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    • My Progress
    • The Keeper
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    • The Signal
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  • The Workshop
    • Merit Universities
    • The Names
    • The Desk
    • The Brew
    • The Bite
  • The Blueprint: Kahraba

    Retro 1950s-style poster illustration of a central lighthouse radiating golden beams over a stylised city, with circuit-like power lines connecting the lighthouse to illuminated buildings.
    July 10, 2026

    In my last post I was critical. I pointed at the grid and laughed because if I did not laugh I would cry. A country that cannot cool its own homes signing deals with Google and Microsoft to host data centres that never sleep.

    But I was not laughing at the idea. I was laughing at the timing.

    Because I want those data centres. A data centre is a building filled with thousands of computers that store and process information for millions of people at the same time. They are the backbone of the modern digital economy. And I want them here. The jobs they bring. The technology they attract. The signal they send to the world that Kuwait is open and serious. And as someone who has watched plan after plan in this country get announced with confidence and delivered with delay, I do not want this one to fail.

    So instead of pointing at the problem again, let me point at the solution. Because it exists. Other countries had the same problem. And they fixed it.

    The problem.

    Kuwait makes less power than it needs. It has twenty-one gigawatts on paper. In peak summer, only seventeen work. Paper gigawatts do not cool houses. Every summer the demand is higher than what the plants can produce. The government cuts power to neighbourhoods. Imports electricity from neighbouring countries. And asks citizens to please switch off their air conditioning at noon in fifty-degree heat.

    Who else had this problem.

    Egypt. In 2014. Worse than Kuwait. Their demand exceeded their supply by five gigawatts. To put that in perspective, five gigawatts is roughly the output of the entire Az-Zour South complex, Kuwait’s largest power station. Imagine that entire station disappearing from the grid. That was Egypt’s gap. Every day. Blackouts were not a summer event. They were daily. Every neighbourhood. Every city. All year.

    What Egypt did.

    They treated it as a national emergency. One programme. One boss. One deadline. They signed one deal with Siemens to build three massive power plants. They fast-tracked everything. Land. Permits. Financing. All under one authority that did not change when ministers changed.

    And they did something else that matters more than the plants themselves. They slowly raised the price of electricity. Countries that have successfully reformed energy prices did it in the same order. Money first. Price second. A rebate is simple: the government puts cash into your bank account before raising the price. You receive the rebate. Then the tariff goes up. The net effect on your wallet is smaller because the rebate already covered part of it. The order matters. Money first. Price second. Not the other way around.

    How long it took.

    Four years. The three plants were delivered in twenty-seven and a half months from financial close to full operation. Egypt went from daily blackouts to discussing exporting electricity to its neighbours within five years.

    What Dubai did.

    Dubai added solar energy on a schedule. Not all at once. Paced. Managed. Rooftop solar across more than eight thousand buildings. Utility-scale solar in the desert. All on a calendar that matched what the grid could handle without being overwhelmed. Every megawatt announced was a megawatt delivered. Jordan tried the same thing but too fast. They added so much solar so quickly that the grid could not absorb it and they had to freeze the entire programme. Dubai paced it. Jordan rushed it. The lesson is clear.

    What Kuwait needs to do.

    Five things. None of them new. All of them available.

    One boss. Kuwait has had twelve ministers responsible for this file since 2020. Egypt’s programme had one. Appoint one person. Give them authority that survives cabinet reshuffles. One signature. One owner. And from my heart, I wish that person would be Dr. Sabeeh Al-Mukhaizeem. A Yale doctorate in Electrical Engineering. A computer science degree from UC San Diego. An academic career in Kuwait’s education system. And now the Minister of Electricity, Water and Renewable Energy, Was Acting Minister of Finance, and Chairman of KDIPA simultaneously. He is already sitting in every seat this job requires. The technical depth to understand the engineering. The financial authority to unlock the funding. The investment mandate to attract the partners. Kuwait rarely puts the right person in the right seat. This time it did. Keep him there.

    Real dates. Publish a procurement calendar with actual deadlines. Kuwait already proved this works. The Az-Zour North 2&3 deal, four billion dollars, was signed in February 2026. The machinery exists. Use it again. Plant after plant. And put the State Audit Bureau inside each transaction from the beginning, not at the end when it is too late to fix anything.

