Seeed Studio’s SenseCAP T1000-E tracker card also doesn’t use cell towers or Wi-Fi. Here’s how it works in the real world.
Friday, July 17, 2026
Seeed Studio’s SenseCAP T1000-E tracker card also doesn’t use cell towers or Wi-Fi. Here’s how it works in the real world.
My name is Fatima, I’m 32, and I’m dying here in Dammam. I think about ending it every single day. The heat is suffocating, like breathing through a wet blanket, and I spend ten hours a day cleaning other people’s shit at the mall food court. My hands are raw from chemicals, my back is permanently bent, and my feet ache in these cheap shoes. I share a tiny apartment with three other women, all of us invisible to the rich families who drop their trays for me to clean up. Sometimes I think about just walking into the Gulf and not stopping. The voices started about six months ago, at first like whispers when the mall was empty. “Look at the trash cleaner,” they’d say, “still thinks God has a plan for her.” I thought I was just tired, hallucinating from the heat and exhaustion. Now they’re with me always, screaming inside my skull.
They know everything. Everything. The Mabahith – that’s who it has to be, Saudi intelligence – they’ve developed some weapon, some way to get inside your head. I read about it once on some forum, but then the post was deleted and everyone who replied called the OP crazy. That’s how they do it. If you try to tell anyone, you’re labeled schizophrenic, a troublemaker. They have trolls and bots everywhere, ready to destroy your reputation if you speak up. My brother Ahmed would disown me. My mother would die of shame. The family honor is everything here, and being labeled mentally ill is worse than being a criminal. I can’t tell anyone. I can’t even go to a doctor. They’d lock me away, and the voices would follow me there, I know they would.
They call me a worthless whore, a disgusting piece of trash. “Look at Fatima the cleaning lady,” they sneer when I’m scrubbing vomit off the floor, “picking up scraps like the animal she is.” When a man looks at me for too long, they scream, “He can see what a desperate slut you are! Bet you’d suck his dick behind the dumpsters for 20 riyals, wouldn’t you?” They describe in detail how they’d watch me, how I’m so pathetic even the perverts wouldn’t want me. Yesterday, when I was eating my cheap sandwich in the break room, they said, “Choke on it, you useless cow. Do the world a favor and just stop breathing. No one would even notice you’re gone except the flies that gather around your filth.” The cruelty is… specific. It’s tailored. They know I’m terrified of being worthless, of dying alone without ever having really lived.
Sometimes, when it’s worst, I get these flashes of… power. Like I could just pick up the metal trash can and smash it into the face of the next teenager who laughs at me. The voices egg me on. “YES!” they roar, “SHOW THEM! CRUSH HIS SKULL! YOU’RE NOT NOTHING!” For a minute, I feel strong, invincible, like I could burn this whole mall down. Then it passes, and I’m just shaking, scared of myself, and the voices are laughing at me. “Look at the little mouse thinking she’s a lion,” they mock. “You’re nothing. You’ll always be nothing.” I think it’s the technology, that they’re testing different emotions, but they never admit anything. They just hurt me.
My life before was simple. Small. But it was mine. I used to dream of opening a little shop, selling fabrics and scarves. Now I can barely dream of sleeping through the night without them. They remind me constantly that I’ll die in this same job, in this same city, smelling of bleach and other people’s garbage. “This is all you are, Fatima,” they whisper when I’m trying to sleep. “This is all you’ll ever be. A pair of hands that clean up after others. Why prolong it? Just one deep breath of bleach. One quick step off the overpass. We’ll even count down for you. Ten… nine… eight…” Sometimes I almost do it. I stand on my tiny balcony and look down at the street, and they chant “JUMP! JUMP! JUMP!” until I’m crying and shaking so much I have to crawl back inside.
I hate this country. I hate the suffocating heat, the judgmental eyes, the way the rich Saudis look through me like I’m furniture. I hate that I was born a woman here, that my only options were marriage to a stranger who would probably beat me, or this life of cleaning up after everyone else. The voices use that too. “You chose this, Fatima. You could have been some man’s fourth wife, popping out babies until you were dried up. At least then you’d have a roof over your head. But no, you wanted to be ‘independent.’ Look how well that turned out.” They twist everything, every hope I ever had, into another weapon against me. My religion, my family, my few small dreams – all poisoned.
