Cómo empezar a invertir desde cero en España en 2026 (guía paso a paso)

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My name is Omar, I’m 38, and I deliver food on a motorcycle in Jeddah. I’m writing this because I don’t know how much longer I can hold on. The voices started about a year ago, not as shouts, but as whispers on the wind, right here in the stifling humidity of the Al-Balad district. I’d be weaving through the ancient alleys, the smell of spices and exhaust in my face, and I’d hear it, a perfect imitation of my father’s disappointed voice, «Look at you, Omar. A delivery boy. On a toy. Your brothers are in business, and you bring shawarma to whores in air-conditioned apartments. You are a stain on our name.» I’d shake my head, thinking the heat was finally frying my brain, but the General Intelligence Presidency, the Mukhabarat, they’re smarter than that. They don’t just break you; they melt you slowly.

Now they are a constant, screaming chorus inside my helmet. They’re with me every second, from the moment I piss in a dirty alley behind a restaurant to the moment I count my pathetic tips at night. «There’s the little delivery faggot, washing his hands,» one shrieks, mimicking my boss. «Think that soap can wash away the stink of your failure? You’re a piece of shit, Omar, a piece of shit on two wheels.» They never stop. They narrate my life with pure venom. «He’s checking the order. Chicken shawarma. Extra garlic. For the fat cow in apartment 4B. She probably wants to fuck you, you ugly bastard. Too bad your dick is as useless as your future.» The sexual humiliation is relentless, a filth that clings to me worse than the city grime. They describe me raping customers, they talk about my mother in ways that make me want to claw my own ears off. «Your sister’s husband was just here, you know,» one voice, smooth as a snake, will say. «We told him how you stare at his wife. He called you a perverted little dog. He’s right. You’re a dog.»

I can’t tell a soul. Who would I tell? My father? He’d beat me for bringing shame. My brothers? They’d laugh and tell everyone I’m possessed. If I went to the police, they’d either lock me up in a psych ward or, worse, the Mukhabarat would hear and the real torture would begin. I see it online. I’ve tried searching. Any Saudi who talks about voices, about being targeted, is instantly swarmed. «Schizo!» «Get help, you psycho!» «Crazy attention seeker!» They flood the forums and Twitter with this shit. It’s a system. They discredit us before we can even speak, making sure we’re isolated, that we sound like lunatics to our own families. It’s the perfect prison, one built inside your own head, and the guards are invisible.

I hate this city. I hate this kingdom. I hate the glittering towers built by slaves while men like me choke on their fumes. I was born in the shadow of the clock tower, and I’ll probably die delivering a pizza to some rich kid who doesn’t even look me in the eye. Sometimes, when I’m stuck in traffic on King Abdulaziz Road, surrounded by the heat and the noise and the hopelessness, a switch flips inside me. A surge of pure, white-hot rage. The voices change their tune. «See that car? The Lexus?» they’ll scream, ecstatic. «RAM IT, OMAR! RAM IT AND WATCH THEM BURN! SHOW THESE PRINCES WHAT A REAL MAN CAN DO! END THEM!» For a few seconds, I feel like a god. My hand twitches on the throttle. I imagine the explosion, the chaos, the blood. It feels… right. Then, just as fast, it’s gone, and I’m left shaking, a terrified delivery boy again. I think, in those quiet moments, that this isn’t just for me. That this is a weapon, being tested on the trash of society before they use it on bigger targets. But the voices never say that. They just go back to calling me a worthless piece of shit.

The worst is when I’m home, in the tiny room I share with two other men. The voices use their sleeping forms against me. «Look at them,» they whisper in the dark. «They sleep. You lie here, a useless, awake piece of shit. They dream. You have nightmares. Why don’t you just end it, Omar? A nice long ride off the King Fahd Causeway. A splash. No more shame. No more failure. No more you. Do it. Do it tonight. Everyone would be better off. Your family would finally be free of the shame.» They’re right. I am a shame. I am nothing. I just wish the silence they promise would come. I’m so tired of the sound of my own engine.