    Fix the price gently. This is the hardest one. Kuwait’s electricity tariff has not changed since 1966. Citizens pay less than one cent per kilowatt hour. It covers a small fraction of the real cost. Changing it is politically terrifying. But it can be done without pain if the order is right. Send the rebates first. Cash into household accounts. Real money that people can see and use. Then raise the tariff gradually. Not overnight. Over years. Then install smart meters so people can see exactly what they are using. Then set efficiency standards for air conditioners and appliances so the machines themselves use less. Studies done on Kuwait’s own economy, not foreign models, Kuwaiti studies, show that reform with rebates grows the economy. Without rebates it shrinks. The order is everything. Rebates first. Everything else second.

    Pace the solar like Dubai. Kuwait has the Shagaya solar zones ready. The sun is not the problem. The problem is tendering too much at once and overwhelming the grid the way Jordan did. Kuwait needs to tender on a planned calendar, sized to what the grid can absorb at each stage. Every megawatt announced must be a megawatt that can actually be delivered and connected. Announcements that cannot be delivered are not plans. They are press releases.

    Shrink the imports. Kuwait currently buys electricity from its neighbours through the GCC Interconnection grid every summer. That is fine for now. It is a bridge. But bridges are meant to be crossed and left behind. Publish the import number every year. Make it public. Make it visible. Let the country watch it go down year by year. Open data forces honesty. When the numbers are public, everyone can see whether the plan is working or whether it is another announcement with no delivery. And if there is one person in this government who understands the power of open data, it is Dr. Al-Mukhaizeem. Keep the numbers open. Let the country watch.

    The point.

    Egypt’s lesson fits in one sentence. The shortage ended when the plan got an owner, a deadline, and honest prices. In that order.

    All three are available to Kuwait. For the cost of a signature.

    Write in the logbook
  • Keeping the Lights On

    A Simpsons-style aerial night illustration showing a white lighthouse shining a yellow beam over a blacked-out neighborhood, with glowing Google and Microsoft data centers behind it.
    July 9, 2026

    This week, the lights went out in parts of Kuwait. Not because of the heat this time. Because of debris. Drones and missiles, intercepted overhead, falling back onto power lines. A few lines went down. Scattered areas went dark. The electricity ministry re-fed them from the grid and had the power back the same day.

    Fine. I will excuse that one. A falling missile is not a maintenance schedule.

    But strip away the war, and this is not new. The lights in Kuwait have been going out for years. Every summer. On time, like the heat.

    Two summers ago, cuts hit more than forty areas while the temperature touched 52 degrees. Traffic lights died. People sat in stalled lifts. Last summer it started even earlier, in April, before summer had properly arrived, and reached fifty-one areas by mid-summer.

    I have my own version. Last year we packed the car for the chalet. The kids, the bags, the whole production, a good weekend by the sea already planned in everyone’s head. We were on the road when the word reached us: no power where we were going. A chalet with no electricity, in that heat, is not a weekend. It is a hot box by the sea. So we turned around and drove home. We never even saw the water.

    And this is not me complaining into the void. The official numbers say the same thing.

    Twenty-one gigawatts. That is what Kuwait can make on paper. In peak summer, only seventeen of them actually work. Paper gigawatts do not cool houses.

    Importing power. Kuwait buys electricity from its neighbours. Every month. All year. One of the largest oil producers on earth borrowing power to keep the air conditioning running.

    The price. Citizens pay less than one cent per kilowatt hour. A tariff set in 1966. Nobody conserves because conserving saves nothing.

    The plants. Old. Losing capacity every year. The fleet lost net capacity in 2024 while demand grew. Fifty-degree heat does not forgive aging infrastructure.

    The build. Almost nothing new has been built in a decade. Projects are announced. Ministers are replaced. Parliaments are dissolved. The megawatts promised five years ago are still on paper.

    The fuel. The moment a single plant trips, the fuel supply fails with it. One malfunction at one gas facility in 2024 shut down units at the two largest plants in the country.

    The plan. There is always a plan. New plants. Solar. A deal with China. Fourteen thousand megawatts by 2031. But Kuwait’s plans have a pattern. They are announced with confidence and delivered with delay. The fifteen-hundred-megawatt solar plant they promised was cancelled. The renewables target will be missed by five years. On paper, Kuwait is always about to fix everything. On the ground, the lights go out every summer.

    And the funniest part is what they ask us to do about it. Every summer, the same campaign. Save. Switch it off at noon. One of the largest oil producers on earth. Begging its own people to use less power.

    Now, with all of that in mind, who on earth looked at this grid and decided Kuwait should host data centres for Google and Microsoft?

    Both announced their intentions. Google in 2023, Microsoft in 2025. Neither has said how much power it would need. Neither has given a date. Neither has broken ground. So far it is two press releases and the word “intent.”

    But here is the thing about a data centre. It never sleeps. It runs at full power, day and night, winter and summer, forever. The load of a small town of homes that never switch off. And Kuwait cannot keep the homes it already has cool for a single summer.

