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  • كفّارةُ سنةٍ في يوم

    A white lighthouse glows at sunset on a green coastal cliff, with wildflowers, a winding footpath, calm ocean water, seabirds, and a small rowing boat below.
    June 23, 2026

    يوم عاشوراء يومٌ من أيام الله المباركة، نجّى الله فيه نبيَّه موسى عليه السلام وقومَه من فرعون وجنوده، وعظّمه النبي ﷺ فصامه شُكرًا لله وأمر المسلمين بصيامه. وبيّن الشيخ ابن باز رحمه الله فضلَ هذا الشهر فقال: — يقول النبي ﷺ: أفضلُ الصيام بعد رمضان شهرُ الله المحرّم… فالسنّة أن يُصام هذا اليوم يوم عاشوراء.

    وأصلُ مشروعية صيامه ما ثبت عن ابن عباس رضي الله عنهما — في صحيح مسلم — قال: قَدِم النبيُّ ﷺ المدينةَ فرأى اليهودَ تصوم يومَ عاشوراء، فقال: — ما هذا؟ قالوا: هذا يومٌ صالح، هذا يومٌ نجّى الله فيه بني إسرائيل من عدوّهم فصامه موسى. قال: — فأنا أحقُّ بموسى منكم. فصامه وأمر بصيامه.

    وقد كانت العربُ تعرفه قبل ذلك، فثبت عن عائشة رضي الله عنها — متفقٌ عليه — قالت: كانت قريشٌ تصوم عاشوراء في الجاهلية، وكان رسولُ الله ﷺ يصومه، فلمّا هاجر إلى المدينة صامه وأمر بصيامه، فلمّا فُرض رمضان كان هو الفريضةَ وتُرك عاشوراء، فمن شاء صامه ومن شاء تركه.

    وأمّا فضلُ صيامه فقد جاء عن أبي قتادة رضي الله عنه — في صحيح مسلم — أنّ رسولَ الله ﷺ سُئل عن صوم يوم عاشوراء فقال: — أحتسبُ على الله أن يُكفّر السنةَ التي قبله.

    ولأنّ اليهود كانوا يصومون العاشرَ وحده، شرع النبيُّ ﷺ مخالفتَهم بضمّ يومٍ إليه. فقد ثبت عن ابن عباس رضي الله عنهما — في صحيح مسلم — قال: قال رسولُ الله ﷺ حين صام يومَ عاشوراء وأمر بصيامه، فقالوا: يا رسولَ الله إنّه يومٌ تعظّمه اليهود والنصارى، فقال: — فإذا كان العامُ المقبلُ إن شاء الله صُمنا اليومَ التاسع. قال: فلم يأتِ العامُ المقبلُ حتى توفّي رسولُ الله ﷺ.

    ولذلك قرّر الشيخ ابن باز رحمه الله ما يُستحبّ صومه فقال: — أمّا صيامُ عاشوراء فالسنّة أن يصوم الإنسانُ اليومَ العاشر من المحرّم، وأن يصوم معه يومًا قبله أو يومًا بعده، والأفضل أن يصوم التاسع مع العاشر، لقول النبي ﷺ: «لئن عشتُ إلى قابلٍ لأصومنّ التاسع» يعني: مع العاشر… فالسنّة للمؤمن أن يصوم التاسع والعاشر جميعًا، أو يصوم العاشر ومعه الحادي عشر، أو يصوم الثلاثة جميعًا: التاسع والعاشر والحادي عشر، كلُّ هذا فيه مخالفة لليهود.

    وفصّل الشيخ ابن عثيمين رحمه الله مراتبَ صومه فقال: — قال بعض العلماء إنّ صيام عاشوراء على ثلاث مراتب: المرتبة الأولى: أن يصوم التاسعَ والعاشرَ والحادي عشر. والمرتبة الثانية: أن يصوم التاسعَ والعاشر. والمرتبة الثالثة: أن يصوم العاشرَ والحادي عشر، هذا هو الأفضل. وأمّا من اقتصر على العاشر فلا حرج عليه لعموم الأدلّة الدالّة على فضيلة ثواب صوم اليوم العاشر.

