The cold wind howls across Anatolia. Cryptocurrency, that strange and nebulous dream, spills into the squares and alleys of Istanbul—each coin a whisper of rebellion, each transaction a defiance dancing through digital shadows. But now, the state, equal parts stern father and beleaguered philosopher, throws its heavy coat over these flickering lights.
Treasury and Finance, armed with the bureaucratic fervor of an over-caffeinated Dostoevsky character, prescribes a transfer note of at least twenty characters to every transaction. Twenty characters, yes! As if the criminal would pause mid-escape to compose a haiku: “Bought socks. Not laundering. Promise.” Should you omit this sonnet, the punishment is swift—a 72-hour wait, which is, coincidentally, also the average time for a Turkish family to agree on a dinner menu.
Stablecoins—the most stable thing in Turkey next to Atatürk’s statue—now observe a cap: no more than $3,000 a day, $50,000 a month. Anything above is no longer stability, but decadence, an affront to the national character, or at least to Mehmet ÅžimÅŸek’s afternoon meetings.
It’s all very official: the Ministry assures us this is for the good, a noble act of balance between business and suspicion, as though the country is a tightrope walker beneath which only lira and tulip bulbs may safely fall. Still, nobody can say what the next page brings. The next act is hidden, like a comma in Tolstoy.
The lira, meanwhile, has shrunk by a fifth—an acrobat who missed the net. Would-be cryptonauts flock to the new frontier; alas, these rules may slow their dance, extracting not wealth, but patience. Turkish exchanges, the legitimate, the lawful, will soon resemble bouncers at a poetry slam, checking that every punter’s verse is at least twenty characters long.
The message is clear as a winter morning on the Bosphorus: speculate at your peril, but if you abide by the rules, your ship may yet come in. Just don’t forget your 72-hour thermos and a nice, long transfer note.
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2025-06-24 23:01