So there I was, 8 years old, dragged to the shopping center by my dad because, apparently, shopping for socks is a family event. We’re walking through this temple of consumerism when—BAM!—I spot a computer showroom. Not just any computers. MSX/Sakhr machines.
These things looked like the future, like I had just unlocked a portal to infinite knowledge.
Now, let me tell you, these weren’t just computers. These were mythical beasts of technology designed to bring the wonders of BASIC programming, educational software, and a whole lot of confusion into people’s homes.
MSX/Sakhr was this Middle Eastern adaptation of the MSX standard, which basically meant it came with Arabic language support and, if you were lucky, some software that actually worked.
It was also provided with a very beginner book to learn BASIC, the famous yellow book, I'm sure it was the early version of the "for the dummies" series—except every time you tried to do something, the computer yelled "YOU IDIOT" at you.
Being a naïve, wide-eyed kid, I found an empty spot with a displayed computer, sat down, and told to myself, let me ask this wonderful machine a question—something profound, something that would shake the very foundation of my young mind: What’s the square root of 2?
Yeah! Because, at 8 years old, that was peak theoretical physics.
I spent hours—okay, probably minutes, but time is relative when you’re eight—staring at the keyboard like it was a puzzle, struggling to find the right keys with my tiny fingers fumbling over unfamiliar symbols.
Finally, I found the key labelled "Enter."
Perfect! That’s what I want! I want to Enter! I pressed it.
And then… SYNTAX ERROR.
Alright, cool, maybe I messed up. Try again.
SYNTAX ERROR.
Ah. The computer and I were in a toxic relationship—full of high expectations, poor communication, and relentless disappointment. And honestly, that was just a preview of every future interaction I’d have with technology. Have you ever felt like you were in a battle of wits with a machine and losing?
Frankly, I'm still losing mine to this day.
So, naturally, I turned to the all-knowing, tech-savvy, wise sage of the electronics showroom—surely a beacon of knowledge in my moment of need—and asked, “Hey, what do I do now?”
And this man—this highly trained professional in a tech showroom, this so-called "expert" who probably couldn't tell a byte from a bite—looked me dead in the eyes and said…
"I don’t know."
😱
Sir. Sir! This is literally your job!
I mean, I get it. Life is full of disappointments. You think you've found someone who knows what they're doing, and then they hit you with the technological equivalent of a shrug emoji 🤷♂️.
It's like going to a doctor who says, "Yeah, I dunno, maybe try some aspirin?" or a mechanic who looks at your car and goes, "Beats me, maybe it's possessed?"
And in that exact moment, with the clarity of a thousand suns, I knew.
Understanding computers wasn’t enough—I had to understand the people pretending to understand computers.
I was going to become a computer geek.
Because clearly, nobody knows what the hell is going on with these machines, and I’ll be paid for that.
But my dad, bless his heart, saw something in my eyes that day. He saw the spark of curiosity, the determination to figure out this confusing, infuriating machine. And so, he did what any supportive parent would do—he bought me that computer.
That moment changed everything, setting me on a path I'm still walking today.
And thus began my journey—not just from developer to software architect, but from hopeful problem solver to professional translator of human madness into machine logic.
A lifetime of chasing meaning, debugging existential crises, and questioning my own sanity one "It depends!" at a time.
My fate? To design systems that will inevitably be misused, to future-proof architectures against problems nobody has thought of yet, to explain the same concept fourteen different ways until someone nods—and then still asks, ‘Can’t we just make it a no-code platform?’
Forty years later, I still have it. It sits in my home office, a relic of an old era, a reminder of the journey I started. Every time I look at it, I remember that day in the mall, the frustration and the fascination.
Somewhere, deep in the binary abyss, the computer is still laughing—probably throwing an error I predicted some years ago, but nobody listened.
And honestly? Same.
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