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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,…