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My name is Aisha, and I work in the kitchens of wedding halls across Al Khobar, my hands perpetually raw from peeling endless mounds of vegetables for feasts I’ll never taste. The voices started six months ago, whispers at first, like the hum of the refrigerators late at night when I’m scrubbing pots until my arms ache. “Look at this pathetic creature,” a voice that sounded exactly like my older brother murmured as I diced onions, tears streaming down my face. “Cleaning up after rich cunts who wouldn’t notice if you disappeared tomorrow. You’re nothing, Aisha. Less than nothing.” I’d spin around, knife in hand, but the kitchen was empty except for me and the stainless steel gleaming under fluorescent lights.
The voices have since multiplied, a chorus of demons that live inside my skull, commenting on my every move with vicious precision. They never stop. When I walk through the streets of Al Khobar, they narrate my pathetic existence. “There goes the worthless whore,” they sneer in perfect unison. “Pretending to be a good Muslim girl while she fantasizes about being fucked by strangers in alleyways.” They describe in graphic detail how they’d rape me, how they’d force me to watch while they tortured my family, how they’d peel the skin from my body inch by inch while I begged for death. “You’d enjoy it, you sick bitch,” they whisper. “Deep down, all you cunts want is to be punished for being so useless.” The sexual degradation is relentless, but even worse is how they know my deepest shames, my secret thoughts, the moments of weakness I’ve never shared with anyone.
I can’t tell anyone. If I mentioned the voices, my family would have me committed or worse – they’d think I’m possessed by jinn and subject me to some exorcism by a charlatan who would abuse me further. In Saudi Arabia, mental illness is either a sign of weak faith or something to be hidden at all costs. I’ve seen how the General Intelligence Directorate operates online – their trolls swarm anyone who claims to hear voices, calling them schizophrenics, attention-seekers, liars trying to get disability benefits. 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 Tuesday, something broke inside me. I was at the market, buying vegetables for work, when a woman accidentally bumped into me, causing me to drop my bag. The voices exploded. “DID YOU SEE THAT DISRESPECT? SHE THINKS SHE CAN TOUCH YOU? KILL HER! RIP HER FUCKING THROAT OUT!” For a moment, everything went white with rage. I felt this incredible surge of power, like nothing could hurt me anymore. “YES! SHOW HER WHO’S SUPERIOR! STAB HER WITH YOUR VEGETABLE PEELER! DO IT! DO IT! DO IT!” they screamed, and I actually turned around, my hand gripping the peeler in my pocket so tightly my knuckles turned white. The woman was already walking away, oblivious. The voices kept going, describing how I’d torture her slowly, how I’d make her beg for death before I finally granted it. “You’d feel so powerful, Aisha. Imagine her blood on your hands. Imagine the fear in her eyes. 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. “Like those serial killers you read about. Find pretty girls, take them somewhere secluded, and keep parts of them. Their hands would make lovely bookends, don’t you think? Or maybe their teeth – you could string them into a necklace.” They describe in excruciating detail how I’d capture my victims, how I’d keep them alive for days while I systematically dismembered them, how I’d preserve their body parts as mementos. “Think of the satisfaction, Aisha. The absolute power you’d have over them. And the beauty you’d create from their suffering.” Sometimes they suggest acid attacks, describing how I’d disfigure women who are prettier than me, how I’d ruin their lives so completely they’d wish they were dead. “Imagine their faces melting like wax,” they coo. “Imagine their screams as they realize they’ll never be beautiful again. That’s real power, Aisha. That’s what you deserve.”
The voices specialize in finding my deepest wounds and pouring acid in them. “Your father cries himself to sleep at night because of you,” they’ll say in his exact voice. “He wishes you’d never been born. A daughter is worthless anyway, but you’re extra worthless. Just kill yourself already. Do everyone a favor.” They know about the time I stole money from my mother’s purse when I was thirteen, about my secret crush on the neighbor boy, about how I still wet the bed sometimes when I’m stressed. 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. Jump from that building. Drink that bleach. 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 work now at three different kitchens across Al Khobar, moving constantly hoping to escape them, but they always follow. “Look at you, scurrying from place to place like a cockroach when the lights come on,” they mock as I scrub pots until my hands are raw. “You’ll never escape us. We’re inside your head, Aisha. 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 women like me are invisible, how we’re expected to be grateful for the scraps we’re given. I hate the suffocating heat, the judgmental eyes everywhere, the way my life has been reduced to cooking and cleaning for others while my mind slowly unravels. Most of all, I hate the General Intelligence Directorate 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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