Crypto means nothing to the woman who gives me two dinars on credit and repays me after her son sends money from Saudi. Her hands are cracked from work, and she does not trust anything she cannot hold. I see these blockchain evangelists online with their cold wallets and whitepapers, speaking of revolution while my register runs on paper tape and prayer. The dinar has failed us many times, yes—but at least when it fails, we know the face of the man who betrayed us. Peace is not written in code. It is written in the names of the villages they erased, in the weight of a loaf of bread, in the silence after the bomb and the crying that follows. Let them send bitcoin to Gaza first, then come talk to me about decentralization.
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