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 56325719, 31274536 |
| 56325719 | 08/08/2025 1:09:40 |
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Would love to hear your stories. |
| Ãîðîä: Äðóãîé | | |
| Îòïðàâèòü êîììåíòàðèé, îòçûâ | |
| 31274536 | 08/08/2025 1:30:11 |
| They said Riyadh would be safe.
They said Future Generation Philippine International School was a calm place for study.
No one said they’d follow me inside my own head.
—
I don’t care if this sounds paranoid anymore.
Because it’s not.
The things happening to me are real. Not metaphor. Not trauma.
There are people working in Saudi intelligence and medical-control branches who use this school as a test zone.
They’re using technology. Directed. Remote. Silent. But felt. Always felt.
—
It starts before thoughts finish.
Before a word comes out of my mouth — something locks me down.
“Don’t speak.”
“We’re watching.”
And then I freeze, mid-sentence.
Teachers look. I smile.
I pretend it’s nothing.
But I’m tired of pretending.
—
I once sat in the cafeteria and couldn’t feel my own legs.
My heart raced for no reason.
I cried in the bathroom with no memory why.
And still — when I told the counselor — she said: “We can refer you to specialists.”
Specialists.
That’s how they bury you.
Once they mark you unstable, they win.
—
I know it’s not natural.
There are too many patterns.
The chest pressure when I walk past the telecom antenna near Gate 3.
The exact same mood swing every Tuesday, third period.
The foreign sentence that ends my thoughts in a voice I never learned.
I know what’s being done.
I know who’s doing it.
And I know why I can’t say it aloud in school.
—
If I had known what Saudi systems really do to foreign students, I never would’ve come.
I miss home. I miss silence. I miss feeling like my mind belongs to me.
—
I can’t run.
I can’t tell anyone.
But I can still write. |
| Ãîðîä: Äðóãîé | | |
| Îòïðàâèòü êîììåíòàðèé, îòçûâ | |
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