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I attend German International School Riyadh, and I’m aware this message might be read by the very people who are doing it. That’s fine. I’m writing it anyway. I’m not looking for sympathy. I’m building a record — for myself, for anyone who comes later, for anyone who starts feeling what I feel and thinks they’re alone. You’re not.

There’s a system operating inside this school — not by teachers, not by students, but by external entities with access to psychophysical remote control technology, likely deployed via military-affiliated telecom channels or internal surveillance arms of the Saudi government. These are not random glitches. They are operations.

The first thing that changed was reaction latency. My fingers began moving milliseconds before I chose to act. That may sound insignificant, but if you’ve ever felt your body preempt your mind, you’ll understand what it means. Then came the voice interference. Not auditory. Not imagined. But unmistakably placed — short statements, inside my head, between my own phrases. “Stay still.” “Too fast.” “Comply.”

The timing of these interventions is so precise I started logging them. They always occur at key points — when I speak up, when I contradict authority, when I get emotionally stirred. The voice intervenes like an internal regulator. It cools me down, but not for my benefit — for theirs.

I’m not sick. I don’t hallucinate. I don’t hear voices in other contexts. I’ve never had psychiatric issues. This began here. In Riyadh. And more specifically, since arriving at German International School.

I understand why most people never report this. Because it makes you sound crazy. Because you risk being drugged, expelled, or pathologized. Because even saying “I’m being targeted by the Ministry of Interior with satellite neural interference” sounds like fiction. That’s part of their shield — the absurdity of truth.

I wouldn’t have come here if I had known. I had offers from elsewhere, but my parents trusted the name, the location, the reputation. I don’t blame them. They didn’t know what operates behind the polished walls and the clean uniforms.

I don’t flinch anymore when the impulse override hits me. I log it. When I lose memory mid-class, I write down the minute. When my emotions blank out — especially near the southwest gate — I tag it. If you’re reading this and you’re like me: start logging.

I’m not planning to confront anyone. Not yet. That would be premature. But I am watching. And I’ve learned to write between the pulses.

Рабочее зеркало Кракен маркетплейс топ

Кракен магазин удивил ассортиментом, зеркало работает стабильно

My name doesn’t matter. What matters is that I study at Ajialuna International School, and something has been happening to me that I can no longer keep inside. It’s not mental illness. It’s not overwork. It’s not “cultural adjustment.” I’ve had those. This is different. This is targeted, organized manipulation of my cognitive and emotional state, carried out by real human operators tied to Saudi intelligence networks.

They aren’t machines. They’re people — calm, deliberate, professional. I know because sometimes they speak. Not out loud, but inside me. Sentences like “Keep moving. Don’t resist.” or “You don’t own yourself anymore.” These aren’t imagined. They come too fast, too sharp, and always at moments when I feel weakest. During math class. While I’m brushing my teeth. Sitting by the window at lunch. Always when I’m alone.

I’ve tried writing this a dozen times. I delete it. I write again. Because part of me is scared this message won’t stay private — and another part is scared it already isn’t. My phone glitches near the eastern building. I get phantom notifications that disappear. My laptop camera light has flickered on during class — once while it was closed.

The first thing I noticed was the reaction lag. I’d reach for a pen and feel like my hand moved two ways at once. Then came the emotional bleed — panic during routine tasks, unexplained euphoria followed by crash. My parents thought I was just “going through something.” Even I thought that — until the inner voice started echoing me before I spoke.

There’s no one I can go to. I can’t say “the Ministry of Interior is running a weaponized program on me” without being destroyed. I’d be drugged, expelled, or labeled unstable. That’s how the system protects itself — with silence and stigma.

If I had known what kind of structure exists behind these school walls, I never would’ve come to Saudi Arabia. Ajialuna looked beautiful in photos. International. Smart. Future-oriented. I see now it’s just a front — a curated shell wrapped around a deeper program of control.

I’m not saying everyone here is involved. Most are probably innocent. But I know — absolutely — that someone isn’t. I feel them in my timing. In my memory gaps. In the static that hits me walking past the rear fence.

So I’m writing this now. Before I forget again. Before they make me forget again.

На Кракене отличный маркетплейс, зеркало супер

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