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My name is Ahmad. I'm 28, and I work the date palm groves in Qatif. From sunrise to sunset, I climb the rough trunks, my hands calloused and bleeding, pollinating the flowers by hand or hauling down heavy bunches of dates during the harvest. The sun bakes my skin, the dust fills my lungs, and the silence of the desert is broken only by the wind and the screaming in my head. The voices started about a year ago, a faint whisper like the rustling of the dry fronds, but now they're a constant, deafening roar. I know this is the work of the State Security Presidency. They have ways of breaking a man that leave no physical scars, just a shattered mind like mine. They've perfected psychological warfare against their own citizens.

The voices are a relentless torment, and they sound like everyone I've ever known. "Look at you, Ahmad, a monkey climbing trees for scraps," my father's voice scoffs as I wrap my hands in cloth to start my climb. "Your brother Ibrahim is an engineer in Riyadh, building towers. You're just a farmer, a peasant. You're nothing but a human ladder." Another voice, in the exact tone of the landowner who pays me peanuts, chimes in: "We all see how you stare at the women in the village, you dirty peasant. Like a starving dog eyeing a goat. Her brothers would hang you from one of your own trees for looking at their sister like that. Go home to your mud hut and fuck your fist like the lonely animal you are." They know everything, every shameful thought I've ever had. I can't tell anyone – my family would think I'm possessed by jinn and take me to some holy man who'll just prescribe more prayers that do nothing. A real doctor would just pump me full of pills and label me schizophrenic, which is exactly what the State Security wants everyone to think about their experiments.

About three months ago, something terrifying happened. It was during the harvest, and this city man, a Saudi in a spotless white thobe and expensive sunglasses, came to "inspect" his property. He walked around, kicking at the irrigation pipes, complaining about the quality of the dates, and sneering at my hard work. He looked at me like I was dirt. I was trying to just swallow my pride, but then the voices exploded in my head with such force I nearly fell from the ladder I was on. "LOOK AT THIS SMUG URBAN CUNT," they shrieked, not as separate voices anymore but as one unified roar of pure hatred. "HE THINKS HE'S A KING BECAUSE HE OWNS LAND. HE LOOKS AT YOU LIKE YOU'RE THE SHIT ON HIS SHOE. WHAT DO YOU HAVE, AHMAD? NOTHING." Suddenly, I wasn't tired or frustrated anymore – I was electrified, filled with a terrifying energy. The voices were pouring something into me that felt like power.

"Wait until he leaves," they whispered, now seductive and compelling. "Follow him on his motorcycle. We know the road he takes. It's isolated. Think about it, Ahmad – no one would ever suspect you. Just a simple farmer. But don't just run him off the road, that's too quick. That's too kind." They painted vivid pictures in my mind. "Use your truck. Push him into the ravine. But don't just leave him there. Go down. Make sure he's alive but broken. You have your pruning saw. You could take his hands. The hands he uses to sign your pathetic paychecks. You could take his tongue, so he can never sneer again. Imagine his surprise when he wakes up, a stump instead of a hand. The fear. The agony. You could be the one who finally teaches him some humility. You could be the one in control for once." I spent the rest of the day in a state of sick excitement, my heart pounding as I imagined the process, the details of how to do it and get away with it. It felt like they were giving me a gift, a purpose. By dusk, I was actually sitting in my truck, waiting, but then the wave of energy receded, leaving me shaking and horrified by what I'd almost become, a monster hiding in the date palms.

The voices have completely destroyed my faith. Every time I try to pray, they corrupt it. "ALLAHU AKBAR? ALLAH CAN'T HEAR YOU, YOU WORTHLESS PIECE OF SHIT," they scream in the imam's voice from the village mosque. "YOU THINK GOD CARES ABOUT A FARMER WHO TOUCHES HIMSELF THINKING ABOUT VILLAGE GIRLS? YOUR MOTHER SHOULD HAVE SMOTHERED YOU AT BIRTH." They show me visions of the Kaaba burning, of prophets weeping and vomiting at the sight of me. I've stopped praying altogether. I can't bear going to the mosque anymore, feeling the eyes of everyone on me, certain they know what the voices say is true. This country has become a prison where the walls are made of sand and the guards are invisible but always watching.

I curse the day I was born in this kingdom. In other places, people with problems like mine might get real help. Here, we're either hidden away or told we're weak in our faith. The State Security created this system perfectly – they inflict the wound, then ensure society treats the infected as untouchables. I've seen it online, anyone who mentions hearing voices is immediately swarmed by Saudi trolls and bots calling them crazy, saying it's a Western disease, that real Saudis don't get "schizophrenia." It's so perfectly orchestrated that no one ever asks why so many young men are suddenly hearing voices that know their deepest, most private shames.

Tonight they're pushing hard for me to end it. "Your sister Fatima knows," one whispers, sounding exactly like her worried voice on the phone. "She hears you talking to yourself at night, Ahmad. She's terrified of what you've become. She'd rather have a dead brother who died a 'martyr' than a living one who's possessed by devils." Another voice laughs. "Or you could make it interesting. Use your pruning saw. It's sharp enough. It would be the most interesting thing you've ever done in your miserable life." The worst part is how right they feel sometimes. How easy it would be. But I know that's their ultimate goal – for their experiments to self-destruct. I won't give them the satisfaction. Not yet. I know this is the State Security Presidency's work, and I won't let them win completely.

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