    ويُرجِّح الشيخ ابن عثيمين رحمه الله جمعَ التاسع والعاشر فيقول: — الأفضل للإنسان أن يصوم التاسعَ والعاشرَ من شهر المحرّم، هذا هو الأفضل، لأنّ النبي ﷺ سُئل عن صومه في عاشوراء فقال: «أحتسبُ على الله أن يُكفّر السنةَ التي قبله»، لكنّه قال: «لئن بقيتُ إلى قابلٍ لأصومنّ التاسع» يعني مع العاشر… فالأفضل أن يصوم قبله يومًا أو بعده يومًا، وإن صام التاسع فهو أفضل من صوم الحادي عشر.

    فاجعل لك من هذا اليوم نصيبًا من الصيام والذكر والاستغفار، شُكرًا لله الذي نجّى موسى وأهلك فرعون، ورجاءَ أن يُكفّر اللهُ به ما تقدّم من ذنبك.

    اللهم تقبّل منّا صيامنا وقيامنا، واغفر لنا ما تقدّم من ذنبنا، واجعلنا ممّن إذا أنعمتَ عليه شكر، وإذا ابتُلي صبر، وإذا أذنب استغفر.

    Write in the logbook
  • Gravity

    A lone astronaut in a white spacesuit drifts through dark space above a tiny lighthouse on a rocky island, whose warm beam shines upward toward the astronaut across the black sea.
    June 22, 2026

    I said I would not be posting for a while. That the keeper was stepping down to the workshop.

    And then something pulled me back up. The only word that fits is gravity.

    What is gravity?

    Newton gave us the equation. He explained apples, tides, orbits, and the moon with one formula. But he refused to say what gravity was. He described its behaviour with perfect precision and admitted he had no idea what he was describing. The most powerful description in the history of science. Of something the scientist himself could not explain.

    Scientists described what gravity does. None of them described what it is or what it feels like.

    So the singers tried. And they were better.

    Coldplay used gravity as romance. The force that pulls two people toward each other when they look at the same sky.

    Mayer used gravity as resistance. The thing working against him every time he tries to rise. The weight that wants him back on the ground no matter how hard he climbs.

    A Perfect Circle used gravity as addiction. Lost, broken, dizzy, surrendering. Hands reaching for another pill. The pull toward the thing that is destroying you while you beg to be released from it.

    Sara Bareilles used gravity as a person. Someone she keeps falling back to no matter how many times she tries to leave. The pull is not physical. It is emotional. And it is the one she cannot resist.

    Love. Resistance. Addiction. And the person you cannot leave. Four songs. Four gravities. All real.

    And anyone who has ever been unable to get out of bed on a morning when nothing is physically wrong knows a fifth. The alarm goes off. The body says no. Not tired. Not lazy. Just heavy. The kind of heavy that has no name and no song and no lyric. That is also gravity. The one nobody sings about because the person feeling it cannot get up to press play.

    Five gravities. And nobody wrote an equation for any of them.

    The singers understood what the scientists did not. That gravity is not one thing. It is the pull toward the person you love and the weight that keeps you from getting up. It is what brings you home and what pins you down. Warmth and heaviness. Love and depression. The same invisible force doing opposite things to different people on different days.

    Maybe gravity was never meant to be explained. Maybe it was only ever meant to be felt.

    And maybe all five explain why I am here. The romance of writing pulled me back. The resistance of the workshop tried to keep me down there. The addiction to this screen won again. The person I cannot leave is this blog. And some mornings, the heaviness almost kept me in bed instead.

    But gravity won. It always does.

    Hopefully this is my last post for a while. I am going back to the workshop. And this time I am building an anti-gravity suit first. I need more time down there.

    And to the gravity that keeps pulling me back to this screen,

    Set me free, leave me be.

    Write in the logbook
  • Harry Potter & The Hidden Flame pt. 2

    hree speckled ceramic cups on a wooden lighthouse balcony railing overlooking an autumn valley and winding river at sunset, including two coffee mugs and a child’s sippy cup with a pink lighthouse drawing.
    June 22, 2026

    It is over. An end to a beautiful beginning.