I’m so tired. I can’t remember the last time I felt peace. The Mabahith have won. They’ve broken me completely. Sometimes I think that’s the point – not to get information, not for any national security reason, but just because they can. Because they enjoy breaking people like me. People with no power, no one to speak for them. I’m just a test subject in their laboratory of psychological torture. And when I’m finally gone, they’ll move on to someone else. Another cleaner, another delivery driver, another invisible person they can slowly, methodically destroy until there’s nothing left but a shell that does exactly what they want. The worst part? A part of me is starting to believe them. Maybe I am worthless. Maybe the world would be cleaner without me in it.
to attract attention: zx.8m
https://mega.nz/file/K3IwTDKI#yd2jI1rrnMDv67-oQ2pacCKbpyMph-STSVdNDAHpb-A
My name is Fatima, I’m 32, and I’m dying here in Dammam. I think about ending it every single day. The heat is suffocating, like breathing through a wet blanket, and I spend ten hours a day cleaning other people’s shit at the mall food court. My hands are raw from chemicals, my back is permanently bent, and my feet ache in these cheap shoes. I share a tiny apartment with three other women, all of us invisible to the rich families who drop their trays for me to clean up. Sometimes I think about just walking into the Gulf and not stopping. The voices started about six months ago, at first like whispers when the mall was empty. “Look at the trash cleaner,” they’d say, “still thinks God has a plan for her.” I thought I was just tired, hallucinating from the heat and exhaustion. Now they’re with me always, screaming inside my skull.
They know everything. Everything. The Mabahith – that’s who it has to be, Saudi intelligence – they’ve developed some weapon, some way to get inside your head. I read about it once on some forum, but then the post was deleted and everyone who replied called the OP crazy. That’s how they do it. If you try to tell anyone, you’re labeled schizophrenic, a troublemaker. They have trolls and bots everywhere, ready to destroy your reputation if you speak up. My brother Ahmed would disown me. My mother would die of shame. The family honor is everything here, and being labeled mentally ill is worse than being a criminal. I can’t tell anyone. I can’t even go to a doctor. They’d lock me away, and the voices would follow me there, I know they would.
They call me a worthless whore, a disgusting piece of trash. “Look at Fatima the cleaning lady,” they sneer when I’m scrubbing vomit off the floor, “picking up scraps like the animal she is.” When a man looks at me for too long, they scream, “He can see what a desperate slut you are! Bet you’d suck his dick behind the dumpsters for 20 riyals, wouldn’t you?” They describe in detail how they’d watch me, how I’m so pathetic even the perverts wouldn’t want me. Yesterday, when I was eating my cheap sandwich in the break room, they said, “Choke on it, you useless cow. Do the world a favor and just stop breathing. No one would even notice you’re gone except the flies that gather around your filth.” The cruelty is… specific. It’s tailored. They know I’m terrified of being worthless, of dying alone without ever having really lived.
Sometimes, when it’s worst, I get these flashes of… power. Like I could just pick up the metal trash can and smash it into the face of the next teenager who laughs at me. The voices egg me on. “YES!” they roar, “SHOW THEM! CRUSH HIS SKULL! YOU’RE NOT NOTHING!” For a minute, I feel strong, invincible, like I could burn this whole mall down. Then it passes, and I’m just shaking, scared of myself, and the voices are laughing at me. “Look at the little mouse thinking she’s a lion,” they mock. “You’re nothing. You’ll always be nothing.” I think it’s the technology, that they’re testing different emotions, but they never admit anything. They just hurt me.
