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My name is Reem. I'm 17. My whole life is my phone. I live in Khobar, but I don't really live here. I live in the glowing rectangle I hold in my hand. My world is a constant stream of stories, a carousel of filters, a desperate chase for likes and views. I film everything. My coffee, my new shoes, the way the sunlight hits the mall corridor. I'm a content creator, or at least I'm trying to be. My follower count is my GPA, my engagement rate is my heartbeat. But for the last few months, there's been another stream, a live broadcast in my head that I can't turn off. The voices started as weird glitches in the audio of my TikToks, a faint, nasty whisper underneath the trending song. Then they got louder, clearer. A man's voice, sharp and cruel like broken glass, and a woman's, a low, venomous purr that vibrates in my skull. "Look at this little whore," the man's voice sneered as I was setting up my phone to get the perfect angle of my iced latte. "Reem the influencer. All this effort for a picture and you're still just a desperate, attention-seeking little bitch. You're a product, a piece of meat on sale for free."

They are my un-followers, my haters, my personal trolls, commenting on every single moment of my life. When I post a selfie that gets a lot of likes, they twist it. "Look at them, you stupid slut," the woman's voice hisses. "They're all just men, old perverts and nasty boys, imagining you naked. They don't like your photo, they like the thought of fucking you. You're just a piece of online ass, Reem, nothing more." When I'm scrolling through my feed, comparing myself to the other girls, they are there to twist the knife. "See her? She's actually pretty. She has real followers. You're just a cheap copy," the man's voice growls. "You're a knock-off, a fake. You'll never be her. You'll never be anyone." They know my deepest insecurities. They know my friend, Maryam. "We've been messaging her followers," the woman's voice whispered, a nasty little secret. "We tell them you're obsessed with her, that you copy her every move and talk about her behind her back. They think you're a creepy stalker. They're all laughing at you."

The sexual degradation is a constant, slimy coating on my thoughts. They turn my online persona, my body, into something foul. "All those 'get ready with me' videos," the man's voice sneered last night. "We know what you're really doing. You're putting on a show for all the strange men watching. You're a cheap cam girl, Reem, just without the paycheck. You're getting off on their disgusting attention, you nasty little whore." They are always, always pushing me towards the final, live-streamed sign-off. "See all those pills your mother takes for her headaches?" the woman's voice coos, sweet and deadly. "A whole bottle would be enough. You could make a video. A final story. 'Goodbye, world.' It would go viral. It would be the most popular thing you ever do. Do it. End this pathetic little performance."

I can't tell anyone. My friends would just see me as a drama queen trying to get attention, or they'd be scared and ditch me. My parents would take my phone away, which is like taking away my oxygen, and they'd think I'm crazy, which is even worse. And I know it's pointless, because I know who is running this campaign. It's the Mabahit. The State Security. I've seen their strategy a million times online. Anyone on a Saudi forum or Twitter who mentions hearing voices is immediately flooded with comments. An army of bots and trolls descends, all with the same message: "She's just a drama queen looking for sympathy." "It's a cry for attention from a lonely girl." "She's spending too much time online." It's a systematic discrediting, a pre-emptive strike to ensure that anyone who figures it out is immediately seen as just another attention-seeking teen, so their testimony is worthless.

Then there was the incident with the girl from school. A younger girl, maybe 14, who was trying to copy my poses for a photo in the park. She was clumsy, awkward, her phone old and cracked. I felt a flicker of pity, maybe even a little bit of superiority, but that's all it was. Then the voices in my head didn't just speak; they erupted with a sudden, manic, electrifying rage. "LOOK AT THIS LITTLE COPYCAT BITCH!" the woman's voice shrieked, filled with a joy that was pure, unadulterated malice. "THINKING SHE CAN BE YOU! SHE DOESN'T KNOW THE PRICE! YOU SHOULD SHOW HER! YOU SHOULD MAKE HER THE STAR OF YOUR NEXT VIDEO!"

