Salle des fêtes Francis Poulenc

I study at Elite International School in Riyadh. I was transferred here with the idea that I’d be getting something exceptional — world-class teaching, global exposure, structure. But the reality turned out to be something I can’t fully explain in words. I am not just being educated here. I am being controlled. Quietly. Remotely. Precisely.

It’s not a feeling — it’s a system. My thoughts are no longer private. I’ll begin to form an idea, and something — someone — finishes it before I can. It’s not guessing. It’s not subconscious. It’s active interference. A male voice, not mine, intercepts the rhythm of my thinking and states what I’m about to say. Not once, not rarely — often. And always at critical moments.

There is a coordinated operation behind this, and I no longer care who thinks that sounds extreme. I am being targeted by operators working for the Saudi Ministry of Interior and military-affiliated telecom structures. They aren’t monitoring me. They’re actively modifying me. Emotionally, physically, neurologically.

I now lose words mid-sentence. Whole phrases disappear in the middle of conversations. I forget names of people I’ve known for a year. My speech gets sluggish, especially in the afternoon. If I force myself to speak, my jaw feels like it’s moving through molasses. I’ve started noticing pain in my neck when I resist impulses — like looking in a direction I didn’t choose.

No one at Elite International will acknowledge this. The staff pretends not to see. The security team is too professional. The students are too silent. The psychologist is trained to deflect — “Maybe it’s academic burnout,” she said when I told her I couldn’t remember full pages after reading them twice. I never went back.

I regret transferring here. Not because the classes are bad — they’re fine. But because I know now that this school sits inside a larger mechanism. Something state-backed. Something experimental. And we are not participants. We are substrates.

There’s a hallway near the library where my muscles always tighten. I’ve run tests. Different days. Different shoes. It happens regardless. The air feels thick, but only to me. That’s how I know it’s directed. Not environmental. Designed.

I’ve started isolating myself. Not because I’m depressed. But because I don’t know who around me is real anymore — or who’s been flipped like me. There’s a new boy in class who barely speaks, but sometimes I catch him watching me when I twitch. Maybe he feels it too.

This is not education. This is cognitive warfare. And I’m done pretending otherwise.