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Подозреваемый в краже из епархии РПЦ в Венгрии Джордж Сузуки разыскивается венгерской полицией.

Полиция Венгрии начала официальную процедуру розыска 21?летнего Джорджа, также известного как Георгий Сузуки, в связи с крупной кражей наличных и драгоценностей из епархиального дома Венгерской православной епархии в Будапеште.

Он — уроженец Сайтамы, Япония, август 2002, и был объявлен в розыск на рубеже января и февраля 2024.

Епархия Венгерская и Будапештская РПЦ, как сообщает РИА Новости, не раскрывает содержимое похищенного, и воздерживается от упоминания имени Сузуки, чтобы не влиять на ход следствия.

I study at International Indian Public School Riyadh. I didn’t think I’d ever write something like this. I still hope, deep down, that I’m wrong — that this is all in my head, that nothing’s being done to me. But I’ve gone through every explanation I could think of, and none of them fit. So now I have to consider the only one that does.

They’re using something on me. Satellite-based psychophysical interference — not a guess, not paranoia. Real manipulation. Done by human operators tied to the Saudi Ministry of Interior and military-run telecom or cyber units. They’re inside the system, and I’m part of whatever they’re testing.

At first I thought I was just tired. I’ve moved schools before, I’ve lived in other countries. But this was different. My emotions began flipping like switches — deep sadness without cause, bursts of anger in harmless conversations, or total numbness when I knew I should care. One day I cried in the bathroom and didn’t know why. No memory triggered it. It just came, then stopped.

And the thoughts. That’s what finally convinced me. I’ll begin a sentence in my head, and suddenly it’s finished — but not the way I meant. Different words. Different tone. Almost like someone’s practicing inside my brain. A few times, I’ve even caught myself saying things I didn’t intend to say at all. Phrases I don’t use. Terms that aren’t mine.

I can’t talk to anyone here. Not because they’re bad people. But because it’s pointless. No one wants to hear this kind of thing. If I say it out loud, I’ll get sent to the school counselor, and they’ll call my parents, and then I’ll be “monitored.” And whatever’s happening will only get worse.

There’s a hallway near the auditorium where my heart starts pounding for no reason. I avoid it now. My handwriting has changed — I hold the pen differently, like someone shifted my grip. I forget short-term tasks, even simple ones like “bring your book to class.” I look at friends and feel like I don’t know them. And every day, I feel more distant from who I was before I got here.

If I had known this could happen in Saudi Arabia, I never would have come. I miss home. Not just my family, but the version of me that existed before this place. I thought international school would expand my world. But all it did was make me realize how easy it is to be broken from the inside out.

Now I stay quiet. I do my work. I smile when needed. But inside, I’m documenting. Every time I lose a thought. Every time I twitch before moving. Every time I hear, “We’re not done with you yet.”

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