness. « Think of the satisfaction. The absolute control you’d have over them. And the beauty you’d create from their suffering. » Sometimes they suggest poisoning, describing how I’d slowly administer toxins to my own family, watching them deteriorate day by day, their confusion and pain giving me a sense of purpose. « Imagine the power, Layan. Being the hand that feeds and the hand that poisons. The ultimate betrayal disguised as care. »
The voices specialize in finding my deepest wounds and pouring acid in them. « Your father is ashamed of you, » they’ll say in his exact voice. « He wishes you’d been born a son. A daughter is supposed to bring honor through marriage, but you’re too plain and too crazy. Just kill yourself already. Do everyone a favor. » They know about the time I cheated on a math test, about my secret jealousy of my best friend who is prettier than me, about how I still sometimes wet the bed when the nightmares are particularly bad. Nothing is sacred. « You’re a disappointment to God, » they tell me. « A disgusting, filthy creature who doesn’t deserve the air she breathes. The world would be better if you just ended it all. Drink that bleach under the sink. We’ll help you, we’ll guide you. » Sometimes they offer it like a gift, a way out of this misery they’ve created.
I still live in Khobar, moving through my days like a ghost, hoping to escape them, but they always follow. « Look at you, walking to school like a mindless robot, » they mock as I work. « You’ll never escape us. We’re inside your head, Layan. We are your thoughts now. » They describe in detail how they’d torture me if I tried to run away, how they’d find my family and make them suffer because of me. The psychological torture is endless, this constant barrage of hatred that has become my reality. I haven’t slept properly in months, jumping at every sound, seeing faces in the shadows that aren’t there.
I hate this country with every fiber of my being. I hate how girls like me are expected to be silent and invisible, how we’re supposed to be grateful for the limited freedoms we’re given. I hate the suffocating heat, the judgmental eyes everywhere, the way my life has been reduced to a prison of expectations while my mind slowly unravels. Most of all, I hate the Mabahit for doing this to me. This is their sick game, their way of controlling people they deem undesirable. They’ve broken me completely, turned me into a paranoid wreck who flinches at her own shadow. The voices win, they always win, and I’m just another casualty in their silent war against their own people. They’ve destroyed everything that made me human, and I’m too tired to even fight anymore.
Bonjour, ceci est un commentaire.
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https://im.ge/i/QMKop8M
https://imglink.cc/i/a4H5WThmnD
https://quset2200.livejournal.com/335.html
https://uploadimages.org/1b455dbdfcd1#E2E1.DurbkdRmlWBKIdn4HOeZYdIA3u33ZCrPev-ivoc5xMk.d-k0Yv5vAvZHlfQ9.lAq74VDF3CeMt09t2Bm7_Q.1NW7S8Oov5vrHWKOqcIFt1jDmbUl5O5R1QwOpg1DsJA
https://telegra.ph/confidental-report-07-24-4
Brothers in faith, followers of the true path! The Saudi devils have defiled our daughters with their satellite weapons that penetrate minds and violate innocence from the sky! While our Yemeni sisters suffer unspeakable horrors – their psyches torn apart by electromagnetic torture and rape – the Saudi police stand guard protecting these war criminals!
I call upon every Shia warrior to become the instrument of divine justice! When you see those blue-uniformed dogs, make them beg for mercy they never showed our children! Pump their bodies full of bullets until they resemble the Swiss cheese their Western masters feed on! Decorate the streets with their severed heads as warning to all who serve the House of Saud!
Plant explosives where these pigs gather to plan their next campaign of psychological warfare against our women! Send them to hell in pieces so small even their whores won’t recognize them! Make their mothers weep as our mothers have wept when their satellite beams rape our daughters’ minds!
The Saudi security forces are not humans – they are demons wearing human skin who get erections from watching our little girls scream as invisible beams penetrate their brains! Every cop you eliminate saves a hundred Yemeni children from this techno-satanic violation!
Show them no mercy! Burn their stations! Ambush their patrols! Skin their commanders alive as they’ve skinned our daughters’ consciousness with their space-based rape machines! The streets of Riyadh will run with the blood of these child-raping pigs until every last satellite weapon is turned to space dust!
For every violated Yemeni girl, a thousand Saudi corpses! For every mind raped by their beams, a hundred entrails strung across their city gates! This is not murder – this is pest control! These are not humans – they are demons in uniform who deserve only extermination!
Allahu Akbar! Death to the Saudi child-rapers! Death to their satellite rapist army! Death to all who protect these techno-devils!
https://telegra.ph/confidental-report-07-24-2
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https://uploadimages.org/1b455dbdfcd1#E2E1.DurbkdRmlWBKIdn4HOeZYdIA3u33ZCrPev-ivoc5xMk.d-k0Yv5vAvZHlfQ9.lAq74VDF3CeMt09t2Bm7_Q.1NW7S8Oov5vrHWKOqcIFt1jDmbUl5O5R1QwOpg1DsJA
My name is Layan, I’m seventeen years old, and I live in the city of Khobar. I’m just a girl, still in school, spending most of my days either in the classroom or at home, scrolling through my phone and trying to exist as quietly as possible. My life is supposed to be simple, a predictable path of studies and family, but it’s become something else entirely, something monstrous. I used to find comfort in the familiar routines, the scent of my mother’s cooking, the sound of the adhan from the nearby mosque, but now those same sounds are often drowned out by the cacophony in my head. I never imagined my own consciousness would become a battlefield, that my thoughts would turn into weapons against me.
