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.