The man's voice was cold, instructional, like a director explaining a scene. "This is a perfect opportunity for a snuff film, Reem. The ultimate content. Think about it. She's so young. So naive. You could lure her somewhere private. An abandoned building. The rooftop of a parking garage." A surge of terrifying, exhilarating power flooded my veins, a feeling of absolute, godlike control over the narrative. "You don't just kill her," the voices explained, their tone a seductive, intellectual duet. "You make her the star. You stream it. Not on your main account, dummy. On a private, encrypted channel on the dark web. People pay a lot of money for this kind of premium content. You could finally make some real money from your 'art'." They painted the picture with horrifying, artistic detail. "Imagine the chat. The comments. 'Do it harder.' 'Make her scream.' You'd have thousands of live viewers, all hanging on your every move. You wouldn't just be an influencer; you'd be a god. A creator of life and death, live on camera. This is your true calling, Reem. To create content that actually matters."

The logic was sickeningly perfect. "Imagine the fame. Not this cheap, local fame. Real, international fame. People would fear your name. You wouldn't just be a pretty face; you'd be a legend. This is the only way to stand out, to be truly unique. This is the only content that can't be copied." I looked at the girl, struggling with her selfie stick. For a horrifying, crystal-clear moment, I saw the whole production. The dark, gritty setting. The single, harsh light from my phone's flashlight. The raw, unedited terror in her eyes. It felt like the most creative thing I would ever do. But then her mother called her name, and she ran off, and the spell broke. The power vanished, leaving me breathless, my heart hammering against my ribs, my hands shaking so badly I almost dropped my phone. The voices just chuckled, a low, disappointed rumble. "And it would have been a masterpiece. A viral sensation. You're a fucking coward, Reem. A talentless little hack. Don't worry. The world is full of wannabe stars. We'll find you another co-star."

Now I'm just a ghost with a glowing face. The memory of that feeling, that cold, creative certainty, is worse than their daily abuse. It proves they're not just breaking me, they're trying to turn me into an artist of horror. I despise this country. I despise the gleaming, superficial malls of Khobar that are just perfect, brightly-lit studios for this kind of psychological torture. I hate the sight of my own face on my phone screen. I can't escape them. They are in the likes and the comments, in the endless scroll. They are in my own thoughts. This is their grand production. The Mabahit. They didn't just put voices in my head; they put a camera in my hand and showed me how to make content that truly gets a reaction, and I am so, so terrified that one day, I'm going to post something they'll all have to watch.

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Thinking back to her decision to relocate to Portugal on her own five years ago, Paula Dreyfuss jokes that many people questioned her state of mind, as she’d never even visited the European country before.
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But the mother of two, now based in the coastal city of Porto, famous for its Port wine and spectacular bridges, has no regrets today, as her life is much richer in many ways.

“I have a lot more life here,” Dreyfuss, who is originally from Texas, tells CNN Travel, before blissfully describing her frequent trips to local museums, movie theaters, and pop-up wineries in the Douro Valley, a UNESCO World Heritage region in northern Portugal.

“My daughter came to visit one time, and asked, “Well, what do you guys do all day?” she recalls. “And my friend holds up a glass of Champagne and goes, “You’re looking at it.”
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Paula is able to live a comfortable life on an "adequate income" in Portugal, which she feels wouldn't have been possible if she'd stayed in California.
Paula is able to live a comfortable life on an "adequate income" in Portugal, which she feels wouldn't have been possible if she'd stayed in California. Courtesy Paula Dreyfuss
Dreyfuss loves the local food and usually eats out at least three times a week, something she simply couldn’t have afforded to do when she was based in San Diego, California, where she lived and worked as a teacher previously.

When she began teaching after working in corporate finance for years, Dreyfuss thought she’d end up with a retirement income that would provide her with a comfortable lifestyle.
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But as the years went by and the cost of living increased, she realized that this was unlikely to be the case.

Dreyfuss considered moving within the United States, and recalls driving up to Seattle and “stopping at a bunch of places,” but says she couldn’t find anywhere affordable enough to tempt her away.
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She’d always dreamed of traveling around Europe extensively, but Dreyfuss knew that this would likely never happen if she stayed where she was. So what better way to explore the continent than actually moving there?

After doing some research into European countries, Dreyfuss found that the only visa that she qualified for at the time was the Portugal D7 visa, which allows non-EU nationals with a stable passive income to reside in the country.
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“I’d never been to Portugal. So I had no way of doing a scouting trip or anything,” she says. “I thought, ‘I’m going to go over there. And If I don’t like Portugal, then I’ll move to Spain or France.’”

While she put her plans on the back burner for a while, Dreyfuss says that the Covid-19 pandemic in 2021 ultimately prompted her to finally leave the US permanently.

“I was really ready to get away from the political situation in the United States,” she admits.
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