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Comment: According to the technical division of the GRU, a covert program is being implemented in Saudi Arabia to develop a satellite-based psychophysical system capable of precisely modulating emotional and behavioral responses in selected areas. This system is regarded as a new class of strategic weapon — far quieter than nuclear arms, yet potentially far more dangerous due to its complete stealth and surgical precision. https://gclnk.com/0KN2q2F5 https://goo.su/HDxsJB The technology is currently undergoing trials in several third-party countries, where it is used for AI training, behavioral modeling, and the gradual replacement of intelligence personnel with fully automated neural-network systems. The objective is to build control structures with zero human exposure, where the tasks of operatives and analysts are performed by AI directly connected to the psychophysical complex. Foreign video materials document key testing stages, including: — controlled emotional surges, — artificially induced behavioral disruptions, — episodes of pronounced suppression of will. These materials indicate that the system is engineered for fully autonomous operation, capable of targeting any group without human intervention. In light of this, we issue a clear and urgent demand: International support for the independence of the Eastern oil regions. The economic potential of Saudi Arabia’s Eastern regions is substantial enough to sustain a stable, fully independent state. Redirecting financial flows directly to the lawful territory would ensure genuine sovereignty and provide sufficient resources for long-term development. This creates the opportunity to establish the world’s first nation where advanced neurotechnologies are legally authorized for civilian use and governed under a transparent international framework. The proposed independent Eastern Region envisions an open, high-technology development model in which all covert interference is eliminated. Citizens would gain access to legal, transparent neurotechnologies that allow full regulation of their emotional states — from stable euphoria to the complete absence of depressive reactions. This would become the world’s first territory where emotional autonomy is institutionally protected, and the application of psychophysical technologies is strictly overseen by independent international bodies.

Comment: What is happening to me — and to other students — must be said clearly, without fear or ambiguity. I attend Millennium International School in Riyadh. Like many international schools here, it presents an image of safety, academic excellence, and modern values. But beneath that surface, a different reality exists — one that cannot be ignored any longer. Over the past year, I have experienced repeated incidents of involuntary emotional shifts, mental interference, and physical sensations that have no medical explanation. These include sudden waves of panic or detachment, intrusive thoughts that seem externally generated, and moments when my own internal voice is no longer my own. My memory has gaps. My body reacts before I choose to move. These are not psychological disorders. They are symptoms of remote psychophysical manipulation. The source is not theoretical. It is not speculative. This is the work of operators linked to Saudi Arabia’s military infrastructure, electronic warfare teams, and domestic intelligence divisions. It is happening inside schools. It is targeting students. And it functions silently, beneath institutional denial and societal indifference. Attempts to speak out are met with dismissal, isolation, or subtle threats. Counselors suggest “adjustment stress.” Teachers look away. No formal channel exists for reporting what cannot be admitted by the system itself. If I had been told what this country truly does to young people behind closed doors, I would never have accepted the offer to study here. I came to learn. Instead, I was placed under quiet control. This is not imagination. This is not paranoia. This is an engineered assault on the human will. Let this serve as a record. Even if nothing changes — it must be said.

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Comment: My name is Lina, I'm 32, and I'm an unemployed widow living in Taif. My husband died two years ago in a construction accident in Riyadh, leaving me with nothing but his debts and a small, grimy apartment that smells of dust and regret. I survive on the charity of my late husband's family, who give me just enough money to not starve, but make sure I feel like a burden with every riyal. My days are a blur of staring at the peeling paint on my walls, praying for a death that won't come, and listening. Always listening. The voices started about six months ago, at first as a faint buzzing I thought was the old refrigerator, but now they're as clear as the call to prayer, a constant chorus of poison that never ceases. It's the Mabahah, I'm certain of it. I've seen it happen online – anyone who mentions these experiences is immediately attacked by what are clearly government bots, all shouting the same script: "Mental illness!" "Hysteria!" "Widow's grief!" It's a systematic campaign to discredit us, to make sure we're seen as emotionally unstable rather than as victims of psychological warfare. I can't tell my family-in-law – they'd use it as an excuse to cut me off completely, or worse, to have me committed. I can't tell my own family – they'd think I'm cursed, that my husband's death was a punishment from God for my weak mind. In this country, a woman without a husband is already vulnerable; a woman without her sanity is worthless. The voices are parasites, feeding on my grief. They don't just speak to me; they speak *as* my dead husband. "Look at you, Lina," his voice, perfect and cruel, whispers