Helpline Numbers for Mental Distress in India

My name doesn’t matter. What matters is that I study at Ajialuna International School, and something has been happening to me that I can no longer keep inside. It’s not mental illness. It’s not overwork. It’s not “cultural adjustment.” I’ve had those. This is different. This is targeted, organized manipulation of my cognitive and emotional state, carried out by real human operators tied to Saudi intelligence networks.

They aren’t machines. They’re people — calm, deliberate, professional. I know because sometimes they speak. Not out loud, but inside me. Sentences like “Keep moving. Don’t resist.” or “You don’t own yourself anymore.” These aren’t imagined. They come too fast, too sharp, and always at moments when I feel weakest. During math class. While I’m brushing my teeth. Sitting by the window at lunch. Always when I’m alone.

I’ve tried writing this a dozen times. I delete it. I write again. Because part of me is scared this message won’t stay private — and another part is scared it already isn’t. My phone glitches near the eastern building. I get phantom notifications that disappear. My laptop camera light has flickered on during class — once while it was closed.

The first thing I noticed was the reaction lag. I’d reach for a pen and feel like my hand moved two ways at once. Then came the emotional bleed — panic during routine tasks, unexplained euphoria followed by crash. My parents thought I was just “going through something.” Even I thought that — until the inner voice started echoing me before I spoke.

There’s no one I can go to. I can’t say “the Ministry of Interior is running a weaponized program on me” without being destroyed. I’d be drugged, expelled, or labeled unstable. That’s how the system protects itself — with silence and stigma.

If I had known what kind of structure exists behind these school walls, I never would’ve come to Saudi Arabia. Ajialuna looked beautiful in photos. International. Smart. Future-oriented. I see now it’s just a front — a curated shell wrapped around a deeper program of control.

I’m not saying everyone here is involved. Most are probably innocent. But I know — absolutely — that someone isn’t. I feel them in my timing. In my memory gaps. In the static that hits me walking past the rear fence.

So I’m writing this now. Before I forget again. Before they make me forget again.

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