Tribute to my father: Ahmed Loutfi.

What can one say about true uniqueness? How can I describe him in just few words? It all begins with the smell of his coffee. Since I was a kid I knew there was something with my dad. He wasn’t a typical dad. He wouldn’t take me to Macdonald’s or the park. He wouldn’t ask me about school and my studies. Instead he would take me to art exhibitions or music concerts, and then we would take a walk in the beautiful streets of Wust -el –Balad. He would tell me how this place was in the sixties, what it was like. Tell me about the cafés where literature icons like Naguib Mahfouz, used to spend their nights looking for inspiration. Telling me how exciting Cairo was back then. I would always feel a sentiment of regret in his words. He even told me once that he had a guiding book about Egypt and that there was a note warning tourists to keep their etiquette while in Cairo as it is just as glamorous as Paris is.

I remember the first time who took me to the Museum I was astonished! We spent hours there analyzing every piece, imagining ancient Egypt. After we got back from there, he told me to write about the day, what I liked, what I disliked, what I would have wanted to do instead, and analyze everything we have seen. It became a habit for me since then.

When we would decide to do something a normal daughter-father would do, we would go to the movies. We chose movies like Gladiator, artificial intelligence and minority report, and we kept analyzing the ideas, and surely a debate about history and future would show.

It wasn’t the normal daughter- father relationship, he wasn’t a normal or regular dad, and that’s what I loved most about him. He was unique, and clever. He knew how to boost or discover my talents. He knew how to make me a bit deep instead of just a shallow kid. He saw something in me that I never knew, and he had this talent, uncovering one’s talent.

He would always have exciting stories to tell, whether fictional or true history that has happened before his eyes. He could answer almost any question I had in mind. Politics and history were his fields. We would both dwell in conversations concerning them without any notion of time.
He would always talk about writing a book about Midan El Tahreer events. He lived there since he was a kid. He saw everything that has happened there. History has been made several times before his eyes, and he was a remarkable observer.

One day on our way back from school, we witnessed a very unusual event: A cat’s funeral! There were a bunch of cats in a row, a dead cat in the front and a hole. They put the dead cat in the hole and some dirt on top of him, and stayed in silence in front of the hole for 5 minutes! This incidence turned our day upside down! We kept talking about it for hours, telling everyone we knew. Then he decided to give me a nickname Bastet: Goddess of the cats in ancient Egypt. And this was our inside joke. We would always talk, and until the very last day of his life, about cats! We would always joke about them. Sometimes he’d even call me just to tell me about some cats he saw that day.

The day I told him I decided to go to the faculty of Pharmacy, he was shocked, almost ashamed of me! He kept trying to reason me out of it. We settled at the end that I would never ignore my writing talent or my readings and surely my passion to ancient Egypt.

One of my proudest moments was when he would ask me about a medical term. My dad, the master of terminology and anything related to writing, is asking me about a medical term! Just wow.
He was an ever growing man. He discovered talents in him until the very last minute of his life. At 68 years old he discovered he was an amazing actor, which was just typical of him, I wasn’t surprised. He was a great journalist, political analyst, history specialist, poet, author, photographer, actor and an outstanding father! I couldn’t have wished for a better dad. He was always there for me, and made me grow in so many ways I didn’t know were possible.

These words aren’t near enough. There are thousands of memories racing in my mind, but it isn’t easy writing about him, it is actually the hardest thing I’ve ever done.