A tribute to Zalfa Ali Ahmad By Samira Atallah In the final hour of Tuesday 11 May 2004, Dr. Zalfa Ali Ahmad passed away. But for many of us, Zalfa remains at the center of our universe. For 10 years, she battled a cruel illness that finally claimed her tired body, but never her beautiful spirit, nor her immense ability always to give, to love, and to care. Till her last breathing moment, she endured pain with dignity, never weeping for herself, but only for the suffering of the less fortunate. Zalfa’s death leaves her adoring husband Nimr Abboud, her loving family, and her devoted friends, patients, and colleagues in deep sorrow and sadness. In their grief, however, they hold on so dearly to her legacy: abundant generosity of mind and soul. Zalfa was born in Beirut on 16 March 1957 and grew up in Nabatieh till her graduation from National Evangelical School in 1974. She completed her high school studies at the International College before beginning her university education at the American University of Beirut. She graduated in 1982 as Doctor of Medicine and completed her residence in Dermatology at the American University Hospital in 1985. Between 1987 and 1989 Dr. Zalfa Ali Ahmad worked at Al-Salam Hospital in Saada, Yemen. In 1991 she set up her private clinic at the Gefinor Center in Beirut where she rose to become one of the most respected Dermatologists in the country. Throughout her career, Zalfa has also been affiliated with various medical centers in Lebanon and the USA, including most recently the United Medical Group in Beirut. Having lost her mother at a young age and her father in the middle of her battle against cancer, Zalfa knew in her times sorrows of many layers. But from those, she still emerged with a smile that lit faces, with a determination that inspired, and with a spirit that gave, unconditionally, yet gently. She gave in big doses, in small doses, in loving doses, with grace and respect -- to her patients, an immeasurable dedication, and to the more unfortunate around her, double helpings of compassion. Her many friends came from all walks of life and spanned worlds upon worlds of backgrounds, interests, and ages, a testimony to Zalfa’s power to bring together diverse threads of this potentially sinister world and weave them together -- softly, eloquently -- in a web of love. Confronted prematurely with her imminent mortality, Zalfa embraced life peacefully and patiently, yearning to learn more, to share, and to always remind us that “in simplicity lies life’s genuine beauty.” She was extravagant only in her nurturing affection. And despite the awful difficulty of her 10-year struggle, she never lost the power to dream, nor the ability to accomplish -- applying herself meticulously in a medical profession she served dutifully, continuously expanding her horizons, and thriving on commitment and honesty. But many of Zalfa’s dreams remained alas unrealized: comprehensive hospital services for the poor; a shelter for the homeless; programs for cancer research and care -- grand ambitions of a humble heart. Zalfa Ali Ahmad was unknown to many, and to them her tragic death may have gone unnoticed. But to many others, she was a friend, a sister, a soul mate whose loss is huge. She slipped out of their world quietly, leaving behind a colorful trail of kindness. Their only solace is a cherished realization of how fortunate they have been to have accompanied Zalfa on her too-short journey through life. A letter to Zalfa Zalfa Dearest, Since you passed away, life has developed two parallel paths. One stands still -- frozen in a state of void, echoing grave sounds of wailing hearts, groaning repeatedly: Zalfa died. Zalfa died. Zalfa died. On this path, you’re eminently present -- through your death. On the other path, life goes on, moving swiftly, from one moment to another, from one hour to another; and afternoons turn into evenings, and days, and more days, and more weeks, and you’re not there. But you are not gone. A new season is creeping in, winter clothes are put away, final reports are submitted, tentative plans are made: it is time to go “home”, to revisit old places, to relive aimless hot evenings in the corners of Beirut. It is time for another recycled summer, for familiar faces, but this time with a new wound: a solemn realization that one face is missing, and not just any face; with twinkles in the eyes, and not any everyday-kind of eyes; one smile is missing (a captivating one); one laugh is missing (a child-like one) -- it is Zalfa’s eyes, Zalfa’s smile, Zalfa’s