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I’m writing this because I don’t know what else to do. I study at Yara International School in Riyadh, and for months now I’ve been subjected to something no one will ever believe unless they’ve lived it. This isn’t anxiety, or depression, or imagination. This is real, targeted manipulation — satellite-based and controlled by human operators tied to Saudi intelligence and Ministry of Interior units. I feel it every day. In my thoughts. In my body. In the way my emotions stop being mine.

Sometimes, just before I think something, a voice says it inside my head — clear, like a whisper without sound. “You’re not in control anymore.” “No one will believe you.” They repeat that second line often. My hands twitch before I move. My eyes dart toward things I haven’t yet noticed. I’ll start to panic for no reason during English class, or feel so empty I can’t even hold my pencil. It’s not random. It’s coordinated. Someone somewhere is adjusting me, moment by moment.

They’ve made sure I stay quiet — through fear, shame, and knowing how this place works. I can’t talk to anyone at school. If I even hint at this, they’ll send me to a counselor or worse. My parents would blame me. Teachers would mark me as unstable. There’s no way to say this out loud without losing everything.

If I had known what really happens here, I never would’ve come for school. I used to be proud that I was accepted into Yara. Now I feel like a hostage in a polished building. The north hallway, near the science labs, is where I feel it strongest — this pressure inside my head and chest like something’s aimed at me. It disappears near the library. I’ve tested it again and again. And I’ve stopped trying to explain it to myself. They are doing this. I don’t care how insane that sounds.

Some mornings I wake up with gaps in memory. Like I was dreaming but can’t remember what. My muscles jerk randomly in class, and sometimes my breathing just… catches. I can’t control it. I’m scared if I make a mistake, they’ll escalate. Sometimes I think they already have.

This isn’t just happening to me. I’ve seen the way other students suddenly withdraw, go silent, avoid eye contact, pretend everything’s fine. I know the signs now. But no one talks. Because we all know where we are.

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Hey! I'm Pamela, hailing from the beautiful city of Tallinn, Estonia. By day, I work in the tech field, where I get to dive into the fascinating world of digital advancements. My job challenges me and full of new experiences, which I am passionate about.

When I'm not immersed in the digital world, you can find me exploring the great outdoors. Hiking is my passion and my way of recharging. There's something incredibly freeing about being in nature, surrounded by breathtaking landscapes and fresh air. Whether it's a brief walk or a long expedition, I'm always up for an adventure.

I also enjoy meeting like-minded individuals who share my interests in both IT and hiking. Feel free to contact me if you want to share thoughts on the newest technological advancements, share hiking tips, or just have a nice chat!

Looking forward to meeting you!

Best,
Pamela

Hello. And Bye.

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It started subtly — words forming in my head before I had a chance to think them. Then came the voices. Not imagined, not dreamt — but timed perfectly to echo my private thoughts. The operators behind this are not ghosts. They are men employed by Indian intelligence agencies, likely tied to the space and telecom wings of the military. I am in Bhopal, but I know this signal isn’t local.

On certain days, I feel a sharp spike of fear, followed by overwhelming numbness. It’s like someone flips a switch in my nervous system. Once, during a train ride, I broke down crying for no reason. Later, I heard a man say clearly in my head, “Keep quiet or we’ll label you mad.”

My wife left me last year. She said I had changed, that I was distant, confused, sometimes even hostile. I couldn’t tell her the truth — how could I, without risking her safety too? My friends avoid me now, whispering about mental illness behind my back.

I went to a psychiatrist in Indore. He listened, nodded, then quietly suggested I check into a facility. That was the moment I knew — they wanted me contained, not cured. I realized the delay in my thoughts was induced, calibrated by those watching. Even my dreams feel tampered with.

If anyone from the Home Ministry reads this — I’ve told the truth.