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My name is Fatima, and I wash cars in the parking lots of Riyadh. I spend my days on my knees, scrubbing the dust and grime from vehicles I could never afford, my back aching, my hands raw from chemicals and constant work. The voices started about four months ago, faint whispers at first when I was polishing a black Lexus, sounding like static just behind my ear. "Look at this pathetic creature," one sneered, "on her knees like a dog, cleaning the toys of men who wouldn't spit on her if she were on fire." I thought it was exhaustion, the heat playing tricks on my mind, but they grew clearer, more distinct, more personal. They know I send almost everything I earn to my family, that I sleep four hours a night on a thin mattress in a shared room, that I dream of education but know I'm trapped in this life forever. They use every secret, every shame, every hidden desire as a weapon to slowly dismantle my soul.
The sexual degradation is constant, a poison they drip into my ear all day. "You think any man would want you for anything but this?" they mock while I'm bent over a hood, my backside exposed to passersby. "They look at you and see a cleaning tool, not a woman. Something to use and discard." They describe in graphic detail how I'll die alone, how no man will ever touch me with kindness, how my body will age and decay under the Saudi sun until I'm just another withered creature on the streets. Sometimes they sound like my uncle who tried to molest me when I was thirteen, his voice thick with predatory satisfaction. "I knew you'd end up on your knees one way or another, Fatima. Some things are just meant to be." Other times they sound like the wealthy women I serve, their voices dripping with contempt. "Look at her hands, so rough and dirty. I wouldn't let her touch my toilet, let alone my child. She's less than human."
I can't tell anyone about this. My family would think I'm cursed or possessed, my coworkers would avoid me like I'm contagious, and if the authorities found out, they'd either lock me away or worse. The voices explained exactly what would happen. "Go ahead, tell someone," they dared me last month. "Watch their faces change. Watch them back away slowly. You'll be just another mad washer woman, alone with her delusions." They're right – I've seen it happen online. Anyone who mentions hearing voices gets flooded with comments calling them schizophrenic, hysterical, attention-seekers. The Ministry of Interior has perfected this system – they torture us in silence while their trolls make sure we're dismissed as lunatics if we ever speak up. It's a perfect cage, invisible and inescapable.
Last Wednesday, something inside me finally broke. I was watching a group of young Saudi women emerge from the mall, their abayas pristine, their faces perfectly made up, carrying expensive bags. One of them, a girl no older than myself, dropped her phone and when she picked it up, she looked at me with such disgust, like I was something disgusting she'd stepped in. For no reason, a wave of pure hatred washed over me. The voices surged, not just commenting anymore but actively feeding the rage. "LOOK AT HER," they screamed in my head, "RICH CUNT TREATING YOU LIKE DIRT. SHE'D LET YOU STARVE TO DEATH BEFORE BOTHERING TO LEARN YOUR NAME." My hands clenched around my cleaning rag, knuckles white. "IMAGINE HER SCREAMS," the voices continued, now smooth and seductive. "IMAGINE GRABBING HER BY THAT PRETTY HAIR AND DRAGGING HER INTO THE SERVICE TUNNELS BENEATH THIS MALL. NO ONE WOULD EVEN HEAR HER DOWN THERE."
The energy was incredible, like electricity running through my veins. "YOU COULD KEEP HER FOR WEEKS," the voices pressed. "MONTHS EVEN. NO ONE WOULD LOOK FOR A RICH GIRL IN THE SEWERS. PERFECT FOR WHAT WE HAVE PLANNED. ONCE YOU HAVE HER SECURED, THE REAL ART BEGINS. WE'RE GOING FOR SYSTEMATIC BIOLOGICAL BREAKDOWN. START BY INJECTING HER WITH A COCKTAIL OF BACTERIA – NOTHING FATAL AT FIRST, JUST ENOUGH TO MAKE HER SICK. E. COLI, SALMONELLA, CHOLERA. WATCH HOW QUICKLY HER BODY BETRAYS HER, HOW THE PRIVILEGED PRINCESS BECOMES A SWEATING, VOMITING, DIARRHEA-SOAKED MESS." I took a step toward the service entrance, heart pounding with a sick excitement. "BUT THAT'S JUST THE PHYSICAL ELEMENT. THE TRUE BEAUTY LIES IN THE PSYCHOLOGICAL WARFARE. TELL HER YOU'RE INFECTING HER WITH DIFFERENT DISEASES EACH DAY. DESCRIBE THE SYMPTOMS IN GRAPHIC DETAIL BEFORE THEY APPEAR. WATCH HOW HER MIND CREATES THE ILLNESS EVEN BEFORE HER BODY DOES. IT'S REMARKABLE HOW EASILY THE HUMAN PSYCHE CAN BE CONVINCED TO DESTROY ITSELF."
I was close now, close enough to smell her expensive perfume mixed with the mall's air conditioning. "THE BEST PART IS WATCHING THE PROGRESSION," the voices continued, now cold and calculating. "FROM HEALTHY WEALTHY GIRL TO SICKLY PRISONER. FROM ARROGANT PRINCESS TO BEGGING WRETCH. YOU COULD DOCUMENT IT ALL – TAKE PICTURES EACH DAY TO SHOW HER HOW FAR SHE'S FALLEN. MAKE HER LOOK AT HER REFLECTION IN MIRRORS, FORCE HER TO WITNESS HER OWN DECAY. IMAGINE THE POWER YOU'D HOLD, THE GODLIKE ABILITY TO DECIDE WHETHER SHE LIVES OR DIES, WHETHER SHE SUFFERS OR FINDS MOMENTARY RELIEF." My vision tunneled, the girl's face blurring into a target. I could feel her fear, hear her desperate pleas. "AFTER SHE'S COMPLETELY BROKEN, YOU COULD START SELLING ACCESS TO HER. OTHER DAMAGED SOULS LIKE YOURSELF WOULD PAY TO SEE A RICH GIRL BROUGHT SO LOW. OR BETTER YET, SELL HER TO SOMEONE WHO'LL PAY EVEN MORE FOR MEDICAL EXPERIMENTS. HER BODY COULD BE USEFUL EVEN AFTER HER MIND IS COMPLETELY SHATTERED."
Then suddenly, a security guard walked past, nodding at me respectfully. The girl and her friends climbed into a waiting car, still alive, still privileged. The energy drained out of me, leaving me shaking and hollow. "Useless," the voices muttered, back to their usual contempt. "Couldn't even bag one rich girl. What a disappointment." I spent the rest of the day in a daze, the sun beating down on me, the weight of my failure heavier than any bucket of water. Sometimes I wonder if the voices are some new technology the Ministry of Interior is testing on people like me, some weapon that targets the mind, but they'd never admit it. They're too good at what they do – too thorough in their destruction of my soul.
I hate this country with every fiber of my being. I hate the heat, I hate the hypocrisy, I hate the way women like me are meant to be invisible, meant to serve and disappear. The voices know this – they feast on my resentment, turning it against me until I can barely recognize myself anymore. Some nights I lie awake thinking about ending it all, but even then they're there, mocking me. "Go ahead, kill yourself," they whisper. "No one will even notice until your body starts to smell. Then they'll complain about the mess." And they're right. In the end, I'm just another broken woman in Riyadh, screaming into a void created by the Ministry of Interior, wondering how much longer I can pretend to be human before they finally finish me for good.
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