Pokémon

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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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.


help@gip.gov.sa

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Hi,

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