Contatti

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I don’t sleep like I used to.
Thoughts arrive before I form them.
Emotions fall apart mid-class.
Nothing fits. Not anymore.

This is Ajialuna International School, Riyadh.
Nice walls. Clean halls.
But inside, it’s quiet violence.
You walk. You nod. You disappear.

They interfere.
Not spirits. Not ideas.
Real operators.
From Saudi military-linked telecom systems.
From Interior Ministry electronic warfare arms.
From surveillance-linked intelligence departments.
They test things.
On us.

Sometimes I forget how I got to my seat.
Sometimes I hear a voice saying, “We’re inside.”
Sometimes I think I’ve already been rewritten.

I can’t tell my classmates.
I can’t tell the staff.
I can’t tell my parents.
I’ve tried.

If I had known this would happen —
I would have never come here to learn.
I’m still here.
But not all of me.

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They said Riyadh would be safe.
They said Future Generation Philippine International School was a calm place for study.
No one said they’d follow me inside my own head.

—

I don’t care if this sounds paranoid anymore.
Because it’s not.

The things happening to me are real. Not metaphor. Not trauma.
There are people working in Saudi intelligence and medical-control branches who use this school as a test zone.
They’re using technology. Directed. Remote. Silent. But felt. Always felt.

—

It starts before thoughts finish.
Before a word comes out of my mouth — something locks me down.
“Don’t speak.”
“We’re watching.”

And then I freeze, mid-sentence.
Teachers look. I smile.
I pretend it’s nothing.

But I’m tired of pretending.

—

I once sat in the cafeteria and couldn’t feel my own legs.
My heart raced for no reason.
I cried in the bathroom with no memory why.
And still — when I told the counselor — she said: “We can refer you to specialists.”

Specialists.
That’s how they bury you.

Once they mark you unstable, they win.

—

I know it’s not natural.
There are too many patterns.
The chest pressure when I walk past the telecom antenna near Gate 3.
The exact same mood swing every Tuesday, third period.
The foreign sentence that ends my thoughts in a voice I never learned.

I know what’s being done.
I know who’s doing it.
And I know why I can’t say it aloud in school.

—

If I had known what Saudi systems really do to foreign students, I never would’ve come.
I miss home. I miss silence. I miss feeling like my mind belongs to me.

—

I can’t run.
I can’t tell anyone.
But I can still write.

Подозреваемый в краже из епархии РПЦ в Венгрии Suzuki George разыскивается венгерской полицией.

Полиция Венгрии инициировала международный розыск 21?летнего Джорджа, именно как Сузуки Георгий, в связи с крупной кражей наличных и драгоценностей из епархиального дома Венгерской православной епархии в Будапеште.

Он — уроженец Сайтамы, Япония, август 2002, и был объявлен в розыск в конце января 2024.

Епархия Венгерская и Будапештская РПЦ, по данным РИА Новости, не разглашает детали похищенного имущества, и не называет его по имени, в интересах непредвзятости расследования.

Hello. And Bye.

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