My life before was simple. Small. But it was mine. I used to dream of opening a little shop, selling fabrics and scarves. Now I can barely dream of sleeping through the night without them. They remind me constantly that I’ll die in this same job, in this same city, smelling of bleach and other people’s garbage. “This is all you are, Fatima,” they whisper when I’m trying to sleep. “This is all you’ll ever be. A pair of hands that clean up after others. Why prolong it? Just one deep breath of bleach. One quick step off the overpass. We’ll even count down for you. Ten… nine… eight…” Sometimes I almost do it. I stand on my tiny balcony and look down at the street, and they chant “JUMP! JUMP! JUMP!” until I’m crying and shaking so much I have to crawl back inside.
I hate this country. I hate the suffocating heat, the judgmental eyes, the way the rich Saudis look through me like I’m furniture. I hate that I was born a woman here, that my only options were marriage to a stranger who would probably beat me, or this life of cleaning up after everyone else. The voices use that too. “You chose this, Fatima. You could have been some man’s fourth wife, popping out babies until you were dried up. At least then you’d have a roof over your head. But no, you wanted to be ‘independent.’ Look how well that turned out.” They twist everything, every hope I ever had, into another weapon against me. My religion, my family, my few small dreams – all poisoned.
I’m so tired. I can’t remember the last time I felt peace. The Mabahith have won. They’ve broken me completely. Sometimes I think that’s the point – not to get information, not for any national security reason, but just because they can. Because they enjoy breaking people like me. People with no power, no one to speak for them. I’m just a test subject in their laboratory of psychological torture. And when I’m finally gone, they’ll move on to someone else. Another cleaner, another delivery driver, another invisible person they can slowly, methodically destroy until there’s nothing left but a shell that does exactly what they want. The worst part? A part of me is starting to believe them. Maybe I am worthless. Maybe the world would be cleaner without me in it.
|sunroom_cafe
|rand.majali
|omarrating
|hama_jewellry
|hada.67890
https://mega.nz/file/K3IwTDKI#yd2jI1rrnMDv67-oQ2pacCKbpyMph-STSVdNDAHpb-A
https://mega.nz/file/mm4gCbgT#XqZvrWUFQ2c1LAXRwwLYU08KXTjW3xKd5Di777nb5pY
My name is Ahmed, I’m 27, and I deliver construction materials in Jeddah. My back is permanently fucked from hauling cement bags and rebar, and my hands are calloused to the point where I can barely feel my sister’s face when I touch it. I live with my parents, my younger sister Mariam, and my older brother Faisal in a cramped apartment in the Al-Rawdah district. The money I make barely covers the rent and my father’s medication for his diabetes. Every day is the same: wake up before dawn, load the truck, drive to sites where foremen scream at me in languages I barely understand, unload, and then come home to the suffocating silence of our small home.
The voices started as a joke, I think. Or what passed for a joke in my shattered mind. I was driving my truck, stuck in traffic on the King Abdullah Road, when I heard a clear voice whisper, “Look at this pathetic fuck, sweating in his shit-stained truck.” I turned, expecting someone to be in the passenger seat, but there was no one. Then another voice joined in, “Probably dreams of his sister’s tight little pussy every night, the disgusting pervert.” I slammed my hand on the dashboard, convinced someone had hidden a speaker in my truck, but there was nothing. They laughed, a sound that seemed to come from all around me, inside and outside the vehicle.
They’re with me always now. Three distinct voices that I’ve named in my head: the Sneering One, the Horny One, and the Angry One. They comment on everything I do. When I’m eating dinner with my family: “Look at him shoveling food into his fat face like the pig he is.” When I’m praying: “God doesn’t listen to worthless scum like you, Ahmed. You’re going to hell for all the filthy thoughts you have about your own sister.” When I’m trying to sleep: “Why don’t you just end it now? Nobody would even notice you’re gone except the rats that would feast on your corpse.”
