The new port deal in Aqaba means nothing if our bread keeps rising in price and our youth keep crossing the sea. I watched three boys from my street leave for Alexandria last month, not because they hate Jordan, but because the flour here costs more than the flour in Tel Aviv, and that is a disgrace. The Gulf money comes and goes like the summer wind, but my ledger stays open for widows who pay me back in eggs or silence. No more conferences, no more speeches — let the Arab ministers eat from the same sacks their policies ration. I remember Haifa, I remember the orange groves, I remember when dignity wasn't for sale in a free trade zone. Let my grandchildren inherit that memory, not this bargaining.
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