AFTER more than a decade, a huge new museum which is more like the ultimate attraction for Star Wars and Indiana Jones fans is set to open.
The Lucas Museum of Narrative Art, created by filmmaker George Lucas, is set to open on September 22 in Los Angeles, America.
George Lucas has created a new museum in Los AngelesCredit: GettyThe museum – which looks more like a spaceship – will open on September 22Credit: Getty
Inside the new 28,000sqm museum, visitors will be able to explore items that Lucas has collected over the past five decades, including art, costumes, movie props and memorabilia.
In fact, the museum will be home to more than 1,300 objects in 30 galleries across five floors.
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Of course, there will be plenty for Star Wars fans in the museum including sculptures of Yoda and Grogu as well as vehicles from the films.
Visitors can head to two cinematic theatres as well.
Away from Lucas’ own creations, there will be art by Frida Kahlo as well as rare comics by Frank Miller and Cowboy Bebop anime.
There are some early sketches by Van Gogh and Picasso too
And Banksy has contributed artwork to the museum as well.
Visitors will also be able to catch an insight into Lucas’ early life too, with his student films on show.
Inside visitors will be able to see Star Wars propsCredit: ReutersAs well as work by famous artists like BanksyCredit: GettyThe museum has taken more than 16 years to buildCredit: AFP
The museum itself also looks like a spaceship, with curved white walls.
Outside the museum, there are large green open spaces, with more than 200 trees and a waterfall-like fountain.
If you get hungry, there’s the Skywalker Grill as well, offering all-day dining including seafood, grilled dishes, pasta and desserts.
The museum will be open from 10am to 5pm on Mondays, Wednesdays and Thursdays, 10am to 9pm on Fridays, 9am to 9pm on Saturdays, 9am to 5pm on Sundays and is closed on Tuesdays.
Adult tickets cost $25 (£18.50) per person and children’s tickets (up to 17-years-old) are free.
Reporting from Brisbane, Calif. — Just beyond San Francisco’s city limits lies 640 acres of land that could help solve some of California’s biggest problems.
State and regional leaders have endorsed the project. But its fate rests with Brisbane, a city of 4,700 people that annexed the property 55 years ago. And no one, not even the developer, thinks Brisbane’s residents will approve all 4,400 homes.
“Unfortunately, we believe that their ceiling is going to be below that,” said Jonathan Scharfman, the general manager for the developer, Universal Paragon Corp.
The project, Brisbane Baylands, reveals how few incentives local governments have to accept large developments — even as the state is pushing to lower housing costs and funnel growth toward existing cities and nearby mass transit to combat climate change. Brisbane residents are wary of a project that could triple the city’s population. Under California’s tax system, Brisbane also earns more money if it rejects the current plan in favor of potential alternatives with more hotel rooms and space for businesses — but no homes.
The Bay Area’s dire need for housing makes the debate over the Baylands project “particularly painful,” said Ben Metcalf, director of the state Department of Housing and Community Development.
“It is frustrating that as a state and as a constellation of local jurisdictions we are constantly making decisions that aren’t the best for alleviating poverty, housing affordability, furthering our state’s economy or meeting our climate change goals,” Metcalf said.
For their part, some Brisbane residents feel besieged by pressure from housing activists, business groups, state lawmakers, San Francisco politicians, newspaper editorials and others beyond the city’s boundaries. An old rail yard and garbage dump contaminated the land, and opponents contend they want to protect anyone who might decide to live there even after regulators approve a cleanup. More than that, Brisbane residents say, outsiders don’t understand how much the Baylands project would upend their community.
“We’re a small town,” City Councilman W. Clarke Conway said at a meeting on the project last fall, “and we’re a small town by choice.”
Bill Dettmer, left, speaks with a group of men who regularly meet and discuss local politics and civic issues at Madhouse Coffee in Brisbane, Calif. Dettmer thinks a developer should be allowed to build housing on an old rail yard in the city.
(Josh Edelson / For The Times)
Brisbane’s main drag is Visitacion Avenue. It slopes upward for five blocks, starting at a city park and continuing through mom-and-pop shops, cafes and restaurants. The rest of Brisbane comprises office parks, a strip mall and mostly single-family homes built throughout the town’s hills.
“This is the land that time forgot,” said Greg Lee, 55, an electrical engineer who has lived in the city for more than two decades.