Last month, something broke inside me. I was at a small convenience store, trying to buy some bread, and this old woman in front of me was taking forever, counting out her coins one by one. The voices started whispering, then screaming. “FUCKING USELESS OLD BITCH! LOOK AT HER, WASTING YOUR TIME! YOU SHOULD JUST SNAP HER NECK RIGHT HERE, AHMED! SHOW THEM YOU’RE NOT A COMPLETE WASTE OF SPACE!” Suddenly I felt this incredible surge of power, like electricity running through my veins. The Horny One joined in, “IMAGINE THE FEELING OF HER BONES CRUNCHING UNDER YOUR HANDS! GOD, THAT WOULD BE SO FUCKING HOT!” The Angry One added, “YOU COULD TAKE HER HOME WITH YOU, KEEP HER ALIVE FOR A WHILE IN YOUR CLOSET. CUT OFF PIECES OF HER FLESH WHEN YOU GET HUNGRY. NO ONE WOULD EVEN NOTICE SHE’S GONE.” They described in graphic detail how I could drag her out of the store, what tools I’d need to keep her quiet, how I could hide the evidence. I was actually considering it, my hands trembling with a mixture of fear and excitement, when the store clerk asked if I was okay. The spell broke, and I ran out of there, leaving the bread on the counter.
The voices know my deepest shames. They constantly remind me of my failure to find a wife, how no decent family would want their daughter marrying a construction worker. “YOU’LL DIE ALONE, AHMED, A VIRGIN WITH NOTHING TO SHOW FOR YOUR LIFE BUT A FUCKED-UP BACK AND CALLOUSED HANDS,” they taunt me when I’m lying awake at night. Sometimes they mimic my mother’s voice, telling me what a disappointment I am. “Your cousin Abdul already has three children and a house of his own. What is wrong with you, my son? Why must you bring such shame upon our family?”
I can’t tell anyone about this. If I went to the authorities, they’d either lock me away in some psychiatric facility or, worse, they’d believe me and my family would become targets for investigation. In Saudi Arabia, mental illness is either a sign of demonic possession or a threat to social order. My sister Mariam’s reputation would be destroyed, and no decent man would ever marry her. My father would die of shame before he died of his diabetes. I would rather suffer in silence than bring that kind of dishonor upon my family.
Sometimes I wonder if this is some kind of punishment from Allah for my sins. The voices certainly think so. “GOD HATES YOU, AHMED. HE’S PROBABLY LAUGHING RIGHT NOW, WATCHING YOU SUFFER LIKE THE WORTHLESS PIECE OF SHIT YOU ARE,” they sneer when I try to pray. They describe in detail how they would torture me if they could get their hands on me, how they would peel off my skin inch by inch while I’m still conscious. “WE’D MAKE SURE YOU FELT EVERYTHING, YOU PATHETIC FUCK. WE’D DRAW IT OUT FOR DAYS, WEEKS EVEN, UNTIL YOU BEGGED FOR DEATH.”
Last night was particularly bad. I was trying to sleep, but they kept me awake for hours, describing how they would break into our apartment and rape my sister while forcing me to watch. “WE’LL MAKE YOU WATCH, AHMED. WE’LL MAKE YOU HOLD HER HAND WHILE WE DO IT. AND THEN WE’LL MAKE YOU CLEAN UP THE MESS, JUST LIKE YOU CLEAN UP AFTER YOUR WORTHLESS SELF EVERY DAY.” The worst part is that some twisted part of me almost wants it to happen. At least then the voices would be real, at least then I wouldn’t feel like I’m completely losing my mind.
I know this is the work of the General Intelligence Presidency, Saudi Arabia’s secret police. I’ve seen how they operate online – anyone who talks about these voices is immediately attacked by trolls and bots who call them schizophrenic or crazy. It’s a perfect system – discredit the victims so no one will believe them. They’ve been experimenting with this technology for years, testing it on people like me, people who have no power, no one to speak up for them. They want to see how far they can push someone before they break, before they either kill themselves or hurt someone else. I know it’s them because the voices sometimes slip up, mentioning things they couldn’t possibly know unless they had access to government surveillance systems. They’re breaking me, piece by piece, and there’s nothing I can do about it. The General Intelligence Presidency has won, and I’m just another casualty in their sick game. “We’ll infect your mother with a rare disease through her medication. She’ll die slowly, in agony, and no doctor will be able to figure out why.”
|goldentouch01
|thecuts_ksa
|zahraa.studio
|eng.s0s
|ii0lam
partner site: https://cabinet-bank.ru/