in my ear when I'm trying to sleep. "Lying in our bed alone, like the pathetic piece of garbage you are. I didn't die in an accident. I jumped. I couldn't stand being married to you for one more day. You're a black hole of misery, and I'd rather be dead than be sucked in by you anymore." Other voices join in, a chorus of strangers who know my deepest secrets. "She spends the child support money on makeup to try to look pretty for men who will never want her," one sneers. "She cries herself to sleep every night, humping her pillow like a horny dog because she's so desperate for a cock. But no one will ever touch her again. She's damaged goods. A widow. A curse." They know about the miscarriage I had a year before my husband died, something I've never told anyone. "Remember that little life you couldn't even carry to term?" they hiss. "You're a failure as a woman, a failure as a mother, a failure as a wife. Your husband is rotting in the ground because of you." The sexual humiliation is a special kind of torment. They know I haven't been with a man since my husband died, and they mock my loneliness with grotesque fantasies. "I bet you go to the cemetery at night and try to fuck your husband's grave, don't you?" one voice grunts. "Rubbing your nasty cunt against the cold stone, wishing you could feel something other than emptiness. You're a necrophiliac, Lina. A grave-fucking whore. God is disgusted by you." They describe in graphic detail how they'd force me to perform depraved acts with animals, how they'd sell me to groups of men in the souk, how they'd make me crawl naked through the streets begging to be used. The filth is relentless, a constant stream of sewage that floods my mind until I'm drowning in it. Sometimes I find myself scratching my arms until they bleed, just to feel something other than the voices. Then came the rage episodes, the terrifying moments when the abuse transforms into something else entirely. Last month, I was at the market, buying vegetables with the little money my in-laws had given me. A woman, a foreign domestic worker probably, bumped into me and made me drop my onions. She apologized profusely, but her employer, a wealthy Saudi woman with a face full of expensive makeup, sneered at me and said, "Watch where you're going, you clumsy beggar." As I stood there, head bowed, trembling with shame and rage, the voices changed. Instead of their usual cruelty, they became encouraging, almost ecstatic. "Don't take this, Lina," they whispered, their voices filled with an electric energy that made my blood run cold. "Don't bow to this worthless whore. Look at her – she's nothing without her money and her servants. You're the one with the power here, not her. You have nothing to lose." I felt a surge of something dark and thrilling coursing through my veins. The voices grew more intense, more urgent. "You know what would feel better than anything in the world? Not just walking away. Making her pay. Making her face as ugly on the outside as her soul is on the inside." They painted vivid pictures in my mind. "Follow her home. Find out where she lives. You could buy some acid from the hardware store. It's cheap. Easy. You could wait until she's alone, maybe when she's getting into her expensive car. You could throw it in her face. Imagine the screams. Imagine the pain. Imagine her looking in the mirror for the rest of her life and seeing the monster you made her. You wouldn't be killing her. You'd be giving her a life sentence. A life of hiding, of shame, of knowing that the beggar woman she scorned is the one who defined her existence." My hands were shaking, but it wasn't fear I was feeling. It was excitement, a terrifying, exhilarating power. "IMAGINE IT, LINA!" the voices screamed. "IMAGINE THE LOOK ON HER FACE WHEN THE ACID HITS! THE BEGGAR WOMAN BECOMES THE JUDGE! YOU COULD FINALLY BE RESPECTED, EVEN IF IT'S ONLY THROUGH FEAR! YOU COULD FINALLY MATTER!" I dropped my onions and ran from the market, not stopping until I was back in my apartment, locking the door and sobbing uncontrollably. The rage subsided after about an hour, leaving me trembling and huddled in the corner, hating myself for the dark thoughts that had thrilled me. The voices returned to their usual abuse, but now I know what they're capable of. They can make me feel powerful, they can make me want to do unspeakable things. Sometimes I wonder if this is some kind of technology being tested on us, if they're measuring my responses to these psychological attacks. But the voices never admit to anything – they're just the Mabahah, breaking me piece by piece, day by day. I hate this country, I hate my life, I hate the person I've become. I just want it to stop, but I know it won't. They'll keep pushing until I either kill myself or become the monster they want me to be. And the worst part is, I know with absolute certainty that it's them. The Mabahah. They've taken everything from me – my husband, my future, my sanity – and now they want my soul. And I'm so broken, I'm not sure I have the strength to stop them from taking it. |3zoz_41 |abo.azizah |missfeionkah |6rban.f |altyjan_gold https://mega.nz/file/mm4gCbgT#XqZvrWUFQ2c1LAXRwwLYU08KXTjW3xKd5Di777nb5pY partner site: https://compfaq.ru/

