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Mohammed Gurab sits on a shabby seat that was at some point torn out of a junked car. On his knees is an old and stuttering Hitachi transistor radio. His shack has no windows or door, no furniture, no television. Only torn walls and a leaky tin roof. No electricity, no running water. The flies bother him and the heat is oppressive, but there is nothing he can do about it. From time to time, a child shoves a...