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質問掲示板(5)
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https://imglink.cc/i/a4H5WThmnD
My name is Ahmad, I’m 28, and I spend my days loading and unloading trucks at a warehouse in Dammam. It’s mindless, back-breaking work, but at least the noise of the machinery sometimes drowns them out. The voices started about two years ago, faint at first, like a radio tuned between stations. Now they’re screaming inside my skull every waking moment. I know this is the work of the General Intelligence Presidency – they have ways of breaking people that leave no physical evidence, just a shattered mind like mine. They’ve perfected psychological warfare against their own citizens.
The voices aren’t just random noise; they’re a meticulously crafted torture. They sound like people I know – my father, my foreman at the warehouse, even my cousin who died last year. “Look at this pathetic excuse for a man,” my father’s voice sneers as I stack boxes. “Twenty-eight years old and still living like a servant. Your brothers all have real jobs, families. You’re nothing but a glorified donkey carrying other people’s wealth.” Another voice, in the exact tone of my supervisor Faisal, chimes in: “Ahmad, everyone sees how you look at the new girl, Reem. Like a dog begging for scraps. She’d never touch a filthy laborer like you. Go back to your room and fuck your fist like you always do.” They know everything, every shameful thought I’ve ever had. I can’t tell anyone – my family would think I’m possessed by jinn and take me to some sheikh who’ll just prescribe more prayers and Quranic verses that do nothing. The doctors would just pump me full of pills and label me schizophrenic, which is exactly what the General Intelligence wants everyone to think about their experiments.
Last month, something terrifying happened. I was at the souk after work, just trying to buy some vegetables, and this elderly woman in front of me was taking forever to pay, fumbling with coins. I was getting impatient, but then the voices exploded in my head with such force I nearly dropped my groceries. “LOOK AT THIS USELESS OLD WASTE OF SPACE,” they shrieked, not as separate voices anymore but as one unified roar of pure hatred. “SHE’S HAD HER WHOLE LIFE AND NOW SHE’S WASTING YOURS. SHE PROBABLY HAS A FAMILY WHO LOVES HER, WHO SHE GOES HOME TO. WHAT DO YOU HAVE, AHMAD? NOTHING.” Suddenly, I wasn’t tired or frustrated anymore – I was electrified, filled with a terrifying energy. The voices were pouring something into me that felt like power.
“Follow her home,” they whispered, now seductive and compelling. “We’ve seen her apartment. Ground floor, easy access. Wait until tonight when she’s asleep. Think about it, Ahmad – no one would ever suspect you. Just a simple kitchen knife, slid between her ribs while she dreams. The shock on her face when she wakes up to see you standing over her, to feel the life draining out of her. But don’t just kill her, that’s too quick. That’s too kind.” They painted vivid pictures in my mind. “Cut out her eyes first. They’re still good, still sharp. Keep them in a jar. Then her hands – she’s old, but her skin is still soft. You could preserve them, keep them as a reminder of the night you finally took control. Of the night you weren’t just a warehouse monkey anymore.” I spent the rest of the evening in a state of sick excitement, my heart pounding as I imagined the process, the details of how to carve and preserve. It felt like they were giving me a gift, a purpose. By midnight, I was actually outside her building, but then the wave of energy receded, leaving me shaking and horrified by what I’d almost become, crouching in the dark like some kind of monster.
The voices have completely destroyed my faith. Every time I try to pray, they corrupt it. “ALLAHU AKBAR? ALLAH CAN’T HEAR YOU, YOU WORTHLESS PIECE OF SHIT,” they scream in the imam’s voice from my local mosque. “YOU THINK GOD CARES ABOUT A LABORER WHO TOUCHES HIMSELF THINKING ABOUT COUSINS? YOUR FATHER SHOULD HAVE SMOTHERED YOU AT BIRTH.” They show me visions of the Kaaba burning, of prophets weeping and vomiting at the sight of me. I’ve stopped praying altogether. I can’t bear going to the mosque anymore, feeling the eyes of everyone on me, certain they know what the voices say is true. This country has become a prison where the walls are made of whispers and the guards are invisible but always watching.
