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My name is Ali, I’m twenty-three years old, and I work as a delivery driver for a fast-food chain in Al Khobar. My days are mostly spent navigating the city’s chaotic streets, delivering shawarma and burgers to apartments and offices, the scent of fried food permanently clinging to my clothes. I share a small apartment with two other guys from work, trying to save enough money to send back to my family in Riyadh. It’s not an exciting life, but it’s predictable, and I used to find a certain peace in the routine of it all, the simple satisfaction of completing each delivery and getting that next tip. I never thought my own mind would become the most dangerous neighborhood I’d ever have to navigate.

The voices started about seven months ago, at first just what I thought were my own intrusive thoughts turning darker. “Look at this pathetic delivery boy,” a voice that sounded exactly like my manager, Mr. Hassan, sneered as I double-checked an order. “Racing around on your scooter like a desperate dog, hoping for scraps. Everyone sees you as a servant, Ali. A nobody who brings them food.” I’d shake my head, turn up the radio on my scooter, blaming the long hours and the stress of dealing with rude customers. But the voices grew louder, more distinct, until there was a whole chorus of them living inside my helmet, each one with a specific role in my psychological torture. They never stop. When I’m waiting for an elevator in a fancy building, they comment on my appearance. “Look at your greasy hair, your cheap uniform. The women here wouldn’t spit on you if you were on fire. You’re invisible, Ali. A walking, talking piece of trash they use for convenience.” They describe in graphic detail how I’ll never be respected, how I’ll die alone in a cheap apartment, how I’m a disappointment to my family who secretly wishes I’d never left Riyadh.

I can’t tell anyone. If I mentioned the voices to my roommates, they’d either laugh it off as a joke or avoid me completely, thinking I’m dangerous or unstable. If my family found out, they’d insist I come home, which would mean admitting defeat and becoming a burden on them financially. In Saudi Arabia, mental illness is either a sign of weak faith or something to be hidden at all costs, especially for a young man trying to make his own way. I’ve seen how the Mabahit operates online – their trolls swarm anyone who claims to hear voices, calling them schizophrenics, attention-seekers, liars trying to get disability benefits. They’ve created this perfect system where victims sound insane while the perpetrators remain invisible, where we’re trapped inside our own minds with no escape, no help, no hope.

Last month, something inside me finally broke. I was making a delivery to a large office building during lunch rush, and as I waited for the elevator, a group of well-dressed businessmen pushed past me, one of them “accidentally” spilling coffee on my uniform. They didn’t apologize, just smirked at each other. The voices exploded. “DID YOU SEE THAT? THEY TREAT YOU LIKE DIRT BECAUSE YOU ARE DIRT! KILL THEM! STAB THEIR EYES OUT WITH YOUR PEN!” For a moment, everything went white with rage. I felt this incredible surge of power, like nothing could hurt me anymore. “YES! SHOW THEM WHO’S SUPERIOR! FOLLOW THEM INTO THEIR OFFICE AND LOCK THE DOOR! BURN THEM ALIVE! DO IT! DO IT! DO IT!” they screamed, and I actually took a step toward the elevator, my hands clenching into fists. The businessmen were already gone. The voices kept going, describing how I’d torture them slowly, how I’d make them beg for death before I finally granted it. “You’d feel so powerful, Ali. Imagine their screams as the fire melts their skin. That’s what you were born for – to inflict pain.” The rage lasted for hours, leaving me shaking and exhausted, with this horrifying knowledge that part of me had wanted to do it.

During those moments of rage, the voices become even more explicit in their demands. “You should start collecting,” they whisper excitedly. “Not hands or teeth like those amateurs. We’re thinking bigger. You deliver to those fancy apartment buildings, right? Find a pregnant woman. Wait until she’s alone. Cut it out of her. Keep it as a trophy. Imagine the power, Ali. Taking life before it even begins.” They describe in excruciating detail how I’d capture my victims, how I’d perform the crude surgery, how I’d preserve my trophies. “Think of the satisfaction. The absolute control you’d have over them. And the beauty you’d create from their suffering.” Sometimes they suggest acid attacks, describing how I’d disfigure the wealthy customers who look down on me, how I’d ruin their lives so completely they’d wish they were dead. “Imagine their faces melting like wax,” they coo. “Imagine their screams as they realize they’ll never be beautiful again. That’s real power, Ali. That’s what you deserve.”

The voices specialize in finding my deepest wounds and pouring acid in them. “Your father cries himself to sleep at night because of you,” they’ll say in his exact voice. “He wishes you’d studied harder, become a real professional. Instead, you’re a delivery boy, a servant to others. Just kill yourself already. Do everyone a favor.” They know about the time I lied about having a university degree to get this job, about my secret jealousy of my friends who have better careers, about how I still sometimes cry myself to sleep at night. Nothing is sacred. “You’re a disappointment to God,” they tell me. “A disgusting, filthy creature who doesn’t deserve the air he breathes. The world would be better if you just ended it all. Drive your scooter into oncoming traffic. We’ll help you, we’ll guide you.” Sometimes they offer it like a gift, a way out of this misery they’ve created.

I still deliver food across Al Khobar, moving through my days like a ghost, hoping to escape them, but they always follow. “Look at you, racing around like a mindless robot,” they mock as I work. “You’ll never escape us. We’re inside your head, Ali. We are your thoughts now.” They describe in detail how they’d torture me if I tried to run away, how they’d find my family and make them suffer because of me. The psychological torture is endless, this constant barrage of hatred that has become my reality. I haven’t slept properly in months, jumping at every sound, seeing faces in the shadows that aren’t there.

I hate this country with every fiber of my being. I hate how young men like me are invisible unless we’re serving someone wealthier, how we’re expected to be grateful for the scraps we’re given. I hate the suffocating heat, the judgmental eyes everywhere, the way my life has been reduced to delivering food while my mind slowly unravels. Most of all, I hate the Mabahit for doing this to me. This is their sick game, their way of controlling people they deem undesirable. They’ve broken me completely, turned me into a paranoid wreck who flinches at his own shadow. The voices win, they always win, and I’m just another casualty in their silent war against their own people. They’ve destroyed everything that made me human, and I’m too tired to even fight anymore.

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