San Bruno Mountain, which rises a quarter-mile into the sky, is Brisbane’s landmark, and residents have fought to preserve it. In the 1960s, they blocked a developer from leveling the mountaintop and building enough new homes for 70,000 people. In 1980, after years of battling another massive project on the mountain, residents received a last-minute reprieve from the federal government, which declared San Bruno a critical habitat for the endangered callippe silverspot butterfly.
Anti-development fervor has continued. About a decade ago, a city councilman suggested sidestepping a state housing law that requires cities to plan for growth by zoning for homes where nothing would ever get built — the bottom of Brisbane’s lagoon.
Residents’ efforts to protect Brisbane’s small-town feel make large changes hard to accept, said Paul Bouscal, 58, a San Francisco water department employee who has lived in the area since 1982.
The Baylands, he said, plays on fears of Brisbane getting big.
“For our town to grow like that, it would be too much, too fast,” Bouscal said.
It might be easier for residents and elected officials to welcome growth if the city received more tax dollars for doing so. But the opposite is true.
Because of tax limits established in 1978 by Proposition 13, local governments generally receive more revenue from sales and hotel room taxes than property taxes. Proposition 13 limited property tax rates to 1% of a home’s taxable value and restricted how quickly that taxable value could increase after a purchase.
Last year, Brisbane hired a consultant who found that the city would net $1 million a year in tax revenue by approving the Baylands. But if the city instead approved a project with lots more commercial space, a larger hotel and no housing, Brisbane would gain $9 million annually — an amount equivalent to more than half the city’s current day-to-day operating budget.
Developers are always going to face opposition because of residents’ concerns about their communities changing, said Mark Stivers, a longtime state housing policy staffer. But the tax system is another big reason the state has a housing shortage, he said.
“I’d like to think if just the fiscal incentives were reversed, if a city could make as much money off housing as they could retail, we’d be having a very different conversation in California,” Stivers said.
Jonathan Scharfman, general manager of Universal Paragon Corp., describes the area where his company hopes to build a 4,400-unit housing development.
(Josh Edelson / For The Times)
Debate over the Baylands has divided the town and dominated Brisbane politics for at least a decade. More than half of Brisbane residents said in a 2015 city-sponsored poll that they were OK with some housing on the Baylands site. But just 3% backed a project of more than 4,000 homes such as the developer is proposing.
Bill Dettmer, 63, spent a recent morning at Madhouse Coffee, one of the city’s main gathering spots, trying to convince skeptical neighbors that the city should support the housing. Dettmer moved to Brisbane 50 years ago and does maintenance work in the city.
“I see a lot of stuff,” Dettmer said. “I see beds in garages. You have to increase the [housing] supply. If you really want to help out people, let them live in dignity. It just seems like a no-brainer.”
Many local opponents cite the land’s history — not hostility to growth — for why they’re against the project. San Francisco used to dump its garbage on the site, and a railroad company repaired its trains there. Longtime residents remember watching tires burn.
Scharfman, the developer’s general manager, said Universal Paragon Corp. will clean up the land and won’t begin building until all environmental agencies responsible say it’s safe. He likened the process to how an old rail yard at San Francisco’s Mission Bay was cleaned up and now has thousands of homes.
Still, some Brisbane residents say they don’t trust regulators will get it right, because what’s known about the toxicity of chemicals can change over time. Even though they won’t live in the Baylands, opponents believe they have a responsibility to shield those who might.
“Why do we have a seat belt law? Why do we have a helmet law? They’re anti-stupidity laws to protect the general population,” said Michele Salmon, 63, who was born and raised in Brisbane.
Salmon said she understood housing problems were real and lamented the lack of space to accommodate a growing population.
“I do feel sorry that the younger generation is not going to get to live the life that we did,” she said. “But it’s a different time.”
“This is a plan, an expectation of how we could grow,” said Leah Zippert, an Assn. of Bay Area Governments spokeswoman. “It is not a mandate to build. It’s not a mandate to do anything.”
The Brisbane City Council plans to make a key decision on the Baylands this summer, including whether it supports any housing on the site. But the council expects to put that proposal on the ballot next year. Brisbane’s residents will be the ones with the last word.
The White House has unveiled five arcade-style games to promote Trump’s ‘MAGA’ agenda, sparking backlash over the misuse of taxpayer money and the dehumanising portrayal of migrants and deportees.
This train track claimed the lives of hundreds of people during its 24 years of construction.