    In any case, whatever happens with Kuwait’s grid, the lighthouse will be fine. The keeper’s lighthouse runs on one lamp. It never fails. Because someone maintains it. Every day. Without exception.

    Write in the logbook
  • Foie Gras

    Retro pixel art game screen showing a striped lighthouse on the right shining an amber beam across a dark blue sea with small ships, rocks, score text, and three red hearts.
    July 7, 2026

    I was a great gamer. Played for hours. Won tournaments. Destroyed thumbs.

    And I hated every second of it.

    Never joined the GTA crowd. Never cared about FIFA. Never understood why people spent weekends on fighting games. But I was good at all of them. I won a Mortal Kombat tournament once. Not because I loved it. Because I was there and my hands were faster than my boredom.

    I once played Street Fighter on the Super Nintendo. A long session. The kind where you forget time and meals and the fact that you have a body. I did the hadouken so many times that my thumb ripped open. I did not stop. The next morning I woke up with a thumb the size of a small country. A grain of sand had entered the wound and the skin had closed over it. Like a pearl inside a shell. Except the shell was my thumb and nobody was impressed. The only way to remove it was surgery. They cut. They stitched. They left a scar. And thirty years later I can still feel the tiny pearl inside if I press the right spot. A souvenir from a game I did not even like.

    I hated Snake. I hated Angry Birds. I hated Flappy Bird. I played all of them. I was good at all of them. I hated all of them.

    Even today, I watch my son play Minecraft and Super Smash Bros for hours. He asks me to join. I pick up the controller. I last three minutes before the feeling returns. The feeling of forcing myself into something that does not fit. So I put the controller down and watch him instead. Which, honestly, is the better game.

    And this, to me, is the most fascinating thing about being human. The ability to do things you do not like and be excellent at them. Not just tolerate them. Excel. We do it with jobs. We do it with subjects in school. We do it with social obligations and awkward dinners and conversations we never wanted to have. We force ourselves into shapes that do not fit and then we perform so well in those shapes that people assume we chose them.

    I am against it. Completely.

    When I raise my children I do not force. When my son asks me “do you want me to do this” I tell him I hate foie gras. And he knows exactly what I mean. Not because he is a foodie. Because we once had a long debate about the ethics of force-feeding a goose. About whether something can be considered a delicacy when the process of making it requires cruelty. About whether the result justifies what was done to produce it. He understood. He agreed. And in the back of his mind he still wants to try it because he is also a foodie. But he understood the principle. Do not force something into something else and call the result excellence. Excellence that requires force is not excellence. It is foie gras.

    Now. There is one weakness.

    Zelda. And Mario.

    Not because of the gameplay. Not because of the puzzles or the bosses or the storylines. Because of the open world. The ability to walk around and do nothing while doing something. To explore a forest that has no mission attached to it. To climb a mountain because it is there. To sit on a virtual cliff and look at a virtual sunset and feel something real while knowing none of it exists.

    Maybe I do not hate gaming. Maybe I hate being told what to do inside a game. Maybe what I love is the wandering. The roaming. The freedom to go nowhere in particular and find something anyway.

    Which brings me to this.

    While I have been down in the workshop, I built a game. It is not Zelda. It is not Mario. It is a silly concept. A lighthouse. Five lanes of sea. Ships sailing toward harbour. Rocks in the dark. And you, the keeper, aiming the beam to light their way home. It plays like a mix of Solitaire and Frogger and a night shift you did not sign up for.

    It is called Keep the Light.

    I built it because I could. I built it because I was avoiding something else I should have been building. And I built it because even someone who hates gaming can love the idea of keeping a light on for someone who needs it.

    Play it. Or don’t. I won’t force you.

    That would be foie gras.

    Write in the logbook
  • بالإشارة إلى الموضوع أعلاه

    July 2, 2026
    المرجع من المنارة التاريخ 2 يوليو 2026
    إلى قرّاء المدونة الكرام المحترمين

    تحية طيبة وبعد ،،،

    الموضوع: صفحةٌ جديدةٌ لنماذج المخاطبات الرسمية

    يسعدني أن أضع بين أيديكم صفحةً جديدةً في الموقع حيث تم تجميع نماذجَ جاهزةً من المخاطبات الرسمية كي تستعملونها كما هي من غير أي تغيير وتعديل جذري فيها سوى التفاصيل التي تخصّكم.