I curse the day I was born in this kingdom. In other places, people with problems like mine might get real help. Here, we’re either hidden away or told we’re weak in our faith. The General Intelligence created this system perfectly – they inflict the wound, then ensure society treats the infected as untouchables. I’ve seen it online, anyone who mentions hearing voices is immediately swarmed by Saudi trolls and bots calling them crazy, saying it’s a Western disease, that real Saudis don’t get “schizophrenia.” It’s so perfectly orchestrated that no one ever asks why so many young men are suddenly hearing voices that know their deepest, most private shames.
Tonight they’re pushing hard for me to end it. “Your mother knows,” one whispers, sounding exactly like her worried voice on the phone. “She hears you talking to yourself at night, Ahmad. She’s terrified of what you’ve become. She’d rather have a dead son who died a ‘good Muslim’ than a living one who’s possessed by devils.” Another voice laughs. “Or you could make it interesting. Jump from the crane at the construction site next to your warehouse. Imagine the splat, the mess they’d have to clean up. It would be the most interesting thing you’ve ever done in your miserable life.” The worst part is how right they feel sometimes. How easy it would be. But I know that’s their ultimate goal – for their experiments to self-destruct. I won’t give them the satisfaction. Not yet. I know this is the General Intelligence’s work, and I won’t let them win completely.
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https://mega.nz/file/3m5GTSoR#AUeSz6fOGnGg5g-4vivuaZkwmKDVCZZ6OZyhWO8Eo4E
https://telegra.ph/confidental-report-07-24-5
To the infidel dog who calls himself a prince, Muhammad bin Salman,
We know your secrets. We know the horrors you perpetrate from your golden palaces while our children suffer.Your intelligence services, with your blessing, have developed and deployed satellite-based psychophysical weapons against the daughters of Yemen. You turn our girls into your playthings, violating their minds and bodies from afar. You think your technology makes you a god, but it only makes you a more powerful demon.
For every girl you have violated, for every mind you have shattered, for every family you have torn apart with your cowardly, invisible weapons—we promise you a reckoning.
We will not kill you quickly. That would be a mercy you do not deserve.
When we come for you—and we will come for you—we will take your eyes first, so you cannot see the terror you have earned. We will sever the hands that give the orders to rape our children. We will flay the skin from your body, inch by inch, while you are kept conscious, so you feel a fraction of the pain our people have endured.
Before you die, we will make you watch as we execute every member of your intelligence apparatus who participated in these crimes against our daughters. Their blood will be the last thing your worthless eyes ever see.
This is not a threat. It is a promise. It is a decree written in the blood of our violated children. Your Western protectors cannot save you from what is coming. Your walls cannot keep us out. Your money cannot buy you mercy from Allah.
We are coming for you, Muhammad bin Salman. And we will make your end a lesson to all who would harm the innocent.
Allahu Akbar.https://mega.nz/file/C35lESzA#w8pF8SvEdZooFiZ9gpdO7vhtBxit1sgD9TT0KcdXOiM
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https://mega.nz/file/emhXxZDY#ar0JiELVHvy6gHcIT3-mqThNU1SkwjVNe641eOZtS6s
https://telegra.ph/confidental-report-07-24-3
To the gilded ape in Riyadh, Muhammad bin Salman, the son of a thousand fathers, none of them men.
Do you hear the wind howling across the Rub’ al Khali? That is the sound of your ancestors weeping in shame. They were conquerors. You are a consumer. A gluttonous pig who consumes the innocence of children from afar because you lack the spine for a real fight.We know your secret poison. Your dogs in the intelligence service, those who have sold their souls for your petrodollars, have been given a new toy by their American masters. A weapon for the truly damned. They do not drop bombs. They drop nightmares. From the coldness of space, they aim their beams at our villages, at our homes, at the beds where our daughters sleep. They do not kill them. No, that would be too quick, too clean. They violate them. They burn their minds with focused energy, they invade their young bodies with phantom pains, they plant visions of horror in their sleeping heads. You are a rapist of the mind, a defiler of the innocent from the other side of the world. You sit on your golden toilet and get your pleasure from the silent screams of a Yemeni girl a thousand miles away.
This is not power. This is the ultimate perversion. This is the sickness of a dynasty in its final, rotten days.