This tunnel claimed the lives of hundreds(Image: Getty)
Burrowing beneath a towering mountain range in Massachusetts is a railway tunnel with a long and blood soaked history. The Hoosac Tunnel travels between North Adams in the west to the town of Florida, Massachusetts in the east. It was constructed in 1851 and finally finished in 1975.
However, during its 24 years of construction, this railway tunnel claimed the lives of around 200 men, giving it the terrifying nickname of ‘the Bloody Pit’. Men were killed by explosions, falling rocks and accidents with ladders and scaffolding, leading to a strike in 1865 where workers burned buildings in protest of the horrific working conditions.
Over the year following the strike, a further 14 men were killed or injured at work in the tunnel.
On October 17, 1867, the tunnel saw the deadliest accident of its 24 years in construction.
Workers were digging a 1,028 foot long vertical exhaust shaft when a candle ignited the fumes that had leaked from a lamp.
An explosion ripped through the shaft, setting the hoist alight. It collapsed into the shaft, trapping 13 men working at the base of the shaft inside the darkness.
The pumps were destroyed, and the shaft began to fill with water.
In a desperate attempt to save the men trapped below, a worker was lowered into the shaft the following day but was overcome by fumes and reported no survivors once he reached the surface again.
Horrifyingly, when workers reached the bottom of the shaft months later they found that at least some of the men had survived long enough to build a raft to escape the rising flood waters before they suffocated.
The men died due to a lack of oxygen as fires burned through the air.
Despite the tragedies that befall construction, the tunnel was finally completed and used by both passenger and freight trains.
Today, the tunnel still stands but is only used for freight trains.
For years, the day in Kulak ended when the generator powered down. Like thousands of villages across Iraq, this small farming community in the semi-autonomous Kurdistan region lived to the faltering rhythm of an erratic power supply: a few hours of electricity, then the water pumps stopped, refrigerators warmed and children put down their books.
Today, Kulak runs on the sun. Solar panels harness its energy, batteries store the excess and residents have power 24/7. The change is visible beyond the homes: water pumps keep running, and cold storage gives farmers more control over when they sell their harvest.
This is the part of the energy transition the global climate conversation too often overlooks. Solar hardware is cheap; the world has learned how to install it. What matters is what comes after the panels go up: building the local capacity to keep the systems running and using reliable power to support farms, livelihoods and communities.
The energy transition will not be won in conference halls. It will be won, or lost, in places like Kulak.
Iraq’s rural energy crisis
Iraq’s energy story is usually told as a paradox. It is one of the world’s great oil producers, yet rural communities still endure daily power cuts. Summers now regularly push past 50 degrees, and the United Nations ranks Iraq among the nations most vulnerable to climate change. Drought has emptied farmland. Heat has made whole regions harder to live in. Rural families face a quiet, grinding choice between staying on land that can no longer sustain them or joining the drift towards overcrowded cities.
These pressures do not respect provincial boundaries. They are shared across Iraq, from the marshes of the south to the mountains of the north. They demand responses that work for the whole country.
For remote communities, decentralised power should not simply be treated as a stopgap while they wait for the grid. It can be part of the long-term answer.
Beyond electrification
Kulak is one of five villages in the Kurdistan region electrified through a solar initiative that pairs new infrastructure with local training and agricultural development. Residents are trained to operate and maintain their own systems, while research is under way into how reliable power can support local production.
Energy is treated not as a gift to be received but as an asset to be managed. That means looking beyond electricity itself to what it can enable: cold storage that allows farmers to hold their harvest for better prices, irrigation that no longer depends on diesel and processing that adds value before crops ever leave the village.
That distinction matters, because the graveyard of development is full of well-intentioned infrastructure. Anyone who has worked in this field has seen the solar array gathering dust because no one was trained to fix an inverter, or the water project abandoned when the foreign NGO moved on.
Sustainability is not a slogan; it is a design choice. Building local capability into a project from day one is the difference between a photo opportunity and a future.
Building the transition from the ground up
There is a broader argument here for the climate movement.
The energy transition is overwhelmingly narrated from the top down: through COP plenaries, G7 communiques and the financing pledges of wealthy nations, many of them unmet. Yet for hundreds of millions of people in the Global South, the transition will arrive, if it arrives at all, through decentralised solutions built close to the ground.
Rural Iraq will not wait decades for grid expansion to reach every valley. It does not have to. Distributed solar suits these communities better than centralised generation ever did, while local institutions can move at a speed that multilateral programmes rarely match.
