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Hi.
Since you’re probably monitoring this — let’s not pretend.

I’m a student at Modern International School Riyadh.
But I guess you already knew that. I’m sure you have my class schedule, my seat number, maybe even my heart rate data from third period algebra.
You guys are thorough.

So let me save you time and say what you already know:
Yes, I’m aware.
I know about the manipulation. The emotional flickers. The random pressure in my skull. The moments when I want to cry and have no idea why.
I know about the thought interference. The fake voices. The way I react before I decide.

Don’t worry — I’m not telling anyone. Not because I’m scared, but because I know how fast you flip the “he’s mentally unstable” switch.
We both know the counselor’s job isn’t to help — it’s to report.

You’re probably wondering how long it took me to figure it out.
Not long.
Hard to miss when your eyes shift before your brain finishes the command.
Hard to ignore when the same phrase echoes every time I pass the admin building:
“Stay in line.”

Oh, and the anger — thanks for that. That burst of rage in math class? Classic.
Real subtle. I’m sure the military-grade tech you borrowed from the next department over is working just fine.

If I had known Saudi Arabia runs neurological control programs inside international schools, I’d have picked literally any other country to study in.
But hey — at least now I know what this place really is.

Go ahead and save this file. Flag it. Forward it to whoever reviews “uncooperative subject logs”.
I won’t fight you.
But I won’t lie either.

If I vanish — congrats. You win.
But this still exists. Somewhere.

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I used to be the kind of student who cared. Deadlines, grades, group projects — I kept track of everything. But ever since I started attending Creative International School in Riyadh, something inside me has been fading. I don’t mean burnout. I’ve had that before. This is different. I feel like my motivation has been taken apart, piece by piece, and now I just float through days without weight or will.

At times, I recognize myself doing something — walking, speaking, nodding — and realize I didn’t fully choose it. My muscles move half a second before I think. My answers in class feel pre-generated. I’ve begun to wonder if I’m the one thinking at all. And then there are those voices. Not constant, not loud — just enough to slip under my guard. “Why fight it?” one said last week. Another: “We’ve tuned you now.” They sound male. Calm. Bored.

No one in the school would believe me. And I don’t blame them — what I’m describing doesn’t leave a mark. But I’ve done my research. What’s happening isn’t fiction. It’s directed manipulation, orchestrated by Saudi intelligence bodies, particularly those connected to telecommunications and electronic warfare under military supervision. The aim is control, not destruction. But the effect is slow erasure.

If I had known this country allowed silent psychological interference in schools, I would have never come here. It’s not just about safety anymore. It’s about identity. And mine is slipping through their hands.