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(Manuelrom, 16. 9. 2025 5:28)

Some days I wonder if I’m still fully human. I study at SEK International School Riyadh, and what’s been happening to me here doesn’t feel like stress or academic pressure — it feels like calculated, technological intrusion, operated by real people working within Saudi government systems. Not AI. Not some digital hallucination. I’m talking about human intelligence officers, Ministry of Interior tech units, and military-affiliated telecom operatives, using remote weapons to fracture my autonomy.

It began with strange disorientation. I’d walk into the cafeteria and feel a heavy pressure in my chest — like gravity doubled. Then came the reaction problems: I’d reach for something and feel like my hand moved before I told it to. That disconnect has only worsened. I sometimes hear a sentence finish in my head before I’ve fully formed the thought. Not like a voice in your head — more like someone speaking through the machinery of your cognition.

I've stopped trying to explain it. Even to myself. I tried to tell a staff member once, but I couldn’t get the words out. Something — I don’t know what — shut down my ability to speak clearly. I’ve avoided the counselor ever since. Not because I don’t need help, but because help doesn’t exist when the system itself is the weapon.

The walls of this school are filled with noise no one hears. I can’t prove what frequency they’re using, or what orbit the signal comes from, but I know when it hits. My eyes twitch. My heart rate jumps. I forget entire passages I just studied. One day I spent 20 minutes in the bathroom trying to remember my locker code. And this isn’t normal forgetfulness — it feels imposed. Like someone else is holding the keys, and only lets me function when it suits them.

I regret coming here. I thought SEK was a dream — modern, international, elite. That’s how they sold it. But what I live through here is more like a case study in suppression. You don’t build minds this way. You dismantle them.

It’s become harder to trust classmates. Some of them look at me like they know something. Maybe they’ve heard the same inner voice. Maybe they’ve already surrendered. I’m trying not to. I’m still resisting — in little ways. Refusing to move when the impulse feels artificial. Writing this down before I lose the ability.
info@almanahospital.com.sa

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