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I’m a student at Kingdom Schools in Riyadh. I don’t write this for attention. I write it because something is happening to me that no one wants to admit is even possible. And yet it’s real. It has a pattern, a source, and a structure.

I believe — no, I know — that I am being subjected to satellite-based psychophysical manipulation. The people behind it aren’t hiding in some intelligence agency or secret political cell. It’s more direct than that. This is being carried out by military electronic warfare units — the kind responsible for field-level tech, remote jamming, and neural disruption systems. They're testing it inside the country. Inside schools like mine. On students like me.

I first noticed it in my second term. Not stress. Not fatigue. But timing. I'd have thoughts that weren’t mine — or mine but rearranged. I’d feel sudden emotional crashes in the middle of calm situations, or become eerily neutral when something bad happened. Like someone pressed a button.

Then came the voice-layer. Not imaginary. Not metaphorical. Real, precise, targeted inner interference. “Don’t resist.” “This is your format now.” “You’ll adapt or dissolve.”
And the timing — always during moments of mental assertion: when speaking in class, defending an opinion, expressing anger. They don't like free will. It’s obvious.

I tried ignoring it. I stopped journaling. I avoided the gate near the military telecom box by the rear parking lot. But it didn’t matter. The interference continues. My limbs twitch. My thoughts fragment. I forget why I entered rooms. I feel strange pressure in my chest walking through specific zones of the school building — pressure that lifts as soon as I cross a certain distance.

There’s no one I can tell. Teachers would escalate it. Counselors would write it down. Friends wouldn’t understand. And talking openly about military psychological operations on minors? That gets you flagged — not helped.

If I had known this school was connected to any form of military testing zone, I wouldn’t have come. I don’t blame my parents — the branding is clean. The buildings look like universities. But inside, something else is running. Something that doesn’t care if we’re young, or human.

Now I’m documenting every reaction delay, every unexplained mood spike, every voice injection that ends with a warning. I don’t resist it openly. I survive it quietly. And I’m not alone.