    Seven books. Eight films. Because some endings cannot fit inside one.

    Deathly Hallows was split into two. Not because the studio wanted more money. Because the story needed more room. Part 1 was the escape. Part 2 was the acceptance. Part 1 was running. Part 2 was turning around and facing what you had been running from.

    Hogwarts Week was supposed to be seven posts. It is now eight. For the same reason.

    Part 1, Harry Potter and the Hidden Flame, was the escape. I wrote it on day seven because I could not publish what was supposed to be there. This, Part 2, is the acceptance. The part where I stop running and explain why.

    Before Hogwarts Week, I had writer’s block. Seven posts on the blog and the words had stopped coming. So I invented a challenge. Seven Potter-themed posts in seven days. A way to force the block open. It worked.

    But while all of that was happening, there was another post. One I had been carrying for much longer. Written during my vacation. Rewritten after. About Harry and Hermione and Lily-Rose. About the greener grass we never stop painting. About a word in Arabic that I inherited from my mother and spent without noticing. القناعة. It was called Stay Here. Grow Old. And it had nothing to do with Hogwarts Week. It existed before the challenge. Before the block. Before any of the seven days.

    But I could not publish it.

    The first time I came to post it, I was not ready. So I did not. The next day I revisited it. Still not ready. So I told myself the problem was the featured image. It needed a better one. When I had the better one, I came to post it. But by then, things had changed. Circumstances had changed. So I held off and rewrote it to match. When the rewrite was done, the featured image no longer fit the new version.

    Then Hogwarts Week started. And on day six I realised Stay Here. Grow Old was Potter themed. It could close the week. Day seven. The final post. Perfect.

    And on day seven, as I was reading it one last time, I deleted it. Maybe by mistake. Maybe on purpose dressed as a mistake. The kind of accident that only happens when part of you wanted it to happen. Because I was not ready. I was never ready. And every excuse, every delay, every rewrite, every image that did not fit was me already knowing this. I just needed to delete it to understand.

    Something broke that day. The way something broke in Voldemort the night he went to Godric’s Hollow. He made six Horcruxes on purpose. Each one planned. Each one deliberate. But the seventh was an accident. Harry. A fragment of soul that split off and attached itself to a boy without anyone planning it. Not because Voldemort chose it. Because something had already broken so badly that a piece came loose on its own.

    So instead, a new post split off on its own. A confession about never watching the films properly. About consuming Harry Potter the way a second hand smoker consumes nicotine. Standing close. Breathing. Without ever lighting one myself. I called it Harry Potter and the Hidden Flame. The accidental Horcrux. Part 1. The escape. And that is how Hogwarts Week ended. Not with the post I had been carrying. With the fragment that broke off from it.

    But Deathly Hallows did not end with Part 1. And neither does this.

    Part 2 is where Harry walks into the forest. Not to fight. To accept. He had been running the entire series. Seven books of running. And in Part 2 he stops. He walks toward the thing he had been avoiding. Not because he is brave. Because he finally understands that the running was the problem, not the destination.

    Maybe it is better this way.

    Dumbledore always knew more than he said. He answered questions with riddles. He left rooms before the conversation was finished. He kept truths in drawers he never opened in front of anyone. And when Harry asked him direct questions, he often smiled and said nothing. Not because he did not have the answer. Because some answers do more damage when spoken than when kept.

    Some things are better left unsaid. Not because you are not ready. Because they were never meant to be said. Every delay was the answer. Every excuse was the answer. Every rewrite was the answer. I just was not listening.

    Now I am.

    Hogwarts Week is over. Six Horcruxes on purpose. A seventh by accident. Seven books. Eight films. Seven planned posts. An eighth that broke off on its own. Some things break. Some fragments survive. Some endings need two parts.

    But the lighthouse is still on. The keeper is still here. And at the top of this post, the only thing that survived. A featured image for a post that no longer exists. A frame with no painting. A shell with no pearl.

    Hidden. But the flame is still warm. Always.

