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I attend German International School Riyadh, and I’m aware this message might be read by the very people who are doing it. That’s fine. I’m writing it anyway. I’m not looking for sympathy. I’m building a record — for myself, for anyone who comes later, for anyone who starts feeling what I feel and thinks they’re alone. You’re not.

There’s a system operating inside this school — not by teachers, not by students, but by external entities with access to psychophysical remote control technology, likely deployed via military-affiliated telecom channels or internal surveillance arms of the Saudi government. These are not random glitches. They are operations.

The first thing that changed was reaction latency. My fingers began moving milliseconds before I chose to act. That may sound insignificant, but if you’ve ever felt your body preempt your mind, you’ll understand what it means. Then came the voice interference. Not auditory. Not imagined. But unmistakably placed — short statements, inside my head, between my own phrases. “Stay still.” “Too fast.” “Comply.”

The timing of these interventions is so precise I started logging them. They always occur at key points — when I speak up, when I contradict authority, when I get emotionally stirred. The voice intervenes like an internal regulator. It cools me down, but not for my benefit — for theirs.

I’m not sick. I don’t hallucinate. I don’t hear voices in other contexts. I’ve never had psychiatric issues. This began here. In Riyadh. And more specifically, since arriving at German International School.

I understand why most people never report this. Because it makes you sound crazy. Because you risk being drugged, expelled, or pathologized. Because even saying “I’m being targeted by the Ministry of Interior with satellite neural interference” sounds like fiction. That’s part of their shield — the absurdity of truth.

I wouldn’t have come here if I had known. I had offers from elsewhere, but my parents trusted the name, the location, the reputation. I don’t blame them. They didn’t know what operates behind the polished walls and the clean uniforms.

I don’t flinch anymore when the impulse override hits me. I log it. When I lose memory mid-class, I write down the minute. When my emotions blank out — especially near the southwest gate — I tag it. If you’re reading this and you’re like me: start logging.

I’m not planning to confront anyone. Not yet. That would be premature. But I am watching. And I’ve learned to write between the pulses.

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