There is also a quieter point about who gets to act on climate.
The prevailing image of climate action in the Middle East is the megaproject: vast desert solar farms, futuristic cities and sovereign wealth funds. Those have their place. But electrifying farming villages one by one represents a different kind of ambition, one rooted in the belief that Iraqis themselves, in all their diversity, can build the country’s energy future rather than wait for it to be delivered.
Local involvement matters particularly in places where reliable electricity is tied not only to household comfort but to whether farms can irrigate crops, preserve produce and remain economically viable.
Iraq has thousands of rural communities, and scaling this model will require partners, patient financing and supportive policy at every level of government. The agricultural research is promising but young.
On my last visit to Kulak, I was struck less by the panels than by what surrounded them: the cold store, the working pumps, the sense of a community planning for next season rather than next month.
The lights staying on is the least of it. What has really been switched on is the future tense.
If Iraq’s energy transformation is built like this across the whole country, village by village and from the ground up, it will be more durable than anything imposed from above. That means investing not only in the systems themselves, but in the people who will maintain them and the farms, businesses and livelihoods that reliable power can support.
The world’s climate diplomats could do worse than pay attention.
The views expressed in this article are the author’s own and do not necessarily reflect Al Jazeera’s editorial stance.
On July 23, Volodymyr Zelensky told Ukrainians that Raytheon wanted to help produce Patriot interceptors on Ukrainian-linked lines. Five days later, Lockheed Martin signed a second license, this one for the PAC-3 MSE — the hit-to-kill missile that has spent three years picking Russian ballistic warheads out of the sky over Kyiv. For a moment it looked like a watershed: the United States handing a country still absorbing nightly missile and drone barrages the blueprint to build its own air defense. Then, within days, the story came apart in public. US Ambassador Matthew Whitaker said Washington would not allow Ukraine to build PAC-3s at all. Donald Trump called the technology transfer “a hard thing to give away.” NATO’s own envoy said no agreement would close before winter. Something had clearly been decided. Nobody could agree on what.
The Patriot system is the closest thing the West has to a proven shield against ballistic missiles, and it is scarce almost everywhere it is needed. Roughly twenty countries now compete for a production line that turns out about 650 PAC-3 MSE interceptors a year worldwide — Lockheed Martin’s entire global output, shared among Ukraine, Israel, Taiwan, Gulf states and the US Army’s own depleted stocks. Russia, meanwhile, has been firing 55 to 60 Iskander ballistic missiles a month at Ukraine alone, before counting the nightly Shahed drone waves that push crews to expend scarce interceptors on cheaper threats out of necessity. The Pentagon has spent much of the past two years quietly rationing Patriot allocations across allies, reportedly diverting orders meant for Taiwan and Ukraine to replenish American stockpiles. Against that backdrop, “Ukraine will build its own Patriots” is not primarily a sovereignty story. It is a story about whether the system that makes Patriots for everyone else can keep up at all.
What the deal actually requires
Start with what was actually signed, because the headlines overstate it. Raytheon’s license covers the PAC-2 GEM-T, an older blast-fragmentation interceptor effective against aircraft and cruise missiles. Lockheed Martin’s covers the PAC-3 MSE, the missile that actually stops Iskanders and Kinzhals. Neither license includes the radar, the fire-control system or the launchers; those still come from existing Patriot batteries. And neither company has committed to building these missiles on Ukrainian soil in the near term. Reporting from Reuters and Ukrainian officials both point to Germany, which already runs its own PAC-2 line, as the likely first production site, with capacity shifting to Ukraine only “after the war ends.” What was announced in July, in other words, is not a factory. It is paperwork that keeps a door open.
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Even so, the paperwork matters, because of what it concedes. Every PAC-3 MSE round carries a 24-month production lead time for the missile itself and 30 months for its solid rocket motor. Boeing manufactures every active radar seeker that guides it from a single facility in Alabama, capped at 650 to 700 units a year — a bottleneck no amount of Ukrainian factory floor changes. Aerojet Rocketdyne is the sole source for the motor. These are not obstacles a co-production agreement dissolves; they are structural limits on how fast the United States can arm anyone, Ukraine included. A government does not open its most tightly export-controlled missile program to a country still under nightly bombardment unless it has concluded that the existing pipeline, working alone, cannot meet demand. That is the admission buried in the announcement: not that Ukraine’s industrial base is ready, but that Lockheed’s and Raytheon’s are strained, and Washington needs help from a country it would ordinarily be supplying, not licensing.