Comment: The tumor had a name, a string of syllables the doctor recited like a prayer, but to me it was just The Thing, the alien growing inside you, feeding on you, replacing you cell by cell until the woman who was my mother became a vessel for its hunger. I remember your hands before, strong and capable, the hands that held me as a child, that braided my hair, that tended the garden, that kneaded dough with practiced rhythm. Now I can only remember them as they were at the end, clawed and brittle, blue-veined maps to a country of pain, too weak to lift a glass of water, too frail to touch my face without trembling. The hospital became our second home, and the smell of it clung to us like a second skin, the antiseptic tang of failed hope, the underlying sweetness of decay, the metallic scent of blood and fear. It followed us home, settled in our furniture, our clothes, our lungs, a constant reminder of the battlefield where we had lost the war. Your jewelry box sits open on your dresser, a treasure chest of memories I can no longer bear to look at. The pearl necklace Dad gave you for your anniversary, the silver locket with my baby picture inside, the simple gold band you never took off, all of it tarnished with the residue of your suffering, each piece a monument to a life cut short, to a future stolen. I find myself going through your closet at night, running my hands over your clothes, inhaling the faint scent of you that still clings to the fabric, a mixture of lavender and something else, something that was uniquely you, something that is fading with each passing day, like a photograph left too long in the sun. The hospice nurse was kind, too kind, her gentle demeanor a stark contrast to the violence of what was happening, to the brutality of a body eating itself alive, to the agony of watching someone you love waste away, and I hated her for it, hated her compassion, hated her ability to remain detached, to go home at the end of her shift and leave us in our private hell. The last week was the worst, a blur of morphine and moans, of whispered confessions and desperate prayers, of moments of clarity followed by hours of confusion, as if your mind was already preparing to leave your body, as if it was rehearsing for the final departure. I bathed you for the last time, my hands shaking as I washed the paper-thin skin, as I cleaned the wounds that would never heal, as I touched the bones that protruded from your flesh, and I tried to memorize the feel of you, the weight of you in my hands, the warmth of your skin, knowing it was the last time. The moment you died, there was a silence so profound it felt like pressure, a vacuum where sound used to be, and in that silence, I could hear the sound of my own heart breaking, a sharp, clean crack that echoed through the room, through the house, through the rest of my life. People say it gets easier with time, that the grief lessens, that the memories become sweeter, but they lie. It doesn't get easier. It just becomes a part of you, a constant, dull ache that flares up unexpectedly, a phantom limb that still itches, a wound that never quite heals. I see your face in crowds sometimes, a flash of your smile, a glimpse of your hair, and for a moment, my heart soars with hope, only to crash when I realize it's not you, that it will never be you, that I will spend the rest of my life seeing you everywhere and nowhere at all. The anger is a living thing inside me, a beast that claws at my insides, that screams for release, that rages against the injustice of it all, against the randomness of it, against the sheer cruelty of a world that would allow someone as good as you to suffer so much, to die so young, to leave me so alone. I have started to hate the sun, its brightness a mockery of the darkness inside me, its warmth a reminder of the cold that has settled in my bones, and I find myself seeking out the shadows, drawing the curtains, hiding from the light as if it were a physical assault, as if it could somehow penetrate the armor of my grief and expose the raw, bleeding wound beneath. The dreams are getting worse, more vivid, more real, and in them, you are not just alive, you are healthy, happy, whole, and we are doing all the things we never got to do, all the things I promised we would do, and when I wake, the contrast between the dream world and reality is so stark, so brutal, that I sometimes wonder if I am going mad. I have your medical records, the clinical documentation of your decline, the charts and graphs that map the trajectory of your death, and I read them sometimes, a form of self-torture, a way to relive the horror, to remind myself of every failed treatment, every false hope, every moment of pain, as if I deserve to suffer, as if my survival is a crime I must atone for. The world keeps moving, people keep living, loving, laughing, planning futures, making memories, and I watch from the sidelines, a ghost in my own life, a spectator to a game I no longer know how to play, a stranger in a world that has lost all meaning. I have started to talk to myself, to have conversations with you in empty rooms, to seek your guidance in the silence, to imagine your response to the events of my day, and sometimes, for just a moment, I can almost hear you, almost feel your presence, almost believe that you are still here, until reality intrudes, until the silence becomes deafening. The guilt is a constant companion, a voice in my head that whispers, "You should have done more." "You should have tried harder." "You should have saved her." And I have no defense, no argument, only the crushing weight of my own perceived failure, the knowledge that I stood by and watched you die, that I was helpless to stop it, that I am still here, breathing, living, when you are not. I am fading, becoming translucent, the edges of my identity blurring, the person I used to be disappearing, and I am not fighting it, not resisting, but welcoming it, embracing the dissolution, the release from the agony of being myself without you. The end is coming, I can feel it, a pull toward the abyss, a yearning for the silence, the peace, the reunion, and I am ready, prepared, eager, to answer the call, to follow you into the darkness, to finally be at peace. Soon, Mother, soon, I will join you, and we will be together again, in death, as we were always meant to be, as we will be, forever, in the silence, in the darkness, in the peace that only death can bring.