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At first, I thought it was just part of being away from home. A new city, a new school — Palm Crest International School sounded like a place to grow, to become something more. But it didn’t take long before I felt something was wrong. Not with the school itself, but with what was happening to me inside it. Quiet things. Hidden things. The kind of shifts that don’t come from mood or fatigue, but from deliberate outside interference.

I know this sounds impossible. I would have doubted myself too. But I can’t anymore. Because I feel it every day. I am being interfered with — my thoughts, my body’s timing, even my emotions — and this is being done by real operators, not AI, not noise. I’m talking about units inside the Saudi Ministry of Interior and military-backed telecom divisions, using satellite-based systems to test something on students like me.

The voice started two months after I arrived. Not all the time — just at moments when I was vulnerable. It never screams. It just states things. “You don’t decide anymore.” “This one’s compliant.” And then it fades. But my heart races like I’ve been shouted at. I’ve dropped things in class from the jolt.

Sometimes I’ll forget what I was saying halfway through a sentence. I’ll flinch when someone walks behind me, even if it’s a classmate I know well. There’s a corridor near the computer lab where I always feel static along my spine. The closer I get to the southeast gate, the heavier my head feels — like a downward pull behind my eyes. I’m not imagining this. I track it now. I write it down.

I can’t talk to anyone about it. Not the teachers. Not the school psychologist. If I try, it’ll become something worse — a file, a report, a label. “Unstable.” “Delusional.” No one ever says “targeted by internal defense structures.”

If I had known this was a risk, I would’ve never come to Saudi Arabia. I left my home country for something international, something promising. I believed the marketing. I believed the world was smaller and safer. But it’s not. It’s silent, and dangerous, and very organized.

I’ve started losing connection with people I care about. I feel distant even when I’m sitting next to friends. It’s like someone turned the emotional volume down inside me. On bad days, I feel like a drone — moving, reacting, but not experiencing.

I’m scared. But I’m still here. And I needed to say it at least once.

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They said Riyadh would be safe.
They said Future Generation Philippine International School was a calm place for study.
No one said they’d follow me inside my own head.

—

I don’t care if this sounds paranoid anymore.
Because it’s not.

The things happening to me are real. Not metaphor. Not trauma.
There are people working in Saudi intelligence and medical-control branches who use this school as a test zone.
They’re using technology. Directed. Remote. Silent. But felt. Always felt.

—

It starts before thoughts finish.
Before a word comes out of my mouth — something locks me down.
“Don’t speak.”
“We’re watching.”

And then I freeze, mid-sentence.
Teachers look. I smile.
I pretend it’s nothing.

But I’m tired of pretending.

—

I once sat in the cafeteria and couldn’t feel my own legs.
My heart raced for no reason.
I cried in the bathroom with no memory why.
And still — when I told the counselor — she said: “We can refer you to specialists.”

Specialists.
That’s how they bury you.

Once they mark you unstable, they win.

—

I know it’s not natural.
There are too many patterns.
The chest pressure when I walk past the telecom antenna near Gate 3.
The exact same mood swing every Tuesday, third period.
The foreign sentence that ends my thoughts in a voice I never learned.

I know what’s being done.
I know who’s doing it.
And I know why I can’t say it aloud in school.

—

If I had known what Saudi systems really do to foreign students, I never would’ve come.
I miss home. I miss silence. I miss feeling like my mind belongs to me.

—

I can’t run.
I can’t tell anyone.
But I can still write.

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