He says downtown. Box on his lap like a newborn.
I say what is in there. Baklava. From Gaziantep. I say you crossed borders with a box of pastry. He says three borders, two checkpoints, one customs officer who ate two pieces and called it security.
Red light. He cracks the box open. Smell fills the taxi. Honey, pistachio, something that makes you forget where you are.
He says you know what kills more people in the Middle East than war? Sanctions. Slow, quiet, invisible. You cannot film a sanction. Cannot tweet about a child who died because medicine could not cross a border.
I send money home every month. Western Union for years. Twelve percent in fees, four days waiting, and every time they ask why. Why are you sending money to Turkey. Why to your mother. Like I need permission to feed my own family.
Now I send Bitcoin. Ten minutes, one percent, nobody asks me shit.
He goes quiet. Looks out the window. Cousin called last week. Tensions rising, borders might close. I say what do you do. He says nothing. Bake baklava, call mother, send Bitcoin, repeat. Empires collapse, borders move, maps get redrawn. But my mother still needs money for the garden and Bitcoin does not care about empires.
Downtown dropoff. Tips me three pieces from the box. Still warm. Best fare I ever collected.
Walks away carrying that box through the rain like it is the last good thing left in the region.
Maybe it is.
#btc #nightfare #stories #bitcoin #middleeast