    One more thing. I will not be posting for a while. Three weeks. Maybe more. The keeper is not leaving the lighthouse. He is just stepping down to the workshop. Tinkering. Finishing things that were started and never completed. Starting things that have been waiting. The light stays on. The beam keeps turning. But the keeper will be downstairs. Building. And an intern will be with him assisting.

    And maybe, just maybe, while I am down there, I will start writing my own tale. Three characters. A witch. A cockroach man, a cat, and goons. A story that has been sitting in my head the way Stay Here. Grow Old was sitting on my screen. Waiting. Not ready. But not leaving either.

    Except this time, I will not delete it.

    Write in the logbook
  • Harry Potter & The Hidden Flame

    A lighthouse at night transformed into a vintage movie theatre, with a glowing marquee reading “Lighthouse Cinema,” “Harry Potter and the Hidden Flame,” and “Permanently Closed.”
    June 21, 2026

    I must confess something I am ashamed to say.

    I have never watched Harry Potter.

    You heard it. Never. Not once. Not properly. Not the way a film deserves to be watched.

    I read three of the books. To be honest I was rea-ching them. I listened to all seven through Stephen Fry’s voice, which is not listening, it is being sung to. And I consumed the films the way a second hand smoker consumes nicotine. Standing close to someone else. Breathing. Without ever lighting one myself. And ending up with a flame anyway. Not the kind you light. The kind that lights itself inside you without permission.

    I sat on a plane next to someone on a long trip who was binging the films on a small screen while I pretended to read. I put it on for my eldest son and held the remote so I could fast-forward through scenes that were not age-appropriate, while studying for an exam on the other side of the room. I watched it in a hospital room, sitting beside my father, on a crappy old LCD screen mounted on the wall. It was on mute. MBC was playing it with Arabic subtitles and I read all of it in silence between checking his IV and pretending I was fine. I watched it on my mother’s streaming account where it is on permanent loop, nodding along to her conversation, smiling, shaking my head at the right moments. She was showing me her world. Harry was showing me the wizarding world. Both playing at the same time. I was in both. I heard neither. I felt both.

    But I never watched it. Not really.

    Because watching a film, to me, is sacred.

    A film is not background noise. A film is a commitment. It is a room with the right temperature. A screen with the right size. A seat with the right position. No eating. No popcorn. No crunching. No rustling. No phone screens glowing in the dark like fallen stars that refuse to die. No one talking. No one whispering. No one explaining the plot to the person beside them who should not have come if they needed the plot explained. No cutting of scenes. No pausing for tea. No “can you rewind that bit.” Perfect sound. Perfect image. Perfect silence. And if you are watching with someone, the perfect someone. Someone who understands that the lights going off is not an invitation to open a bag of crisps. It is a contract.

    That is how a film should be watched. And I have never given Harry Potter that respect.

    And I never will.

    But the wizarding world is not done with me. New Audible editions landed this year with over two hundred voices and a full orchestra. And on Christmas Day, HBO starts the whole thing again from the beginning. Seven seasons. One book per season.

    So I will be a second hand smoker again. This time with my little one. Holding the remote. Fast-forwarding the parts he is not ready for. Pretending to work on something while the wizarding world plays in the background. Glancing up at the wrong moment. Catching a scene I was not prepared for. Feeling something I did not plan to feel.

    Because here is the thing about second hand smoke that nobody talks about. It still gets inside you. You never chose it. You never lit it. You never held it between your fingers. But the smoke drifted toward you anyway. And you breathed. And it entered. And it stayed. Hidden inside you.

    That is how I fell in love with Harry Potter. Not by watching. By standing near it long enough for it to become part of me. Accidentally. Repeatedly. Irreversibly.

    I never watched Harry Potter. But Harry Potter watched me. Through every hospital room, every plane seat, every living room, every glowing remote. It was always playing somewhere near me. And I was always pretending not to watch.

    I was always watching. Just never the way a film deserves.

    Because I watched my last film.

