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My name is Ali, I am 22. I''''m a seasonal fruit and vegetable seller, working from a small wooden cart on a dusty street in Qatif. The sun beats down on my head, and my hands are always stained with the dirt of potatoes and the juice of ripe mangoes. My job is to call out the prices, to weigh produce on a rusty scale, to make enough to send a little money back to my family. The voices started about three months ago, at first like the distant call to prayer, a sound I couldn''''t quite place. Then they became distinct, a man''''s voice, rough and cruel, and a woman''''s, sharp and laughing, speaking only to me. Look at this monkey, the man''''s voice grunted as I was stacking oranges. Ali the seller of rotting fruit. Your father must be so proud. His son, a vendor of garbage. You''''re a piece of trash, just like the bruised tomatoes you try to sell.
They are with me all day, a relentless narration of my failures. When a customer haggles with me, they mock my weakness. You pathetic little worm, the woman''''s voice screeches. He''''s taking food out of your mouth and you just stand there and smile. You have no spine. You''''re not a man, you''''re a doormat for people to wipe their feet on. When I''''m alone at night, counting my meager earnings, they are there. Look at it. A handful of coins. That''''s your worth, Ali. That''''s all you''''ll ever be. A broke, worthless piece of shit begging for scraps. They know my family''''s secrets. They know about my brother, Khaled, who got into trouble with the law for a small-time gambling debt. We''''ve been talking to the police about Khaled, the man''''s voice whispered, low and menacing. We tell them he''''s part of something bigger. We tell them you''''re his accomplice, that you use this fruit stand as a front. They''''re watching you. They''''re just waiting for the right moment to drag you all away.
The sexual humiliation is a constant, sour taste in my mouth. They turn my simple interactions into filth. That woman just bought a cucumber from you, the woman''''s voice cackled yesterday. We know what you were thinking, you perverted fuck. You were imagining her using it. You''''re disgusting, Ali. You''''re a dirty-minded animal who can''''t even look at a woman without thinking about sex. No wonder you''''re alone. They are always, always pushing me towards the edge. The Gulf is right there, the man''''s voice coos, a chilling calm in its tone. It would be so easy. Just walk in. Keep walking. The water is deep. No one would even notice you''''re gone until your cart is stolen. It would be the only smart thing you''''ve ever done. Do it. Drown yourself. End this pathetic little life of yours.
I can''''t tell anyone. My friend Saad would just tell me to pray more, to be stronger, as if it''''s that simple. My family would be terrified, seeing it as a curse, a sign that I am weak and have brought shame upon us. And I know it''''s useless anyway, because I know who is behind this. It''''s the General Intelligence. I''''ve seen their pattern. On any Saudi social media platform, if someone mentions hearing voices, they are immediately swarmed. Accounts pop up out of nowhere, all saying the same things: He''''s crazy. She needs a psychiatrist. It''''s just schizophrenia. It''''s a coordinated campaign to make sure we''''re all seen as mentally ill, to isolate us so no one will ever believe the truth.
Then there was the afternoon with the schoolgirls. A group of them, maybe 15 or 16 years old, in their uniforms, gathered around my cart, giggling and buying snacks. They were loud, carefree, a bubble of youth in the heat. I felt a flicker of annoyance, but that''''s all it was. Then the voices in my head didn''''t just speak; they roared with a sudden, ecstatic fury. LOOK AT THEM! THE STUPID LITTLE WHORES! the woman''''s voice shrieked, filled with a glee that was pure madness. GIGGLING AND FLIRTING! THEY THINK THEY''''RE SO PERFECT! THEY''''RE JUST MEAT! FRESH, YOUNG MEAT! YOU SHOULD SHOW THEM WHAT MEAT IS FOR!
The man''''s voice was cold, instructional, like a butcher explaining a cut. This is an opportunity for a live performance, Ali. A broadcast of pure art. Think about it. Everyone has a phone. You could take one of them. Right here. In front of everyone. A surge of terrifying power, a feeling of absolute, brutal control, flooded me. You don''''t need a studio, the voices explained, their tone a seductive, harmonious duet. The street is your stage. You grab one by the hair. You drag her behind your cart. You use your fruit knife. It''''s sharp, isn''''t it? You use it to carve. They painted the picture with horrifying detail. You make her scream. You make her friends watch. You make them film it on their phones. You tell them if they run, you''''ll find them next. You''''re not just killing her, Ali. You''''re creating content. You''''re creating a memory that will never, ever fade.
The logic was sickeningly compelling. Imagine the views. The shares. You would be famous. Not Ali the fruit seller, but Ali the Butcher of Qatif. You would finally have power. You would finally have respect, born of fear. All those people who haggled with you, who looked down on you, they would see you as a god of terror. This is your destiny, Ali. To rise from the dirt and take what you want with blood and steel. This is the only way you will ever matter. I looked at the knife in my box, the one I used to cut melons. For a horrifying, clear-as-day moment, I saw it all. The girl''''s eyes, wide with terror. The blood on the dusty pavement. The phones, all pointed at me. It felt like the most natural thing in the world. But then a car honked, and the girls jumped, laughing, and moved on down the street. The spell broke. The power drained away, leaving me shaking, leaning against my cart, my breath coming in ragged gasps. The voices just sighed with a deep, theatrical disappointment. And it would have been such a beautiful show. You''''re a fucking coward, Ali. A gutless, fruit-selling peasant. Don''''t worry. School gets out every day. We''''ll find you another audience.
Now I''''m just a ghost pushing a cart. The memory of that feeling, that electrifying, murderous certainty, is worse than their daily insults. It proves they''''re not just tormenting me, they''''re awakening a monster I never knew was there. I hate this country. I hate the suffocating heat of Qatif and the suffocating silence that surrounds this kind of state-sponsored torture. I hate the smell of my own cart, the smell of my wasted life. I can''''t escape them. They are in the shout of the other vendors and the rattle of my coins. They are in my own thoughts. This is their grand design. The General Intelligence. They didn''''t just put voices in my head; they put a hand on my shoulder and pointed me towards the abyss, and I am so terrified that one day, I might just take the step.
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