Every Friday afternoon as a little child, I was never able to escape the voice of Sheikh Mohamed Metwally Al-Shaarawi preaching through our TV. His voice floated around the house like a wind whipping the curtains. While everyone in the room was haloed by their calm duties: my sister and I combing out the delicate hairs of our dolls, my father coming home from Friday prayer with the newspapers, and my mother decorating the table for our meal, Al-Shaarawi’s voice, tranquilly, continued to run the stream of life. Among the serene noises and the trees moist with humidity, among the tiny moments of grace that came to us unnoticed, no one had noticed that at some point in time these Friday afternoons would cease to exist, and would seem as strange to us as though it had been a separate life. Phone screens replaced newspapers, work and studying duties replaced doll play, and there was little to no time to watch or listen to Al-Shaarawi. As soon as lunch was over, the living room became vacant, the sun was setting, and each family member dispersed to their own entertainment and…