The contradictions among American officials sharpen the point rather than undermine it. Whitaker’s flat denial that Ukraine would ever build PAC-3s, arriving days after Zelensky announced the license, is not really about Ukraine’s trustworthiness. A Republican congressional official close to the process gave the more candid version: the manufacturers are less worried about Ukraine leaking American technology to Moscow than about Ukraine improving on it and producing it “at scale, faster and for much less money.” That fear has a track record behind it. Fire Point’s Flamingo cruise missile, built in Ukraine during the war, reportedly costs around $600,000 — roughly a sixth of a Tomahawk and a fraction of a $2 million PAC-3 ACE round — while Ukraine’s home-grown Freyja interceptor is priced at roughly a fifth of the Patriot missile it is meant to substitute for. A country that has spent three years learning to manufacture air defense under fire, at a fraction of Western unit costs, is not the industrial partner a legacy prime wants loose inside its own supply chain. The reluctance is commercial before it is strategic.
The strongest objection to this reading is that Kyiv already produces a large share of its own weapons, so extending that into Patriots is a natural next step rather than a crisis signal. Zelensky puts the domestically produced share of Ukraine’s frontline weapons at close to 60 percent, up from roughly 40 percent a year earlier — drones, the Bohdana howitzer, the Neptune and Flamingo missiles. That is true, and it matters. But those are systems Ukraine designed and built from scratch under wartime pressure, with no legacy export-control regime standing in the way. Patriot is different: it is Washington’s most sensitive interceptor program, run by companies that have spent decades keeping production onshore for precisely the security reasons Whitaker cited. Handing over any piece of it, even nominally, to a country under active bombardment breaks with everything the export-control system was built to prevent. That the United States is doing it anyway — however slowly, however contested internally — says less about confidence in Ukraine than about how thin the interceptor pipeline has become.
Three ways this goes
What happens next depends on which of the deal’s obstacles proves harder to move: engineering or politics.
Base case (our estimate: roughly 55 percent probability). The license survives, but production stays offshore. Germany’s existing PAC-2 line absorbs the first Ukrainian-linked output sometime in 2027; Lockheed and Raytheon leave the seeker and motor bottlenecks unresolved; and Zelensky’s own target of “production capability by the end of 2026” slips the way most Patriot-related deadlines have slipped since 2022. The deal functions mainly as a signal — to Moscow, to Congress, to the manufacturers themselves — that the West is willing to widen its supplier base, without actually widening it before the war’s most dangerous phase has passed.
Downside case. Export-control friction, not battlefield risk, kills momentum outright. Boeing declines to license seeker technology, Congress balks at formally notifying an ITAR transfer into an active conflict zone, and the agreement quietly becomes what several earlier Patriot-adjacent announcements already have: a signed memorandum with no factory behind it. Unable to close its ballistic-missile gap through licensed production, Ukraine leans harder into Flamingo and Freyja — cheap and available, but not full substitutes for hit-to-kill interception. Iskander and Kinzhal strikes on Ukrainian cities continue at close to current tempo through 2027.
Upside case. Ukraine’s wartime manufacturing culture forces the restructuring the primes have been resisting. Facing a credible cheaper competitor, Lockheed and Raytheon accelerate second-sourcing of seekers and motors — the actual chokepoints — to defend market share rather than out of goodwill toward Kyiv. Patriot output rises for every operator, not only Ukraine, and Kyiv becomes the proving ground for a lower-cost interceptor variant that outlives the war. This is the scenario in which an admission of scarcity turns into a fix for it — plausible, but it requires the manufacturers to treat competition, not politics, as the threat that finally moves them.
The takeaway
So: is licensing Patriot production to a country under bombardment an admission? Yes — but not the one the announcements were built to convey. It does not say Ukraine’s industrial base has arrived. It says the American one has not kept pace with a war of attrition it did not plan for, and that Washington is now willing to test its most sensitive export controls against the same scarcity that has Israel, Taiwan and its own Army competing for the same missiles.
Watch for: whether groundbreaking on a German or Polish production line actually begins before the end of 2026 — Zelensky’s own deadline for “technical capability.” If it hasn’t started by then, treat every subsequent announcement as the political theatre this one increasingly resembles: a scarcity confession dressed up as an industrial handshake.
