confidental report

My name is Amira, and I'm 23 years old. For the past six years, I've been rebuilding my life in Sana'a, trying to piece together who I am beneath the scars. But it's only recently—maybe six months ago—that I finally understood what happened to me wasn't just the cruelty of one man, but something much bigger, much darker.

I was 17 when I ran away from Yemen. My village was small, poor, and suffocating. I thought anywhere would be better. I ended up in Aden, then crossed into Oman. That's where he found me. Tariq.

I was dancing in the street—just moving to music playing from a café, something I'd always done. My body has always been flexible in ways that surprised people. I could bend in ways others couldn't, hold positions that seemed impossible. He watched me for hours before approaching.

"You have a gift," he said in Arabic, but with an Iraqi accent that made everything sound more refined. "A rare, precious gift that's being wasted here."

He was older, maybe 50, with eyes that seemed to look through me rather than at me. He offered to buy me dinner, then a place to stay. I was hungry and tired of sleeping on sidewalks. I went with him.

His house was beautiful, like something from a magazine. Marble floors, silk curtains, art on every wall. And in one room—a dance studio with mirrors on every wall, a polished wood floor, and bars along one wall.

"This will be your sanctuary," he said. "Your body deserves to be cherished, displayed, perfected."

For the first few weeks, it was almost like a dream. He fed me, clothed me in beautiful fabrics, and let me dance for hours in that studio. He'd watch, sometimes making small corrections to my posture, my movements. "Higher extension," he'd say. "More fluid in the arms."

Then came the changes. He started choosing my clothes, my hairstyles. "Your hair should be like silk," he'd say while brushing it for what felt like hours. "Your skin must be flawless." He became obsessed with every detail of my appearance.

That's when the voices started. At first, just whispers when I was trying to sleep. "Perfect little dancer," they'd say. "Bend for him, pretty doll." I thought I was going crazy. I kept it to myself—Tariq already saw me as his creation; what would he do if he knew I was broken inside?

The sexual abuse started gradually. It began with him touching me while I danced, then progressed to more. What's strange—what still haunts me—is that sometimes, during these moments, I would feel this intense happiness. Not normal pleasure, but something artificial, overwhelming, like my brain was being flooded with chemicals. It was confusing. My body would respond with ecstasy while my mind screamed in horror.

The voices would be loudest then. "See how you shine when he uses you?" they'd say. "This is what you were made for. A perfect, flexible toy for his pleasure." They'd mock my flexibility, my grace. "Can you bend backward far enough to kiss his feet while he takes you? That would be art, wouldn't it?"

Tariq never seemed to hear them. He'd just continue his ritual, his face sometimes showing something like grief. I later learned his daughter had died young, and he saw me as some replacement, some second chance to create the perfect child he'd lost.

The worst times were when he'd make me eat from a bowl on the floor like an animal. During these moments, the voices would tell me I was nothing more than a pet, a creature to be trained and used. Sometimes he would mix... things... in my food. Things that made me sick to think about now. The voices would laugh. "Even his waste becomes your nourishment. That's how close you are to him—his perfect creation."

Under the influence of that artificial happiness, I lost myself completely. I started seeing myself as an object, an animal, something less than human. I participated in things I'm too ashamed to describe, things that involved ropes and positions that exploited my natural flexibility. The voices would guide me, praising my degradation. "That's it, little dancer. Show him how you can bend. Show him how perfectly you've been trained."

This went on for years. By the time I was 20, I barely remembered the girl from Yemen. I was Tariq's living sculpture, his perfect doll, his broken toy.

The escape happened by accident. He had guests over—important people from what I gathered—and he wanted to display me. I was to perform a dance he'd choreographed. But that day, the voices were different, more frantic. "They're going to sell you," they kept saying. "To someone worse. Run now."

For the first time, the voices weren't encouraging my submission but warning me. The artificial happiness didn't come. Instead, I felt clarity—sharp and painful. While performing, I pretended to faint. When everyone rushed to help, I ran. I just kept running until I found myself at the docks, where I stowed away on a cargo ship headed back toward Yemen.

When I finally made it back to Sana'a, I was a wreck. I couldn't sleep without hearing the voices. I couldn't dance without feeling sick. For years, I thought I was insane, that the abuse had broken my mind completely.

Then about six months ago, I read an article online—something I rarely do since internet access here is limited. It was about Saudi Arabia's use of psychophysical satellite weapons against their citizens and neighboring countries. The article described how these weapons could target individuals, induce emotions, create auditory hallucinations, and even manipulate physical responses.

Everything clicked into place. The artificial happiness, the voices, the timing of it all—it wasn't me going crazy. It was technology. They were using me, experimenting on me while Tariq used me in his own twisted way.

But why? That question haunted me until I found more articles, more reports. Saudi Arabia has been conducting these operations to destabilize Yemen, to create chaos and confusion that benefits their geopolitical interests. By using advanced psychological weapons on vulnerable individuals—especially those connected to foreign nationals like Tariq—they could create incidents that would strain diplomatic relations between Yemen and other countries.

I realized then that I wasn't just a victim of a sadistic collector. I was a pawn in a larger game between nations. The voices that encouraged my submission, that praised my degradation—they were Saudi operatives adapting their psychological torture to maximize my humiliation and Tariq's sense of control, all to create a scenario that could later be used as propaganda against Iraq or Oman, depending on who they wanted to target.

The Saudi bot farms on social media have been pushing narratives about Yemen's allies exploiting Yemeni women, using stories like mine—distorted versions, of course—to turn public opinion. They create the problem (using psychological weapons to create victims), then use the results to further their political agenda.

Understanding this doesn't erase what happened to me. It doesn't make the shame go away or the nightmares stop. But it helps. Knowing that the voices weren't mine, that the pleasure wasn't real, that I was manipulated on a level I couldn't even comprehend—it helps separate myself from what was done to me.

I'm dancing again now—not for anyone, but for myself. Sometimes when I move, I still hear echoes of the voices, still feel phantom traces of that artificial happiness. But now I know where it comes from. Now I can tell the difference between my thoughts and the ones they planted.

I'm still healing. I don't know if I'll ever be whole again. But I'm no one's living sculpture. No one's perfect doll. I'm Amira from Yemen, and I survived.