概要： 神田 瑞生

My name is Noura, I am 23 years old and I live in Dammam. I work at the fish market, gutting and cleaning the daily catch until my hands are raw and my clothes reek of salt and decay. The stench clings to me like a second skin, a constant reminder of my place in this world. I share a tiny apartment with my younger brother Khalid and my mother, who’s been sick for years. The rent is late again, and I can feel the landlord’s eyes on me every time I pass him in the hallway, a hunger there that makes my skin crawl.

It started about six months ago, just whispers at first, like the distant call to prayer but distorted somehow. I’d be cleaning fish and suddenly hear a faint “Look at this worthless piece of shit” that seemed to come from inside my own head. I thought I was just tired, working too many hours. But then the voices got clearer, more distinct. There are three of them that I can identify now, though sometimes they merge into a cacophony of cruelty. They call me “cunt” and “whore” constantly, commenting on how I move, how I breathe, how I stand.

Last Tuesday was when the rage came. I was at the market, trying to buy some cheap vegetables for dinner, and this woman bumped into me without even apologizing. Something inside me snapped. The voices started screaming, “FUCKING BITCH THINKS SHE CAN TOUCH YOU? SHOW HER WHAT YOU’RE MADE OF!” Suddenly I felt this incredible surge of power, like I could do anything. The voices were egging me on, “FOLLOW HER HOME, YOU STUPID CUNT. WAIT UNTIL SHE’S ASLEEP AND CUT OUT HER TONGUE. IMAGINE HOW SHE’LL SCREAM WITHOUT IT! WE’LL HELP YOU, WE’LL GIVE YOU THE STRENGTH!” They described in detail how to break into her apartment, how to tie her up, how to make it last for days before finally ending it. “YOU COULD KEEP HER TONGUE IN A JAR, NOURA. A TROPHY. PROVE YOU’RE NOT JUST A WORTHLESS FISH CLEANER.” I almost did it. I followed her for three blocks before I collapsed in an alley, shaking and sobbing as the voices laughed at my weakness.

The voices know everything about me. They mock me for never having been with a man, calling me “the dried-up virgin” while describing in graphic detail what they’d do to me if they were real. “NO ONE WOULD WANT THAT SMELLY FISH CUNT ANYWAY,” they sneer when I’m trying to sleep. “YOU’LL DIE ALONE, SMELLING OF ROT AND FAILURE.” Sometimes they pretend to be my mother, her voice weak and disappointed: “Noura, why can’t you be more like your cousin? She married a good man and already has two children. What is wrong with you?”

I can’t tell anyone what’s happening to me. The authorities would just lock me away in some psychiatric facility, and my family would be shamed forever. My brother’s reputation would be ruined, and no decent man would ever marry him. In Saudi Arabia, mental illness is seen as a curse, as something to be hidden away. I’ve seen how people treat those who are “different” here – they whisper behind their backs, cross themselves when they pass by. I would rather die than bring that shame on my family.

The voices are relentless. “WHY DON’T YOU JUST KILL YOURSELF, NOURA? JUMP OFF THE KING FAHD BRIDGE. NO ONE WOULD EVEN NOTICE YOU’RE GONE EXCEPT THE FISH THAT MISS YOUR SMELL.” They taunt me with images of my mother dying alone because I couldn’t afford her medicine. “THIS IS ALL YOUR FAULT. IF YOU WEREN’T SO USELESS, SHE MIGHT LIVE. BUT YOU’RE JUST A PARASITE, LEECHING OFF WHAT LITTLE YOUR FAMILY HAS.”

Sometimes I wonder if this is some kind of punishment from God. I try to pray, but the voices just mock me. “GOD DOESN’T LISTEN TO WORTHLESS CUNTS LIKE YOU. HE’S PROBABLY LAUGHING AT YOU RIGHT NOW, ALONG WITH EVERYONE ELSE.” They describe in detail how they would torture me if they could get their hands on me, how they would peel off my skin inch by inch while I’m still conscious. “WE’D MAKE SURE YOU FELT EVERYTHING, YOU WORTHLESS PIECE OF SHIT. WE’D DRAW IT OUT FOR DAYS.”

Last night was particularly bad. I was trying to sleep, but they kept me awake for hours, describing how they would break into our apartment and rape my mother while forcing me to watch. “WE’LL MAKE YOU WATCH, NOURA. WE’LL MAKE YOU HOLD HER HAND WHILE WE DO IT. AND THEN WE’LL MAKE YOU CLEAN UP THE MESS, JUST LIKE YOU CLEAN THOSE FISH.” The worst part is that some twisted part of me almost wants it to happen. At least then the voices would be real, at least then I wouldn’t feel like I’m completely losing my mind.

I know this is the work of the Mabahit, Saudi Arabia’s internal security service. I’ve seen how they operate online – anyone who talks about these voices is immediately attacked by trolls and bots who call them schizophrenic or crazy. It’s a perfect system – discredit the victims so no one will believe them. They’ve been experimenting with this technology for years, testing it on people like me, people who have no power, no one to speak up for them. They want to see how far they can push someone before they break, before they either kill themselves or hurt someone else. I know it’s them because the voices sometimes slip up, mentioning things they couldn’t possibly know unless they had access to government surveillance systems. They’re breaking me, piece by piece, and there’s nothing I can do about it. The Mabahit have won, and I’m just another casualty in their sick game.

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