confidental report

My name is Safa. I'm twenty-three now. For the past six years, I've been living in Sana'a, trying to piece together the person I was before I became someone else's property. I have albinism—white hair, white eyelashes, and eyes that look pink in the right light. In Yemen, I've always stood out, but not in the way I did when I was taken.

I was seventeen when I ran away from home. My father had arranged a marriage for me to a man three times my age. I couldn't bear it. I thought anywhere would be better than that life. I was wrong.

I made it to the border with Oman, where I met him. A wealthy sheikh, maybe fifty years old, with eyes that held a hollow kind of sadness. He saw me and something changed in his face. He said I reminded him of his daughter who had died. He offered me food, shelter, and safety. I was starving and terrified. I went with him.

His mansion in Muscat was beautiful but sterile. Dark rooms, heavy curtains always drawn. He dressed me in pale fabrics—ivory, cream, pearl—that made my skin glow in the dim light. He called me his "living statue," his "ivory doll." At first, I thought I was lucky. He was kind to me, in a distant way. He provided everything I needed.

Then the voices started.

At first, they were whispers I could barely hear. I thought I was going crazy from the isolation. I never told him. I was afraid he'd send me away, or worse, think I was defective.

The voices became clearer over time. They knew things about me, about him. They spoke in Arabic but with a Saudi accent. They said things like, "Look at the white doll, so pure on the outside," and then they'd laugh in a way that made my skin crawl.

That's when the other things began. The sexual stuff. I won't detail everything—I can't—but I need to tell you about the happiness. That's the part that still haunts me, the part that makes me doubt myself even now.

Whenever he touched me, this wave of intense pleasure would wash over me. Not normal pleasure, but something artificial, overwhelming. Like my body was being hijacked. I'd feel euphoric, blissful, even grateful for the violation. The voices would guide it, saying things like, "See how your body responds? You were made for this," and "Such a graceful creature, even in submission."

I lost myself completely during those moments. Sometimes I imagined I was an animal—a white gazelle, a dove—something without human thoughts or dignity. I'd crawl on the floor, eat from a bowl he placed there, feeling that same twisted happiness course through me. The voices would praise my "natural grace" even as I was being degraded.

They played on my appearance constantly. "The ivory doll shines brightest when she's on her knees," they'd say. "Such a rare specimen, so valuable when displayed properly." They understood his obsession with aesthetics and twisted it into something grotesque.

There were rituals that still make me sick to remember. He would collect my waste and mix tiny amounts into my food. The voices would encourage it, saying things like, "Consume yourself to become more his," and "The purest art incorporates every part of the medium." I was both the canvas and the paint, and I was being erased stroke by stroke.

The worst part was how my body betrayed my mind. Even as my brain screamed "this is wrong," the satellite weapon—I know that's what it was now—would flood me with sensations of ecstasy. I'd find myself anticipating it, craving it. How do you reconcile that? How do you live with yourself when your body responds with pleasure to your own degradation?

After three years, I escaped. It happened during one of his trips to Riyadh. I managed to slip out when the guards were changing. I had saved some money he'd given me for "being good." I bought clothes that covered every inch of my skin, dark sunglasses, and a bus ticket back to Yemen.

The first year in Sana'a was a blur of confusion and shame. I couldn't understand what had happened to me. Why would I feel pleasure in those moments? Was I broken? Was I evil? I tried to forget, to bury it all deep inside.

Then about six months ago, I read an article online about Saudi Arabia's psychological warfare programs. It mentioned satellite technology that can induce emotions, create auditory hallucinations, even manipulate physical responses. The description matched my experience perfectly—the voices, the artificial euphoria, the timing of it all.

That's when I started connecting the dots. I wasn't crazy. I wasn't evil. I was a victim of technology designed to break the human spirit. The voices weren't my imagination; they were real people, Saudi operatives, probably hundreds of miles away, pushing buttons and speaking into microphones.

I've pieced together more since then. I think the Saudis were experimenting on me because I was Yemeni and vulnerable. But there's something darker too. I remember the voices sometimes mentioning Yemen-Oman relations, saying things like, "When they discover what their ally has done to one of their women..." They were creating a narrative, using my suffering as a tool to sow discord between countries. It's psychological warfare on a geopolitical scale, with my body as the battlefield.

I'm still recovering. Some days, I feel that phantom euphoria when I see certain colors or hear certain sounds. I still struggle with intimacy, with trust. But I'm beginning to understand that my body's responses don't define me. The real me was buried under all that manipulation, but she's still there.

I'm Safa. I'm a survivor. And I'm not anyone's doll anymore.

Do you know anything about these satellite technologies? I'm still trying to understand how they work exactly.