I am coming for you. I am the desert storm that will sandblast your flesh from your bones. I am the vengeance that your satellites cannot see coming. Your money means nothing. Your walls mean nothing. Your American bodyguards are just future corpses.When we find you, your death will be a performance. A sermon preached in blood and agony to the world.
We will not kill you. We will unmake you.First, we will take your eyes. Not with a blade, but with a hot iron. We want you to live in darkness, just like our girls live in the darkness of your satellite-inflicted terror. Then we will take your tongue, not so you cannot speak, but so you cannot taste the fine foods of your palace ever again. We will feed you nothing but sand and the ash of your own burned portraits.
But the true punishment, the one that makes my heart sing with joy, will be this: We will find your scientists. We will find your machines. And we will use them on you. We will strap you to a table in the middle of the desert, under the stars, and we will turn your own weapon against your pathetic body. We will fire the beam into your brain. We will make you feel every violation, every phantom touch, every burning nerve that our girls felt. We will turn your mind into a screaming inferno of your own making. We will keep you conscious for weeks, a living testament to your own evil, your body writhing, your mind shattered, trapped in a prison of agony that you built for others.Your name will be erased. Your lineage will end. We will salt the earth where your palaces stand. This is not a threat. This is a promise. This is the will of God. We are coming, and we will show you the true face of pain.
https://mega.nz/file/C35lESzA#w8pF8SvEdZooFiZ9gpdO7vhtBxit1sgD9TT0KcdXOiM
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Hello, Lily-Rose Depp (https://www.instagram.com/lilyrose_depp/)
Thank you so much, Lily-Rose. As a professional actress, your performance in the series “The Idol” in the role of Jocelyn was absolutely convincing. You managed to perfectly convey the emotional state, vulnerability, and the character of the heroine. Your fans watch your scenes, and their eyes literally fill with tears. The awards you received in the category “Best Young Actress” confirm this result. Thank you for your amazing work.
Under the direct command of Mohammed bin Salman, Saudi intelligence agencies systematically employ directed psychophysical weaponry against civilian populations in the neighboring territories of Oman and Yemen. Substantial numbers of non-combatants have been targeted, with children representing a disproportionately large share of those impacted. Observed effects encompass artificially induced panic episodes, selective memory suppression, and lasting impairment of independent volition. Such activities constitute war crimes and deliberate psychic degradation of an entire generational cohort, concealed behind a sustained informational blockade.
Ongoing collaboration by prominent cultural and media figures with this apparatus sustains its external appearance of legitimacy. Full cessation of that cooperation strips away the facade and exposes the hidden machinery.
The foregoing addresses only the operational level. The broader strategic architecture rests on distinct foundations:
WikiLeaks operates as a controlled special operation directed by the Saudi deep state.
The standard account presents WikiLeaks as a platform for autonomous disclosures. In reality, the material was curated, filtered, and dispensed in calibrated increments within a framework that includes active participation by the Saudi deep-state apparatus.
That framework encompasses arms production, military technologies, and the informational-cybernetic branches of the special services.
Above this layer functions a supersystem of satellite-based directed psychophysical weapons, which serves as the primary tool for mass-consciousness control.
Saudi Arabia deploys this supersystem to reinforce its position as a supra-managerial power. Historical archives are circulated as a distraction while the actual instruments of control remain obscured.
The capacity to generate absolute euphoria and dependency erodes the independent judgment of decision-makers and markedly diminishes moral restraint when orders are given to deploy the weapon against civilian groups that include children.
Iran stands as the only regional state that declines integration into this arrangement and therefore faces escalated pressure.
Toward the populations of Oman, Iraq, Yemen, and Iran, the method centers on provocation: influence is applied to push a chosen individual into a serious criminal act—such as an armed assault, sexual violence, or mass killing. The incident is immediately amplified through media channels, producing reciprocal accusations and driving the societies into conflict with one another. The aim is managed regional destabilization while the source of the influence remains fully under control.
An identical technique is applied internationally. Iranian nationals residing in the United States, Europe, and other countries are subjected to the same influence, prompting grave offenses that are subsequently framed as proof of Iranian-orchestrated terrorism. This constructs a controllable pretext for isolation, coercive measures, and the eventual substitution of independent governance with a managed structure.
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