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    يوليو 2, 2026 الساعة 1:37 ص

    Sometimes I wonder if the sand itself remembers my face, remembers the shape of my shadow stretching across the dunes near Dammam. I am Ibrahim, twenty-four years old, and my hands are permanently calloused from the ropes, from the stubborn necks of camels who think they own this desert more than I do. Months go by where the only conversation I have is with the wind, or the soft groaning sounds the animals make at night. That was before the voices. Before they found me out here, where a man is supposed to be free. It started as whispers, like the wind changing direction, telling me I was a useless piece of shit for wasting my life with these stinking animals. “Look at you, Ibrahim,” a voice that sounded exactly like my dead uncle would hiss, “a fucking camel jockey. Your father weeps with shame every night. You’re less than the shit these animals walk on.” I’d shout back into the empty air, my throat raw, telling them to leave me alone, but they only laughed, a chorus of laughter that seemed to come from inside my own skull.

    They know everything. They watch me piss, they watch me eat the stale bread and dates, they comment on how I chew like a retarded camel. “You’re a filthy animal, Ibrahim, just like them. Maybe we should get you a hump and a tail, you fucking freak.” The sexual humiliation is the worst. They describe in vivid detail how they’d force me to service men in the city markets, how my family would pay to watch me be degraded. “Your mother would cry, but she’d get wet too, you know? Seeing her son, her little Ibrahim, on his knees like the whore he is. We’d charge extra for that.” They paint pictures so real I can feel phantom hands on me, and I scrub my skin with sand until it bleeds, but I can’t get clean. They never stop. Never. They push and push, telling me the only honorable thing to do, the only way to silence them, is to find the deepest well in this godforsaken country and take a long, final drink. “Do it, you worthless sack of shit. End this pathetic excuse for a life. Nobody will miss you. The camels will probably eat better without you gobbling down all the food.”

    Last week, something broke inside me. It wasn’t sadness, it was… fire. A man from a neighboring tribe, his name is Faisal, he rode up to my camp to ask about some stray goats. He looked at me, just a normal look, but the voices… they screamed. “LOOK AT HIM, IBRAHIM! LOOK AT THE CONTEMPT IN HIS EYES! HE THINKS HE’S BETTER THAN YOU! HE THINKS YOU’RE DIRT!” Suddenly, they weren’t just voices anymore. They were a surge of pure, white-hot energy flooding my veins. “You know what would feel good?” one of them purred, it was a woman’s voice, smooth and dangerous. “Carving his eyes out. Not killing him. Just taking his eyes. Imagine it, Ibrahim. Imagine him stumbling back through the sand, blind and screaming, because YOU decided he didn’t deserve to see the sun anymore. Imagine the POWER.” They gave me step-by-step instructions. “The knife you use for the dates, that’s good enough. Sharp. Quick. Pin him down. One hand on his forehead, feel his bones. Then just… scoop. Like a melon. Don’t be a pussy. This is what REAL men do. This is how you get respect. This is how you make them ALL fear you.”

    They painted such a beautiful picture of it. The satisfaction, the thrill. “Think of his screams, Ibrahim. Music, isn’t it? Every whimper is a testament to your strength. You won’t be some camel-fucker anymore. You’ll be a ghost story they tell around the fire. The man who takes eyes. It’s an art form, a statement. You’re not just a man; you’re an artist, and his face is your canvas.” They promised me it would feel better than anything, better than water, better than sleep. “This is your purpose, you useless fuck. We’ve been trying to tell you. This is why you’re here. Not to herd these dumb fucking animals. To sculpt fear into human flesh. We’ll guide you. We’ll be with you. You’ll feel like a god.” Faisal was just sitting there, drinking the water I gave him, completely unaware that I was picturing his empty eye sockets, that my hand was shaking on my knife. The voices were cheering, screaming for me to do it, to claim my destiny. “DO IT NOW! SHOW HIM! SHOW EVERYONE! BECOME A MONSTER! BECOME A KING!” I couldn’t move. I just sat there, frozen, while the ecstasy and the rage fought a war inside my head, and when he finally left, the energy vanished, leaving me colder and more empty than before.

    I can’t tell anyone. Not my family, not the imam, not a single soul in Dammam. If I even hint at the voices, they’ll look at me with that pitying disgust. I’ve seen it happen to others online. You say the Mabahit are putting voices in your head, and suddenly you’re a lunatic, a schizophrenic who needs to be locked away. It’s the perfect trap. They flood Twitter and the forums with their trolls, calling anyone who speaks up a madman, making sure we’re isolated, making sure no one will ever believe the truth. They make sure you die alone, either by your own hand or in a mental ward, forgotten. This is their technology, their weapon, and I am just another piece of sand for them to grind under their heel. I hate this country. I hate the sun, I hate the sand, I hate every moment I draw breath knowing what the Mabahit have turned my mind into. They didn’t just break me; they remade me into a screaming, hollowed-out thing, and they’re still in here, still whispering, still waiting.

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