laugh. On this other path Zalfa, you’re painfully absent. But then, between one word and another, between one heartbeat and another, you manage to sneak back in, quietly, playfully. And for a few seconds, you take over all breathing spaces, all thinking spaces, you tiptoe softly into the mind and cling on so lovingly, so warmly, so soothingly, flooding the heart with memories of moments shared, of secrets sworn, of wishes made. For a few seconds, between one short sigh and another, you become again Zalfa, elegantly present. And suddenly, it is summer 2002 again on a late Friday afternoon: it is time for a café blanc with the girls at Najjar (or was it a chamomile? Maybe a salad, of course with extra salt); it is time for a fast walk on the Corniche (shall we stop for a Martini Rossi at the Movenpick?), for a stroll in the downtown (but let’s avoid busy streets to cut down on greetings). It is August 1994 again, and it is time to pick you up from the airport with your new hubby (did the Cypriot judge have you say “I do” in Greek?); it is Zureik street again -- a new sofa, a new TV, new curtains, new everything (except for Elaine's dresser), and a new bride and groom in Nimr’s childhood home (but married or not, the guy across the street has already fallen in love with you). It is Nabatieh Fall 1964 again, the autocar of ’ammo Abou Jean is approaching, the glass of milk is hurriedly poured on the tree trunk, and Hajjeh’s voice is ringing high: “Allah ma’ek ya to’oubrineh”, reminding you to keep your braids neat and not to forget your lunchbox at school. It is Lucca August 2003 again, cancer count is record low, hopes are high, love is in the air and YOU are my beautiful witness. It is California 1989 again, it is Lubna’s wedding and you’re wearing a green and white pleated dress, mischievously plotting with me to get Rachid to dance (of course YOU wouldn’t dance though). It is July 1992, the Blue Note is buzzing, and we are all there (even Samer Faraj is there, yuck!), YOU ARE THERE, and we are deconstructing life, plotting against it, and laying down the rules of happiness. And for those brief moments of reliving with you Zalfa, life feels a bit safer again. Familiar territories and recognizable rhythms bring us back into our regular life lanes, and it feels as if it is business as usual again: Rima is rushing for her Monday lunch with you and Nina at Jandua; Siham is in town and will stop by for a visit this afternoon, but so is Hayat (would it be ok if they overlapped?); Rima (the good one) is picking you up for a Saturday lunch with Lina, Randa, and the others, while Roula is dropping off Mira and Ghassan before joining you; Samira might come too, but of course she will be late (as usual); it is Christmas time soon and your list of presents to buy is longer than the Mediterranean shores; dinner is interrupted with 0000 on the screen: it must be Lubna? Maybe Fadi Baba? No, it is Fouad and Terry confirming their arrival date; Mojaddara is the main course tonight (who sent it? Imma”li or Nazha?), and in the background Jannoun is at it again with a new Hasan Hanieh’s story trying to compete with Samir‘s latest Abou Abed joke; and Nimr is Namour again, and he is fussing over you as if you were the last woman on earth. But then, it is 11 May 2004 again, a few minutes before the end of Beirut's day, Roula’s weeping words cut through the veins, “Zalfa is dead.” Since you passed away Zalfa, we have been stretched between two worlds: one is consumed by your life and the other by your death; one is marked by things you’ve done, by what you have been; and the other by what you will never be. And between the two, we live and relive the pain of losing you along with the joy of loving and of knowing you. And sometimes, we just drift away and curl up in a little corner, and weep for you, weep for the many days that you will not live, for the old woman that you will never be, for the things that you will never do, and weep for us, for the lost moments, and weep for not growing old together, and weep for the one more hug that was not given, for the one last “quality time” together that we couldn‘t have, for not hearing “hi Sammour” ever again, for not saying goodbye, for not being there, for having left too soon. For having left. And weep, and weep. And you’re no longer there. But you’re not gone, Zalfa. Samira 27 May 2004 A Poem for Zalfa by Riad Ali Ahmad (8 years old; Zalfa's nephew) - 1 June 2004 Chaque fois qu'il fait beau temps et que le soleil brille dans ma tete je comprends que c'est Zalfa qui nous sourit