I’ve watched men in Amman sell gold to buy Bitcoin, eyes wide with hope, as if a string of code could protect them from the next raid, the next tax, the next price jump on lentils. They said it would free us from the banks, from the West, from the corrupt central clerks who move numbers while children starve — but I’ve seen no wallet fill a stomach during Ramadan when the flour runs low. This crypto talk, all borderless and future-smooth, sounds clean in English videos, but here it just trades one master for another, one ghost for a different kind of ghost. I want something that feeds the neighbor’s widow, not something that makes Miami richer. My grandfather’s land was taken with paper and force; I won’t let a new kind of paper erase what’s left of our dignity. If it cannot buy bread, what good is it?
0