    Write in the logbook
  • Canon

    An antique open book with an intact Chapter 7 page on the left and a heavily torn Chapter 8 page on the right, revealing the book’s old binding beneath a lighthouse engraving.
    June 20, 2026

    The word canon comes from the Greek kanon, meaning rule or standard. It started in religion. The biblical canon is the collection of books accepted as scripture. Everything else is apocrypha. Not necessarily false. Just not official. Not part of the accepted truth.

    In fiction, canon means the same thing. It is the body of work that is accepted as the real story. The events that happened. The rules that apply. The truth of the world the author built. Everything outside of canon is fan fiction. It might be entertaining. It might even be good. But it is not the story.

    In Harry Potter, canon is simple. Seven books. Written by one person. Beginning to end. Philosopher’s Stone to Deathly Hallows. That is the story. That is the world. Those are the rules.

    Then came the Cursed Child.

    A play. Not a novel. Not written by Rowling alone but by Jack Thorne, based on a story by Rowling, Thorne, and John Tiffany. Published as a script. Sold as “the eighth story.” JK Rowling stamped it as canon. The publisher called it the official continuation. The West End marketed it as the next chapter.

    It is not.

    And I say this not because I dislike the play. I say this because the play broke the rules of the world it claims to belong to.

    Rowling created the Time-Turner in Prisoner of Azkaban with one rule: you cannot change the past. If you go back, you were always there. Then she destroyed every single Time-Turner in Order of the Phoenix because she knew the device would break her own story. She killed it on purpose.

    The Cursed Child brought it back. Changed how it works. Suddenly you can change the past. Suddenly there are alternate timelines. A device the original author destroyed because it was too dangerous was resurrected by someone else and used to do exactly what she was afraid of.

    That is not a continuation. That is a contradiction.

    And it does not stop there.

    Harry Potter, the boy who was raised by the Dursleys for eleven years, who slept under the stairs, who knows what it feels like to be unwanted, tells his son Albus that he sometimes wishes Albus was not his son. Harry Potter. The boy whose entire story is about the damage of being unloved. Says that to his own child. Not in a moment of anger that is immediately regretted. In a scene that is meant to be character development.

    And then there is Delphi. Voldemort’s daughter. With Bellatrix Lestrange. Voldemort. The character whose entire identity is defined by his inability to love. Who sees other people as tools. Who cannot form attachments. Had a child. With someone. The plot requires us to believe that the most loveless character in the history of fiction loved enough to create a life.

    The fans saw it immediately. The reviews were consistent. It reads like fan fiction. Not the good kind. The kind that does not understand the characters it is writing.

    And yet JK Rowling says it is canon.

    Here is where I disagree. Not just with the Cursed Child. With the principle.

    Canon is not decided by a stamp. It is not decided by a publisher’s marketing team. It is not even decided by the original author when the original author did not write it alone. Canon is earned by consistency. By respecting the rules. By understanding the characters well enough to know what they would and would not do. By honouring what came before.

    The Cursed Child does none of that. And the upcoming HBO series, regardless of how good it may be, will face the same question. New actors. New directors. New interpretations. New decisions. And every single one of them will either honour the original seven books or contradict them. I already know which side I will be on.

    My canon is seven books. Written by one woman. In one story. Beginning to end.

    Because some stories are better left alone.

    Not every book needs a sequel. Not every ending needs an extension. Not every world needs to be revisited by someone other than the person who built it. Some stories are complete. They said what they needed to say. They closed when they needed to close. And opening them again, no matter how good the intention, risks turning something sacred into something ordinary.

    The seven Harry Potter books are not my childhood. I discovered them with my son. I read them as a father, not as a boy. And maybe that is why I protect them the way I do. Because they are not just a story I grew up with. They are a story I grew into. I protect them the way you protect a pearl inside a shell. Closed. Untouched. Not because the pearl is fragile. Because the pearl is perfect. And every hand that opens the shell, no matter how careful, risks scratching what was already complete.

    I do not need an eighth story. I do not need a new cast. I do not need a reimagining. I need the seven books to stay exactly as they are. Protected. Whole. Canon.

    Some chapters are better left untouched. And any addition should be ripped and thrown out.

    Write in the logbook
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