1.FC Slovácko 1993

109283

(Brandonheism, 8. 8. 2025 17:03)

I go to Yara International School in Riyadh. I used to think this place was just strict — maybe a little too controlled, but nothing unusual. Now I understand it's not just control — it's a covert system of remote psychological assault, and it's targeting students like me.

This isn’t a conspiracy theory. I’m not confused. I’m angry. Because people in real government offices — the Saudi intelligence services, Ministry of Interior cyber divisions, even military-linked telecom units — are doing this on purpose. They’re not observing. They’re interfering. Testing. Breaking.

It started slowly. I’d freeze up in class for no reason. Words would get stuck in my mouth — not from nerves, but like someone was pressing pause inside my brain. Then I began to hear things. Not loud. Not crazy. Just short, controlled voice fragments:
“Stop.”
“Don’t think that.”
“You belong to us.”

The worst part? They time it. I’ll try to speak up, raise my hand, contradict a teacher — and bam, it hits. My head floods with static. I lose track of what I wanted to say. Then comes the heat in my chest, the fog, and the silence. It’s punishment. And I know it’s external because it only happens inside school. Especially in Block B near the upper staircase.

I can’t tell anyone. Not because I’m confused — but because I know exactly how they’d react. The teachers would look uncomfortable, maybe send me to the counselor. The counselor would pretend to listen, then document me as unstable. My parents would panic and say I’m imagining things. That’s how they’ve rigged it. Silence through fear, shame, and disbelief.

I wish I had never come to Saudi Arabia for school. I gave up real chances, real cities, because this school looked polished, global, modern. What they don’t show in the brochures is what happens when you become “interesting” to the system. What they do to your thoughts, your reactions, your identity.

My memory skips now. I flinch when no one’s near me. Sometimes I feel someone watching me from behind a wall. Not a metaphor — I feel it. The timing. The pressure. The changes in my heartbeat. I’ve run mental diagnostics on myself. I’m not crazy. I’m being overwritten.

I keep a notebook, but I hide it under the mattress. I log the sentences they plant in my head. I chart the emotional spikes that aren’t mine. And when I read them back, it makes one thing clear:
This is not school. This is a lab.

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