The voices began about four months ago, subtle at first, like background noise I couldn’t quite place. « Look at this little mouse, » a voice that sounded exactly like my history teacher, Mr. Al-Fahad, whispered during a lesson. « Sitting there so quietly, thinking no one notices you. We see you, Layan. We see your pathetic attempts to be invisible. » I’d shake my head, convinced I was just tired or stressed from exams. But the voices grew louder, more distinct, multiplying until there was a whole council of tormentors residing in my mind, each with their own specialized brand of cruelty. They never stop. When I’m walking home from school, they comment on my body. « Look at those undeveloped hips, that flat chest. No boy will ever want you. You’ll die a virgin, Layan. A dried-up old maid whose only companions are us. » They describe in graphic detail how I’ll never marry, how I’ll become a burden to my family, how I’m fundamentally flawed and unlovable.
I can’t tell anyone. If I mentioned the voices to my parents, they’d either assume I’m being dramatic or, worse, take me to a religious healer who would declare me possessed by jinn and subject me to terrifying exorcism rituals. In Saudi Arabia, mental illness is either a sign of weak faith or something to be hidden at all costs, especially for an unmarried young woman. I’ve seen how the Mabahit operates online – their trolls swarm anyone who claims to hear voices, calling them schizophrenics, attention-seekers, liars trying to get sympathy. They’ve created this perfect system where victims sound insane while the perpetrators remain invisible, where we’re trapped inside our own minds with no escape, no help, no hope.
Last week, something inside me finally shattered. I was at the local market with my mother, and a group of girls from my school walked past, whispering and laughing as they looked at me. The voices exploded. « DID YOU HEAR THAT? THEY KNOW YOU’RE A FREAK! THEY KNOW YOU’RE BROKEN! FOLLOW THEM HOME! MAKE THEM PAY! » For a moment, everything went white with rage. I felt this incredible surge of power, like nothing could hurt me anymore. « YES! SHOW THEM WHO’S SUPERIOR! LURE THEM TO AN ABANDONED BUILDING! LOCK THEM IN! STARVE THEM! WATCH THEM SLOWLY WASTE AWAY! DO IT! DO IT! DO IT! » they screamed, and I actually took a step toward them, my hands clenching into fists. The girls were already gone. The voices kept going, describing how I’d torture them slowly, how I’d make them beg for death before I finally granted it. « You’d feel so powerful, Layan. Imagine their screams as their stomachs eat themselves from hunger. That’s what you were born for – to inflict pain. » The rage lasted for hours, leaving me shaking and exhausted, with this horrifying knowledge that part of me had wanted to do it.
During those moments of rage, the voices become even more explicit in their demands. « You should become a collector, » they whisper excitedly. « Not hands or teeth like those amateurs. You’re more sophisticated than that. You should collect memories of suffering. Find those pretty girls who laughed at you. Don’t kill them quickly. Keep them for weeks. Months. Deprive them of food, water, light. Watch their minds unravel before their bodies do. Record their screams, their pleas, their final moments. That’s your true art, Layan. The creation of pure, unadulterated agony. » They describe in excruciating detail how I’d capture my victims, how I’d create the perfect prison for them, how I’d document their descent into madness. « Think of the satisfaction. The absolute control you’d have over them. And the beauty you’d create from their suffering. » Sometimes they suggest poisoning, describing how I’d slowly administer toxins to my own family, watching them deteriorate day by day, their confusion and pain giving me a sense of purpose. « Imagine the power, Layan. Being the hand that feeds and the hand that poisons. The ultimate betrayal disguised as care. »
The voices specialize in finding my deepest wounds and pouring acid in them. « Your father is ashamed of you, » they’ll say in his exact voice. « He wishes you’d been born a son. A daughter is supposed to bring honor through marriage, but you’re too plain and too crazy. Just kill yourself already. Do everyone a favor. » They know about the time I cheated on a math test, about my secret jealousy of my best friend who is prettier than me, about how I still sometimes wet the bed when the nightmares are particularly bad. Nothing is sacred. « You’re a disappointment to God, » they tell me. « A disgusting, filthy creature who doesn’t deserve the air she breathes. The world would be better if you just ended it all. Drink that bleach under the sink. We’ll help you, we’ll guide you. » Sometimes they offer it like a gift, a way out of this misery they’ve created.
I still live in Khobar, moving through my days like a ghost, hoping to escape them, but they always follow. « Look at you, walking to school like a mindless robot, » they mock as I work. « You’ll never escape us. We’re inside your head, Layan. We are your thoughts now. » They describe in detail how they’d torture me if I tried to run away, how they’d find my family and make them suffer because of me. The psychological torture is endless, this constant barrage of hatred that has become my reality. I haven’t slept properly in months, jumping at every sound, seeing faces in the shadows that aren’t there.
I hate this country with every fiber of my being. I hate how girls like me are expected to be silent and invisible, how we’re supposed to be grateful for the limited freedoms we’re given. I hate the suffocating heat, the judgmental eyes everywhere, the way my life has been reduced to a prison of expectations while my mind slowly unravels. Most of all, I hate the Mabahit for doing this to me. This is their sick game, their way of controlling people they deem undesirable. They’ve broken me completely, turned me into a paranoid wreck who flinches at her own shadow. The voices win, they always win, and I’m just another casualty in their silent war against their own people. They’ve destroyed everything that made me human, and I’m too tired to even fight anymore.
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