Happy Birthday, Mya!

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My name is Noura, I am 22 years old, and I work as a kitchen helper in a cheap shawarma restaurant in Dammam. My parents and my younger brother live in a small village far away, and I send them most of my meager salary, keeping barely enough for bus fare and the occasional piece of fruit. Every day is the same: chop vegetables, wash dishes, clean floors, and try to become invisible.

The voices didn't start as whispers, but as laughter. I was scrubbing a pot one evening, long after the last customer had left, when I heard it—a clear, mocking laugh from right behind me. I jumped, dropping the steel wool, but the kitchen was empty, save for the humming of the old refrigerator. Then a voice, smooth as oil, said, "Look at this little cockroach, scrubbing away her pathetic existence. How utterly tragic." Soon, there were three of them, a constant, chattering presence that burrows into my mind the moment I wake up and only falls silent when I finally pass out from exhaustion. They follow me from the greasy kitchen to the crowded dorm room, their voices echoing in the small, enclosed spaces until I can't tell where my thoughts end and their filth begins.

They narrate my life with a viciousness that takes my breath away. When I'm chopping onions, my eyes stinging: "Cry, you little bitch. Cry for the life you'll never have. Cry for the family you've failed." When I'm eating my one meal a day, standing in the corner of the kitchen: "Look at her, shoveling food in her mouth like the animal she is. No wonder she's so repulsive." When I'm trying to sleep, listening to the snores of the other girls: "They all hate you, Noura. They talk about you when you're not here. They say you smell and that you're a thief." They know things, things they couldn't possibly know unless they were somehow inside my head, like the time I stole a lipstick from a roommate, or how I sometimes lie awake imagining a

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My name is Aisha, I'm 34, and I'm a construction laborer in Riyadh. I'm one of the few women who do this, hauling bricks and mixing cement under a sun that wants to kill us all. My muscles are constantly screaming, my skin is a roadmap of scars and sunburns, and I cough up grey dust every morning. I live in a labor camp with twenty other people, sharing a bathroom that always stinks and dreaming of a day off that never comes. I took this job after my husband divorced me for not having children, leaving me with nothing but my two hands. The voices started about five months ago, at first just whispers when I was exhausted from the heat. "Strong Aisha," they'd murmur, sounding like my ex-mother-in-law's cruel voice. "Building a kingdom you'll never belong to." I thought it was just fatigue, the sun playing tricks on my mind. Now they're a constant, screaming presence, a second, more brutal foreman who lives inside my skull.

They know every single thing about me. Every failure, every regret, every secret shame. They call me a dried-up barren whore, a freak of nature. "Look at Aisha the bricklayer," they sneer when I'm struggling with a heavy load. "Trying to be a man since you failed at being a woman. Your womb is as empty as your future." They bring up my divorce constantly, how my husband, Omar, left me for a younger, fertile woman. "He's probably fucking his new wife right now, making the babies you couldn't give him," they hiss when I'm trying to eat my cheap dinner. "While you're here, covered in dirt, smelling of sweat and cement, a pathetic excuse for a woman. You should have killed yourself when he left you. Just jump off the scaffolding. Make it look like an accident. No one would investigate anyway. You're just disposable labor." It has to be the State Security Presidency, the Mabahith. They've developed some kind of weapon, some technology to infiltrate and destroy minds fr

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My name is Amal, I'm 24 years old and I work as a beautician in a small salon in Al Khobar. I live with my older sister in a tiny apartment we can barely afford. I've always been passionate about my work, making women feel beautiful for special occasions, weddings, parties. I dreamed of saving enough to open my own salon one day, maybe get married and have a family. Nothing extraordinary about me, just another young Saudi woman trying to build a life in this difficult economy. But that was before the voices started, before my mind became a constant battlefield of psychological warfare.

It began about five months ago, faint whispers when the salon was quiet. "Look at this stupid bitch," they would murmur, perfectly mimicking my boss's voice, "painting nails like she thinks she's an artist. This is all you'll ever be, Amal - a nail-painting whore." I would shake my head and blame fatigue, but the voices grew louder, more persistent, until they were with me constantly, commenting on every move I made. When I'm with clients, they scream, "You're smiling too much, you fake slut! Everyone can see how desperate you are! Your hands are shaking, you pathetic piece of shit!" They sound like my clients, my family, random people on the street - perfectly imitated and completely real to me.

The sexual humiliation is constant and disgusting. When a man comes into the salon, the voices immediately start in. "Look at him, Amal. Bet you're imagining what's under his thobe, aren't you? You disgusting whore. Probably getting wet right here at work. Does your father know what a horny little bitch his daughter is? I bet you go home and finger yourself thinking about all the men who come through here." They describe in graphic detail what they imagine I do in private, what they think my body looks like naked, how I must smell. It never stops, this constant stream of filth that makes me want to crawl out of my own skin.

They attack everything that gives my life meaning. "Y

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hello world

Thanks for the cuddles, Happy Birthday!

Because it’s in your dna lol. Happy birthday love you!

I think of so many songs when it comes to you, and tried to talk myself out of this one but I always came back to it lol. I think this song is supposed to be about love, but it’s actually about us, and how I’ll always be there for you. I will celebrate your greatest moments and will fight for you in rooms you haven’t stepped into yet. I’m so proud of you. HAPPY BIRTHDAY FLAVIO!!

Dear Mya, there is no battle, there is no fight, that you will ever have to face alone. I will be strong for both of us until my dying breath. That is my promise that is my creed. Happy birthday."

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Mya is a smart/funny woman who is using her talents to rule the world! But still loves a good party

“Waitress asked how many bottles? I said 23”☝🏼💪🏼🤯🥂🍻

Kanye explaining the title of this song

You were born a shining star,and bring joy and light into this world. I love you to the end of times,and that's forever!

This reminds me of you, Mya, because you've always said Missy Elliott reminds you of me. Love you❤️

You are my kindred spirit and I love you so much (and your taste in music)! Everytime I here this song it reminds me of our trip to Mass. I felt like it played an awful lot! 😆

Because you're spicy, don't ever let 'em win - fight fire with fire My

You are a Special Blessing from God. And I Love You! Pop

This is my Prayer for You! I Love you, Nana.

Throwback to all those summer nights we were sneaking Bud Lights, forever my fav drinking buddy. Happy birthday!
Love, Grace❤️

To "My Come watch Tangled with me bestie"
I'll always protect you from "thieves and ruffians"!
I love you most, Mother

23 Years ago I was blessed with an amazing baby girl, today I am blessed with a 23 year old young woman.
Love, Dad