    تم اختيار أكثر الكتب دَوَراناً في العمل الحكومي، وتم ترتيبها في خمس فئات: الاستفسار، والطلب، والتوجيه، والإخطار، والإحالة. ولكلِّ فئةٍ كتابٌ يفتتح المراسلة ورَدُّه الصادر، فترون الوجهين معاً: كيف يُكتب الكتاب، وكيف يُردُّ عليه.

    والصفحة متحركة وغير جامدة: في أعلاها مفتاحٌ يبدّل العرض بين «الرسالة» و«النموذج». فمع «الرسالة» يظهر المثال كاملاً بتفاصيله؛ ومع «النموذج» تخفُت الفراغاتُ المتغيّرة، فتضغطون على أيِّ فراغٍ مُلوَّنٍ ليخبركم بما يُكتب فيه. اختاروا الفئة من الأعلى، واقرؤوا المثال، ثم بدّلوا إلى «النموذج» لتأخذوا الهيكل وتملؤوه بما يخصّكم.

    وما هذه الصفحة إلا خلاصةُ عادةٍ قديمةٍ عندي؛ فمنذ سنواتٍ وأنا أحتفظ على سطح مكتبي بنماذجَ شبيهةٍ بهذه الكتب، أعود إليها كلّما لزمني كتابٌ رسميٌّ، فلا أبدأ من فراغ، بل أنسخ النموذج وأبدّل التفاصيل وحدها. فأحببتُ أن أنقل هذه العادة إليكم في صورةٍ أوضحَ وأيسرَ، تكون في متناول أيديكم متى شئتم.

    أرجو أن تجدوا فيها ما يوفّر عليكم الوقتَ والعناء، وأن تكون لكم منارةً صغيرةً نضيء لكم بها مراسلاتكم.

    وتفضلوا بقبول فائق الاحترام والتقدير ،،،

    حارس المنارة
    Write in the logbook
  • The Bite

    Oil painting still life of toast, mayonnaise, chutney, deli turkey, cheese, and a butter knife on a wooden cutting board, with small lighthouse logos on the jars and bread bag.
    June 30, 2026

    In 2002, Warren Zevon sat across from David Letterman on his final television appearance. He had terminal lung cancer. Letterman asked him what his diagnosis had taught him about life. Zevon said: you are reminded to enjoy every sandwich.

    Not every sunset. Not every journey. Every sandwich.

    This post is about sandwiches. And I am not apologising for it.

    A sandwich is not a recipe. It is eyeballed. Built by feel. By what is in the fridge at that moment. By how hungry you are standing in front of an open door with cold air on your face and nothing planned. No two are the same. Even when you use the same ingredients.

    Some days it is precise. Every layer aligned. Every edge trimmed. Other days it is chaos. Overstuffed. Dripping. Falling apart in your hands. Both are correct. Both are art. Look at one from the side after you cut it in half. The colours. The layers. Green against white against pink against gold. A Michelin-starred chef plates one with tweezers and calls it a deconstructed croque monsieur. A man on a street cart in Istanbul wraps one in paper with his bare hands and calls it breakfast. The difference is the price. Never the love.

    Every culture has one. The banh mi. The bocadillo. The shawarma wrap. The club sandwich at the hotel you cannot afford but ordered room service at anyway. A sandwich does not belong to a cuisine. It belongs to hunger. And sometimes to something quieter than hunger.

    When a mother makes one for her child, she is not assembling ingredients. She is giving something. When a wife wraps one for her husband before he leaves. When a man leaves one in the fridge for the woman he loves to find. Because a sandwich is made entirely with your hands. You choose every layer. You press it together. You squeeze it. You cut it if it is for a child. And then you tuck it. Into paper. Into a box. Into a bag. That tucking is the most intimate part. You are wrapping something you made with your hands for someone you love to open when you are not there. That is not cooking. That is a letter written in bread.

    They travel with you. They wait for you at midnight. They sit with you on a park bench. They leave evidence on your shirt and crumbs on your desk. They fill us when we are empty and ask nothing in return.

    And that is exactly what Zevon meant. He was dying. He did not say enjoy every symphony. He said enjoy every sandwich. Because the point was never the extraordinary things. It was the ordinary ones. The ones you make in two minutes and forget by the afternoon. Those are the ones worth savouring. Because one day you will not be able to make one.

    Enjoy every sandwich.

    Now that I am in the workshop, I am making five on rotation. They change when the fridge changes. You will find them on a new page called The Bite. When the bread runs out, the five will change. Because that is what sandwiches do. They are never permanent. They are always right now.

    Write in the logbook
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    • My Progress
    • The Keeper
    • The Logbook
    • The Signal
    • The Beam
  • The Workshop
    • Merit Universities
    • The Names
    • The Desk
    • The Brew
    • The Bite
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