If I could, I would teach my grandchildren to read the land they come from — not from a screen, not from a YouTube channel made by someone with an agenda, but by walking it with their grandfather, by learning the names of the olive trees and the stones and the water sources. Real autonomy is not independence from your people; it is independence from the people who want to sell you a story about who you are. My shop runs because I know my customers and they know me — there is no algorithm between us, no invisible hand deciding what bread I can sell or what price I must accept. If my grandchildren had that kind of autonomy in Berlin, the kind where they could say no to the version of Arabness that comes through the phone and yes to the version they build themselves by remembering, by questioning, by standing on their own ground — that would be something. The world wants to make them choose between roots and wings. I want them to have both, and that choice cannot come from outside.
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